Millions of Euros & Bulletproof Ideas

"Did you get rid of all of it?"

"No, daddy, we still have 30 million euros. We can give half of that to Mr. Berat and with the rest we can buy an apartment."

"Ok.  Try not to talk on the phones too much."

"Ok daddy. I'll try to get rid of the rest of the money."

"Don't talk like that. You're being listened."

"Ok daddy. Bye."

This conversation just surfaced on the internet a few days earlier. It takes place between the Prime Minister of Turkey, and his son. They're talking about all of the money they've stolen from the people and how to get rid of it, in the light of the new investigations. Only a few hours after this recording was published on Youtube, the Ministry made an announcement that "the recording is fake." However, sound engineers all over the world disagree.

And still, these guys are ruling the country and making decisions on our behalf, manipulating our lives while probably still, secretively, stashing some 10 million dollars at a house somewhere.

In our economics class, we talked about "equality" and how one of the goals of every nation is to reduce inequality in their country. We defined "equality" as everyone having the same market value from birth, or when they enter the job market, meaning that nobody was born without a leg or with an extraordinary talent for painting, or that every child has access to the same quality of education. One of our current government's principal arguments for they've "improved" the country is that, supposedly, they've reduced inequality. They handed out refrigerators to people living in villages with no access to electricity. They've increased income taxes. Turkey has the second most expensive petrol. They have, however, "improved" healthcare. The only thing wrong with that is that they're already supposed to do that.

And I seriously doubt that stealing from the people and stashing millions of euros reduces inequality.

Now we wait. We wait for the people to show themselves. We wait for the ones who are guilty to be punished, and get what they deserve, hoping that justice will be served. And that 50 % of my nation can finally rip off their blindfolds, break their chains, get out into the sun, and realize that they've been living in a world of shadows and deceit.

The "other 50 %", in the words of our PM, was on the streets the day after this recording was made public. They were doused by teargas and pressurized water, and aimed at with guns which fire plastic bullets. The PM's toy soldiers thought they could put out the fire of anger and passion burning in those people with water and gas. They thought they could shoot those thoughts and let them bleed to death; those thoughts which the wonderful people of my nation have; those thoughts which are NOT clouded by free coal or empty promises or pointless election campaigns or religious propaganda.  It didn't work. Because, "behind this mask, Mr. Erdoğan, there is an idea. And ideas are bulletproof." (and teargas-proof, at that) 

Curtain Call

"...the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature..." -Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2.

Why do people write plays? Or operas?

Why do people perform these plays or operas?

Why do people go and watch other people perform these plays or operas?

I think the reason is clearly stated by our most dear Hamlet; because, plays hold a "mirror up to nature", up to us, so that we can see ourselves and watch ourselves from outside - something we don't get to do on a daily base.

And the people who don't like plays or movies or operas or musicals, who find them "boring" or a "waste of time"; they are the people who don't want to "waste time" facing themselves. The spotlight of theater hasn't lit up their souls just yet.

Plays are spectacular slices of life and succulent specimens of human nature. Even if the play is about witches, vengeful spirits or merchants trading money for flesh, we can always find some of ourselves in it. Actually, the context and what you find from yourself in it doesn't really matter, what really matters is if the play can take you into its world and make you believe in witches or spirits from the world beyond. The same also applies to novels and movies.

But what is it that makes theater so different from the plain book or the movie? Why did I wait at -5 degrees Celsius at 9.30 am on a Sunday morning in front of the theater to get seats to Hamlet, a play I've already read -and analyzed- thoroughly? Why did I walk in the pouring rain, coughing and sneezing, to the theater, to see a guy play Hamlet? Why were all those people there, instead of at home, watching the movie?

What makes theater superior to movies and books is the fact that it is live. That's what has always amazed me; that someone, 20 meters down the row, is on the stage, talking to, or singing to lots of people,  creating a pocket-sized universe on that enormous stage. Someone, just like you and me, is up there, doing something called "acting" (how crazy would it sound to a stranger when you told them about how on Planet Earth people got up on stages and pretended to be someone they're not), inviting you, and, if successful, drawing you into their own, little world.

And the splendor! The costumes, the exaggerated actions and expressions, the intoxicating tragedy or comedy... Plain theater can only take it so far, and that's where operas come in. The music, combined with the "live" factor and the splendor, provides the audience with an addictive dose of drama that cannot be obtained anywhere else. I have not seen a scene more epic and glamorous than Don Giovanni's last scene;

Il Commandatore's statue spurs to life, the orchestra screams the D minor chord, the lights fade, the angels of death come onto the stage-Il Commendatore lifts his white, cold arm, and sings "Don Giovanni!"...

So I will see Don Giovanni for the fourth time. And I will go to Hamlet or any other play if I have the chance, even if I'd read it before. And I will be amazed again and again at how those people on the stage perform and manage to envelope the hundreds of people in front of them into their own fictional world, and I will, at some point, forget that I'm watching a play or an opera-and I wouldn't mind it. Because getting out of this cramped up monochromatic world of ours and leaping into Denmark's "prisons" or Don Giovanni's castle every once in a while is not such a bad idea.

Another Day in Paradise

Every time I walk to my Dershane, private teaching institutions in Turkey which prepare students for the university exams, I take the same route. I go down my street, take a right, cross the street, go past the white and graceless cab stand, down all the way to the park, float down into the underpass and surface on the other side of the road, walk straight down, go past the lottery stand, the begging children on the left and Levis on right, turn right at the intersection, get through the huge line of people waiting for the bus to arrive and cross the street, turn left at the corner, being careful not to step on the peddler's goods, go past the little children playing harmonicas and begging, and, voila, I'm there.

My class in Dershane possesses a very wide range of teenagers. There is the girl who lives 20 kilometers away and takes a 1.5 hour long bus ride every day to get there, there is the girl with a constant smile on her face who studies way harder than the others yet still gets low grades, there are the guys in the back, pretending they know it all, but really they don't even know what they're working so hard for. And then there is that girl who can draw beautifully, but she has to learn all these to be able to live a "decent" life. Behind her sits that guy who talks a lot, jumps at every question and thinks he can do anything. I hope he stays that way. And next to them sits the diva of the class; her makeup pretty, her hair combed, her scarf and her shoes matching-she writes down everything on the board with the utmost care in her notebook, with color pens. She thinks she's learning, but she doesn't realize that those colorful notes are not going to get her into college alone. In the front sits the girl with the headscarf. She is nice, funny and hard-working-yet she's been chained down and subdued by the drug some call "religion" at only 17. She wants to be a doctor. And finally, there is the awkward guy, who wears the same thing every day, and is very smart- but his school doesn't care about him. For all of these people, except the exceptionally wealthy ones who can afford getting into a private university (which accept students with lower grades from the entrance test) the university exam is the way out, it's their salvation, it's the only chance they get to turn their lives around and be who they want to be.

Yet, their teachers at school don't know what they're supposed to teach. Their parents don't care about what they do: they only care if the Dershane sends home texts saying their child didn't do his/her homework. They don't have iPad's or iPhone's or computers to do research from or to let off some steam.

That begging child I see every single day on my way to Dershane, always has a book in his hands. He is always reading, even as night time begins to fall and the light starts to fade. What if he had a better family? What if his family had the resources to send him to the best schools in Ankara, get him tutored in playing the violin, and send him to Europe for creative writing workshops? Unfortunately, no matter what is stored behind those dark brown eyes shining with excitement and curiosity, may never be used.

That is what's wrong with the world. Your life is pretty much decided when you're born, according to the conditions you are born to/in.  Not everyone gets an equal shot at making this journey of ours called life, the best one they've ever had. Some manage to change tracks; they take a right at the intersection instead of a left and they meet the most amazing person who knows this celebrity who can get them a job, and at that job discover that they're extraordinarily talented and rise to the top very quickly and build their own companies and BE HAPPY. Some can do this. And the ones who can't, well, they go down the same old gray road, get a decent job, work only to make money, and always dream about what their lives would've been like if they were born into different families. Or if they'd studied harder and had a better math teacher in 10th grade and had gotten into a better college.

So everytime I go to Dershane after coming home from my private school and choosing a bag among the ten to put my Dershane stuff in, charging my iPhone, hearing my parents say "We love you, and good luck, don't stress yourself out", and feeling them hug me just before I leave, and then see those little children on the street begging for money rather than being at school or at home playing with his toys, I lose faith in the human race and this messed up system they've (we've) invented. I wish everyone could have equal opportunities, I wish there was a world where the people with the most money or best connections didn't get what they wanted. But we all know that this is not possible, and ending this blog post saying "I wish everyone could be equal :(" is equivalent to writing a blog post about unicorns and then saying "I wish they really existed".

The least we could do to mend this broken system of ours is to listen and try to help. I'm not saying you shouldn't buy that 100 dollars worth sweater that you don't really need and instead donate that money to some charity. All I'm saying is, listen. Don't Pretend you can't hear them, start to whistle as you cross the street and seem embarrassed to be there. Because if you could just listen, if you could just understand, you could grant "another day in paradise" for many people.

What if?

 

"She woke up at the screeching sound of her alarm clock. She got dressed, had breakfast, and got in her red little Volkswagen. She checked her hair and makeup on the rear view mirror, something she usually wouldn't have done, but today was special. She took her usual route around town, heading for her office, keeping an eye on the digital clock on the dashboard so that she wouldn't be late on this special day. She saw the green traffic light in the distance with only a few seconds remaining, and she knew she had to get that. She increased the throttle, shifted gear, got on the left lane, and whizzed through the intersection just in time. What she didn't see was the swerving small Prius, which just missed the trunk of her car by a fraction of a second. She got to work on time, the elevator was right there, and headed up to the executive floor! She never would've thought this day would come. She knew her hair and makeup were fine, she confidently strode into the meeting room, and they closed the door after she got in."

Cabin pressure-stablizer? Check. Frontal warp engines? Check. Seatbelts? Check. Jumping to light speed, tearing through the fabric of time…

"She woke up at the screeching sound of her alarm clock. She got dressed, had breakfast, and got in her red little Volkswagen. She checked her hair and makeup on the rear view mirror, something she usually wouldn't have done, but today was special. She took her usual route around town, heading for her office, keeping an eye on the digital clock on the dashboard so that she wouldn't be late on this special day. She saw the green traffic light in the distance with only a few seconds remaining, and decided it wasn't worth it. She would get the next one.  She pressed the brakes, shifted gear, and halted at the intersection. Just as she stole a glance at the rear view mirror to make sure her briefcase was on the back seat, a swerving small Prius came out of the intersection, and crashed into her red little Volkswagen. From that moment on, her day was a day-time nightmare. She had to call the insurance company, had to reason with a clearly hungover guy, got to work late, and by the time she had darted up the stairs to the meeting room because the elevator was stuck on the executive floor, she was tired, sweaty, her hair was all messed up, and the meeting had already started. There goes the good first impression, she thought."

Don't you wonder what your life would have been like if you'd took that job offer in Germany? Or if you'd  bought a house on the suburbs rather than one in the city? Or if you'd eaten cereal for breakfast this morning?

Every second, we make decisions. I decide to write this blog post now rather than going to sleep. You decide to read this blog post, rather than dismissing it as the ramblings of  a teenager and going to the kitchen to get dinner. And every single decision we make changes the course of our lives, whether that change is so drastic that you die in the next three seconds, or you just don't see a specific stranger on the street that day. Wouldn't it be awesome if we could trace back the branches of life and take another road to see how our lives would have turned out? If only we had a TARDIS...

Of course, the idea of parallel universes does have its glitches. If a new universe is created with every decision someone makes, then there would be an infinite number of parallel universes, one for each decision one of us -among the 7.134 billion- makes. And, why shouldn't dogs and cats have parallel universes? What's so special about humans that WE get the parallel universes, and the heavens and the gods?

The countless number of movies made and books written on this issue of parallel universes only strengthen the hollow yet unnecessarily widely supported narcissistic set of mind, putting humans on top of every other species, and accepting -knowing- that we are special... somehow. Still, it would be cool to take up my De Lorean for a trip to another layer of time where, 300 million years ago, some curious fish on a planet called "the Earth" decided to remain in water and hadn't migrated onto land to begin life on land as we know it... What if?

Until Stars Become Reindeers

Plastic pine trees are in high demand.

The mall now has snowflakes and pretty little lights and red and green hanging from its roof.

Red sale signs now decorate the storefronts.

And when you look carefully, you can see the blurs on the frosty windows, left there by the little children of the house who had just left the window side to get some hot cocoa, counting the seconds until the first snowfall, all in sweet anticipation.

Today is the first day of December.

For some, it is the end of a whole year and is a chance to wrap things up; correct their mistakes, fulfill their last wishes.

For some, it is a long-awaited time to finally get out of this disaster of a year, start over; forget.

And for some, like us, it is nothing but a month of stress, challenges and friends, thankfully cut short with a "winter break", concluded by, first Christmas, then new year's eve, only to be followed by more work and more stress.

But there is something about the newly constructed Christmas tree still missing some of its ornaments and the hats people are just starting to wear that brings warmness to my heart and fills it with happiness and expectation. I know that all of this fuss is about pushing people to consume more, in the end, only two days have passed since "Black Friday", a day especially devoted to turning people into raged consumerists who will stop at nothing to get that paper shredder which is on 60 % discount (!). Still, something about the "xmas" songs on the radio and the slightly chilly air makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside - now and until the stars hidden behind the gray clouds turn into reindeers. 

All You Need Is Love...?

"She walked down the blank streets of the once beautiful metropolitan city. A burden buried beneath her armor for protection from judgement and "hate" kept her from walking any faster. And every time she saw someone begging, a little girl crying, or a homeless person sleeping on the bench, this burden got heavier and heavier; every tear drop of that little girl seemed to elongate her gait, and sink her spirits even more. She looked around the barren walls and lifeless streets, the people walking all by themselves. She thought that living like this was not living at all. Right then, a black unicorn sprouting fire turned around the corner of the street as silence and the un-image of love splattered around the city sunk into the dark night which never seemed to come to an end."

Above is a simple description of a twisted, dark utopia; the possible outcome of the ideas of some "bright" scientists

In the article, The Myth of Universal Love, social theorist Jeremy Rifkin's idea of making the world a better place by making everyone love each other equally is stated and analyzed. The description above is how life in a world where "everyone loved each other equally" and everyone cared equally about anyone else. This idea of equal, universal love seems to be pirated from the scripts of Teletubbies or The Smurfs, and its application will create nothing more than a twisted, dark utopia.

First of all, as it is also stated in the article, if we loved everyone around us equally, that would mean that we would care for everyone equally, which would, in a short period of time, cause our mental state to decline and our minds to malfunction. We just can't produce that much of "oxytocin and opioids". This equal care for everyone would either mean that no one cared about what anyone else was doing, and everyone could do what ever they wanted to, because, who cares, or that everyone cared immensely about what other people-people they've never met or feel no special affection towards- do, and make it their business to keep them happy-all the while hot-wiring their emotional circuits to an irreparable stage.

Also, in this twisted utopia of ours, "love" wouldn't be "love" anymore. Love is a special feeling that is provided by specific things-personal things- and is not standardized like donuts so that you can pass it out and yell "free love for everyone!".

Many pieces of art were created in the name of love. Artists throughout time have shined their love for someone onto their art, and this helped us get where we are right now. The music you hear in elevators, the "Fur Elise", was written by a half-deaf, sloppy man terribly in love with a girl called Elise. Schumann dedicated symphonies which are some of the best pieces of classical music ever written to his true love, Clara Wieck. You don't need to go 300 years back in time to see the effect of love on art: just pick a popular song playing on the radio and there is a great chance that it is written after a heartbreak or a new-found love. The "artwork" we see around the street may bother some people, but the graffiti with love dripping down its sides, the "Jenny ♥ John"s written in clumsy letters, are what remind the denizens of the metropolitan that not everything is about money, power or models created by social theorists.

So love is not something at the social theorist's expense to dole out. Sometimes, yes, love is all you need, but equal, universal love and equal care will bring nothing more than suicidal members of society and black, hideous unicorns.

 

Lessons from Fiction

What do we do in our free time?

We watch TV shows.

We watch movies.

We listen to music.

We read books. 

 

But actually, when we listen to music, or watch a movie, we may just be feasting on one of the extensions of a work of literature, with out even knowing it. To all those people who regard studying literature as being useless: try living with out it and see how your life turns into a gray, disgusting bowl of mush.

Literature is everywhere, and what a man poured out onto ink and paper 300 years ago can always be studied and explored further, diving into the wells of the author's state of mind and emotions, newly discovering the lands the author has already conquered. There is always something to learn when you read someone else's writing, whether it's The Republic or a blog post.

Last week, the Turkish government issued a new law stating that the government now has the right to view any of our private chats and listen to our conversations over the phone. One of the newspapers which still, despite the horrendously oppressive government, can actually deliver true and "un-politicized" news, printed the heading "Big Brother Left Innocent". Whether it is the reference a minority newspaper in Turkey makes to a classic work of dystopic fiction to reflect what takes place in the real world, or that George Orwell, way back in 1948 predicted what would happen to the world and wrote a work of "fiction" on it which turns out to be eerily accurate, goes to show what fiction -and literature- are capable of.

Personally, I don't care much about a research being done on how reading literary fiction improves one's ability to detect the state of mind of a person from only their eyes. What I'm interested in is, how literary fiction, or any type of fiction, can help us get along in life and broaden our horizons. When we study these works, we get to know about the time period these books were written in, or about the years they take place in. We get to learn about different cultures and traditions, facts we would otherwise regard as unimportant and facts which we wouldn't search on Google about in our free time.

But these are just the tip of the iceberg.

The most important thing we gain by reading and studying works of fiction is getting to know people and how they react to certain events. We get to know different types of people, and by the end of the book, if the author was skillful enough, we get connected to the characters so tightly that we do not want to let go. We get to know what a grieving father thinks when he acts, we get to know what an assassin feels like when he completes his kill or gets his training, we  know what drives a man looking for vengeance, we know how a poet caught in the webs of a conspiracy against him and trapped inside the strict views and rules of a society feels like.

So reading and studying literary fiction-or any type of fiction, at that- is not a total waste of time as some people may assume it to be. Along with learning about the time periods and circumstances the novels were written/take place in, we also get to know people. And there's nothing wrong with getting to know more about the dominant -and supposedly the most intelligent- species on earth which we live among, compete with, and fall in love with.

Ah, Sweet Dissonance

I, IV, V, I

I, Ic, IV, I

BORING.

These are chord progressions typical of the Baroque and Classical Eras in classical music. These are what the moving bass line is made out of and what the melody is based on in compositions from these eras and there is nothing wrong with them, except the fact that they are terribly boring. With the rise of the Romantic Era, composers could take more liberty in their compositions and "dared" to change these chord progressions, followed by the 20th century musicians who completely denied the sense of key or tonality. Now listening to music from the late Romantic era and the 20th century, the dissonances are something I look forward to, and I like to be surprised by unexpected chords rather than predicting and humming the next chord in my head when I'm listening to a symphony.

To understand what I said in the previous paragraph, you'll need a crash course in music history:

Music originated from Africa, with the use of percussive instruments made out of simply animal skin stretched over a surface.

The first recognized "era" is Medieval music; the most basic element of medieval music were Gregorian Chants, simply, homophonic ("single sound") songs sung by males.

Next comes the Renaissance, where composers started to take these Gregorian chants and popular folk songs and fit them into Masses. Instrumental music gained more importance, but still pieces were not written specifically for instruments. They accompanied the singers in typical dances, an "estampie", for example.

Around the year 1600, the Baroque era is claimed to have started. In architecture, the buildings from the Baroque era have extravagant decorations and sizes; and the music doesn't fall behind in this race of exaggeration. It is the Baroque era which hosted the famous musicians Vivaldi, Bach and Handel. Operas, symphonies, simply instrumental music gained great importance. It was at this time which Bach wrote his pieces for the harpsichord and basically invented the key system we use today: he wrote the Well Tempered Clavier.

Later set as the year of Bach's decease, at 1750, the Classical era commences. The music of the Classical Era pulls away from the extravagance of the music from the Baroque era; it is lighter in texture. For example, there is a main melody line over chordal accompaniment, a moving bass line, referred to as "basso continuo". Also, the use of keys and contrast in music, mainly instrumental music, gained importance. Mozart, Beethoven and Haydn lived and composed in this era.

Then followed the Romantic Era, starting at roughly around 1820. The music from the Romantic Era hosted some unexpected chord changes, it was a revolt against the Classical and Baroque era molds. It put more emphasis on emotion and expression in the music rather than it sounding good or it being expected. With the invention of the "pianoforte", now shortly referred to as the "piano", composers could now use a wider range- both in sound and volume. Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Liszt and Schumann are only a few of the romantic, emotional and expressive composers of the time.

And finally came along 20th century music with its clashing dissonances and a total defiance of previous stereotypes and accepted facts regarding composition, featuring Stravinsky, Prokofiev and Debussy.

 

When substances change phase, their energies, their movements, and their entropy changes. Just like an act of melting or evaporating, as music moves from Gregorian Chants to 20th century, its "entropy", its state of disorder, increases. People start to defy the previous accepted facts about music and they add something more of themselves into it. Every next "movement" or era is an act of defiance against the previous one. The Baroque gave more importance to instrumental music, Mozart managed to get away from the fixed forms and some chord progressions, Chopin focused on emotion rather than proper chord progressions and Stravinsky set off a riot when the Rite of Spring was first performed. Music changes, and for me, it changes for the better.

So after listening to pieces written by late-romantic and 20th century composers, Vivaldi's Four Seasons does not really interest me.  I prefer clashing dissonances and unexpected harmonies over predictable chord progressions and commonplace blocks of "music". I look for and want to hear those dissonances because that is what gives the music its "acid". Yes, Vivaldi's Four Seasons, especially Winter, is very famous and it relaxes you and is a treat for your ears, but it is just that. It doesn't excite you, it doesn't provoke you, it doesn't make you tilt your head, rewind, and think "What did I just listen to?" .

Perhaps an example would help things get clearer.

Take the first chord in Eine Kleine Nachmusik by W. Amadeus Mozart. A G-chord, with the G, B and D all there. Now take the first chord of Igor Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, Part I, "Augurs of Spring", starting from the bottom: Fb, Ab, Cb, G, Bb, Db, Eb; ah, sweet dissonance! I would prefer this intoxicating ring of dissonance, Stravinsky, and  the C and Db in one chord (a semitone apart), over a neat and clear G chord any day.

Homeward Bound

"Home is where the heart is."

 

Have you ever been "homesick"?

It's not like any illness you've encountered and fought your way through until now.

Its symptoms are excessive longing for particular things, the blues syndrome, watering eyes, a sense of despair, among many others.

You know you've caught it when you wake up somewhere else in the morning and wish that you were home, wish so hard that you don't want to go to bed again that night without knowing that you will wake up at home.

You know you have it when you get up at night and can't find your way to the kitchen in the dark and something, something deep inside, feels seriously wrong.

You know you have it when you miss the view from your living room window, when you miss the smell of your house, when you miss everything and everyone inside it. And it hurts.

 

Homesickness is nothing pleasant, and its only cure is to GO HOME.

But going home...Ah, that feeling is one of the best ones in the world.

You unlock the door with out even looking at the lock, you swift open the door just enough so that it doesn't hit the shoe stand behind it, you step into your sanctuary, and that feeling of "being home" swoops over you and you're just feeling ecstatic.

Then the smell hits you. The smell you longed for while you were away but you didn't know so. You take off your coat, settle in your place on the couch with the optimal view of the TV yet also the perfect place to enjoy the sound system.

You finally know where everything is (at least most of the time), and you don't feel out of place. You're standing in a room which was formed and developed around you, by you, and for you.

 

Today is the last day of our vacation. Tomorrow, school -the seemingly-endless obstacle-race- begins. Today, lots of people return to their houses with the hope that this year will be better than the last one. Tonight, new year's resolutions will be made. Some will decide to study harder and some will decide to get on the lacrosse team. The familiar feeling of lying in your own bed returns; thinking about what classes you'll have tomorrow, checking if you've done all you've wanted to do that night, and slowly drifting into sleep and into the magical mystical world of dreams only to be awakened by the screaming alarm clock...That noise which snaps you back to reality and annoys you even if you hear it in another context.

Tomorrow morning, at least most of us, we go home. We go back to the building we spend most of our time in in a normal week-day, we go back to the people who we see more than our parents sometimes. We go back to our routine life styles and rituals, and that counts as going home as well.

And school may be opening and our days of freedom (although densely occupied with "summer homework") may be over and a marathon like no other, our senior year, may be beginning, but at least we get to spend it in our own place, with our people, at home.

Sometimes we get bored of the routines and the monotony and just to get away from all of it, but yesterday, today, and tomorrow,  we will always be "homeward bound".

 

 

The World in the Deep Blue

An endless void, a bottomless pit, a deep, dark cavity on the face of earth.

Not so appealing, right?

But when these are filled with the simple compound of hydrogen and oxygen, combined in eternal bond to provide us, humans, with the one thing we cannot do with out, water, they become indispensable.

Oceans, seas, lakes, or puddles on the sidewalk.

Just bodies of water; dents in the crust of earth into which water has rushed in, just naturally obeying the law of gravity, since before it was even established by our fellow apple-struck scientist.

But what makes these puddles so special? What makes one crave for a house on the hills of Hawaii, Miami, Bodrum, or Istanbul? What makes sitting on the balcony of your house overseeing the Atlantic Ocean or the Mediterranean Sea with a glass of aged wine and Stravinsky playing in the background so appealing?

I would place my bet on the fact that water, no matter what form it is in, calms you down. Let it be a tap left open, a rushing waterfall, a calm sea or the raging waves of the ocean, the sound or the sight of water is enough for one to relax and provide serenity.

And then there is actually being in the water rather than listening to it or looking at it.

Being on a boat in the middle of the sea, with no land visible on either side of you, with water and only water surrounding you, is an experience which somehow manages to provide you with a myriad of emotions; fear, loneliness, tranquility, happiness, reality. When you are standing on top of thousands of creatures you never could have imagined would exist, and a thousand other that you don't know about their existence, you snap back to reality. You let go of the magnanimity human kind carries around pridefully on their shoulders, and realize that then and there, you are alone, and you are just a form of life like the hundreds of jelly fish sucking on the body of your precious vessel.

When you actually go ahead and jump into the water from that boat, with the ice-cold water surrounding you in the blink of an eye, slowly cooling you down, stopping you from moving but at the same time urging you to do so, getting wet and cold on purpose never seems so charming, relaxing and plain beautiful to you. Or maybe it's just me.

Then you dive. You dive deep and you dive down, you hold your breath, water rushes into your ears, the only "sound" you hear is the gentle gushing of the water and maybe a distant "pat pat pat" of a small fishing boat. Other wise, you are engulfed in silence. Then, you enter a brave, new world which has nothing in common with the world you're used to living in. Creatures who, unlike you, don't feel the need to huff and puff to hold their breath under water, float beside you; looking for prey, looking for shelter, or just enjoying the water just like you. The rays of sunlight come streaking down and you can actually see the rays, slowly diffusing into the darkness of the depths; where sight ceases and life sprouts. Then you  remember that you are not one of the amazing creatures swimming around you with natural fins and snorkels and goggles. You feel like you should probably surface for air and when you turn around to look up, look at the surface of the water, seeming like a sheet of plastic film from down there, the sun, seeming blurry, and the water around you and the distance seem unreal. And the Sea decides it doesn't want you anymore and acts before you do, pushing you up where you belong.

So despite the grand structures we've built, the great technological advancements we've achieved and the enigmas of nature we've solved here on dry land, there is a whole other world waiting for us down there, out in the pool of salty water beyond us, covering up 3/4's of our "precious" planet, with structures and creatures like we've never seen before. There is a life out there that never ceases to amaze me. There, the "denizens of the deep", carry on their ordinary yet fascinating lives in a world we, the magnificent and intelligent humans, are not, probably one of the rare cases in history, involved in or a part of the plot. Except occasionally making guest appearances as the antagonists.

Little Kids with Giant Hopes

This week, the eleventh graders in our school went to a village school in one of the cities in Turkey. We had the opportunity to improve the conditions of their schools and at least scoop them out of their ordinary, boring lives if only just for two days and help them have the best time of their lives so far.

The experience cannot be shaped into mere words and sentences; it was too different and extraordinary to be reflected truly by letters put together in coherent structures. But I'll do my best.

I know that spending time with fifteen kids and having them do artwork or painting their school or setting up a library in just one elementary school in one village in one city in Turkey in the whole world may not seem as much. It seems that there is much, much more we can do, and that is true. When I reflect back to the time of the day we saw the kids run off to their houses at the end of our last day there, carrying their brilliant pieces of art in their hands and decorated by the jewelry they made for themselves, to return back to what they used to do the very next day, some next to his/her parents to work in the farm, some at home to do the work, and some, actually a minority, coming to a school seeming so empty without us there again the next day; there was so much more that we could do. I thought that this was not enough.

Right then, a little girl who I spent a long time with during the activities came up to me and hugged me, with her incredibly beautiful masterpieces of art hanging around her neck, glimmering in the sunlight.

I remembered how every one of them listened intently when we were describing the new activity.

I remembered the boy in the front row getting the hang of the activity we were doing before we could, and enjoying himself so much that his joy was apparent from his deep, dark, shining eyes.

I remembered how they looked up and thanked me every time I helped them with something.

Then, it seemed like we had done everything we could have. I felt satisfied with the work that we did, because we made children happy. Yes, they may have to work in the fields the next day and those hands which so delicately beaded, drew and cut, may be used to tie knots or weed the garden, and get bruised, cut, and harmed. Yes, the girl who wants to be a doctor when she grows up may be forced to marry a much older guy in the next 10 years and look after kids. But that fire of hope we saw in their eyes, that passion to learn and the happiness they had when they were showered with affection and attention, will never go out. The hands of the incredibly talented boy may  be bruised and his fingers may be damaged, the girl who wanted to become a singer may lose her voice from yelling at the sheep to keep them together, but their will to learn can never be broken. And seeing this and at least having a part in shaping their lives and strengthening their wills, showing them what they could do, what lies beyond the valley in which their own little village was settled in, was more than enough to be satisfied with what we had done.  They are the little, lost kids of our country with giant hopes and even bigger hearts, who are waiting to be found by people like us.

The Secret Superheroes

As we entered Kuğulu Park, one of Ankara's oldest parks and the place where all our generation spent their weekend as small, reckless children throwing food at the beautiful swans from our illustrated fairy tale books and the pigeons, which we had mixed feelings about, the clouds gathered up, up, in the sky, and the first drops of rain began to fall onto the cheerful "protesters".

On the eighth day of the protests, the people were happy as they could ever be, the students singing songs, holding up signs. Not a patch of green was visible on the slopes of Kuğulu Park.

My sanctuary as a child was now the home of many sharing the same ideals and same thoughts, although they were all drastically different.

Some wore their teams' colors.

Some carried slogans stating that people of their religion were standing with everyone else, then, and there.

And some just sat there, with V for Vendetta masks hung around their necks, beer in their hands, holding slogans painted onto paper that I could never have thought of, chatting, waiting. The secret superheroes of this whole resistance; every one of them being Clark Kent's in the day time, taking their exams, going to seminars, attending their lectures, but transforming into superheroes that Turkey needed in the night, with their nerves and stubbornness of steel. They were waiting for it all to begin.

Waiting.

We pushed through the crowd which was now looking for an indoor place because of the rain which decided to come down a little harder. As we walked down Tunalı, the street which Kuğulu Park is located at the end of, we saw them.

They were walking up, towards Kuğulu Park, with their flags, their horns, their whistles, their black and white shirts, their unity, their youth, their passion.

The fan club of one of the major teams in Turkey, Beşiktaş, had come over from Istanbul, hearing of the increasing use of excessive force against the protesters and of the growing protests, to support us. A crowd of nearly 3000 people was walking up to Kuğulu Park. And they were very much welcomed.

[caption id="attachment_426" align="alignright" width="187"] Yes, those are people on the slope there.[/caption]

We went into a restaurant to dry off and eat something for the next thirty minutes. When we got out, all of the people who had gathered in Kuğulu Park had started walking down Tunalı. Destination: Kızılay, the very heart of all protests. We joined them, and walked with them. If under any other circumstance one needed 10000 people to yell out something in unison, or do something together, it couldn't have been done. But last night, everyone acted as if they were one. One for all, all for one was the idea hanging upon Tunali as the crowd marched forward.

Remember the people who were waiting in Kuğulu Park with their beers? They were walking at the front, leading the group, happy to finally belong somewhere.

And the people who were fine with coming out to their balconies and banging pots from there for the past few evenings were on the street too.

The secret superheroes had ripped open their clean dress shirts, and they were coming to the rescue.

Of course, when this enormous group reached Kızılay, the police stood waiting, and dispersed the group using tear gas and pressurized water. The group was physically dispersed, but every one was still together; one heart, one idea.

But that's not important. The groups being dispersed by the outraged police with anger management issues is kind of a given now. The important thing is to see that 10000 people walked to Kızılay with no prior organization, no leader, no commands given. Everyone was there because they wanted to, not because they followed the heads of the bodies of thought that they believed in, not because they were forced to be there by someone else, or something else.

They were there because they wanted to fight.

They were there because they simply could not resist sitting at home while the country was just waking up.

They were there because they wanted to and because they believed in their cause, every one for separate reasons. And when that is the case, everything else ceases to matter.

Change

"Change in all things is sweet." -Aristotle

Several months ago, I wrote a post about how language changes and I supported that change is always, always, good. I received many comments on if the change in language which in a way drags the language closer to extinction or assimilation with the usage of words from different languages is still classified as "good". Well, I say that change, no matter what it is, is always for the better because humans and what we think change every passing second.

Turkey has changed a lot in the span of six days. With one single excessive act of the police on protesters, the whole country has risen, and is still rising. The streets are different now. The streets I used to shop in, Kızılay, Tunalı Hilmi, some of the main shopping districts of Ankara, now have tear gas cans around the sidewalks and slogans splattered across the walls. That coffee shop I used to get ice cream from is now the most hated shop in the district, because it did not allow the protesters running away from the tear gas in. The square in Kızılay, a place I know inch by inch, every shop and every turnabout, is now drained of cars and traffic and is crowded with protesters. The name plate of the clothes shop I used to shop from is barely distinguishable behind the clouds of tear gas.

And perhaps today, one of the most interesting things happened. Our -and I'm afraid I have to say "our", because, in the end, he is the PM of the country we live in even though he regards himself as the PM of only the people who voted for him- PM, a couple of days ago, referred to the protesters, the people searching for their rights and seeking what they deserve, as "looters". The Turkish; "çapulcu".

The sense of humor of the Turkish is quite different from other cultures. Right after the PM's speech just before he "flew (or fled, as you wish) off" to one of his trips, we embraced the word "çapulcu", and now, it has become a verb and a noun in English, at least on the World Wide Web and in our daily language. We use the word "chapulling" now all the time, because, we  are "chapullers", as our PM says.

Our language has changed in one day, with one word fluttering out from between one person's lips. This change reflects the time and its people, as does any change. Years later, when I hear the word "çapulcu", I would be reminded of today and today's circumstances. I would notice how things have changed since today, hopefully, in the good way.

The Kızılay Square or Taksim Square will never be the same again. They will remain as popular tourist attractions and shopping districts, but they will never cease to be the place where thousands of "chapullers" stood up for their rights and fought. The word "çapulcu" will never mean the same thing that it meant seconds before the PM went off his carefully revised prompter speech. And this change, and the change that we will hopefully bring upon our country in the following days, will always help us move forward. We are proud to be, and will stay as, "chapullers"; one who searches and fights for his/her rights, no matter what they might say about us, or what the circumstances may be.

The Left Hand

In one of his poems, the Turkish poet Orhan Veli said:

"I got drunk,

And I remembered you again;

My left hand,

My unpracticed hand,

My poor hand!"

Although this poem may seem to be written on a whim and not tell of much, it tells the truth.

Today, I tried playing the third movement of the Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven. Towards the middle of this movement, the right and left hands change place; so instead of the usual left hand accompaniment and the right hand singing the melody, now the right hand  sets off with the sixteenth alberti bass accompaniment, and the left hand takes the lead!

Only, it wasn't that easy.

It is expected that people who play the piano and are right-handed to somehow have better use of their left hands compared to other people. Well, that is not entirely true. The piano is actually set for the weakness of the left hand and the strength of the other one (well, except some of Chopin's pieces, maybe). So the pianists actually need to put their left hand in the background, and whether that requires more muscle control or less, is up for discussion.

So we boast about being the "superior species", but we can't even use one of our hands when a cheetah has no preference over whether it should kill with its left or right claw.

I think the reason why Beethoven and Chopin have included the left hand dominantly in their pieces is, first of all, they are composers from the romantic era, so they could do almost anything and get away with it (I mean, the man put a choir into a symphony!), but most importantly, that they wanted to do something different. When you want to play a Chopin piece, a waltz, a mazurka, or a nocturne, you need to practice the left hand separately, get it set, and then add the beautiful right hand melody and embellishments.

Our left hand seems useless sometimes. We may regard it as a vulnerability against other animals or creatures, or we may simply see it as a weak limb, liability. However, when it comes to real life, we definitely  need it and we actually use it more than we think. If we took out the left hand from any piano piece, the melody and the chords would still be there, yes, but it just would not sound right. Our left hand is like the double bass in an orchestra or a bass guitar in a band; you don't notice it when it is there, but when it is gone, you miss it and the music feels empty.

That is, if you are right-handed. If you are a leftie, well, that's a whole other story.

Knock Knock

Avoid the black cat!

Salt over the left shoulder.

Knock on wood.

Rabbit's foot.

Wear the evil eye.

There, all set to go!

All of these actions are things we do every day in order to set our lives on track. When we see a black cat, we expect our day to go terribly wrong. When we pass under a ladder, we live through the day frightened of what may happen.

These superstitions are nothing more than stupid beliefs we cling on to in order to have an "external force" act on our lives, change its current projectile and destination. We think that wearing an evil eye will protect us from a car crash, so we drive more recklessly. And when we don't actually crash into the back of a truck, we think it is because of the "eye".

When we see an owl on the sedge of our balcony, we expect someone to die in the following 24 hours. At least that's the way things work in Turkey.

If we have a rabbit's foot around our necks, well, then, we will ace the physics test!

But actually all of this is caused by logical fallacies. We only notice that there was an owl on our balcony if someone dies that day and we assume a causality. We can always perform poorly at an exam, but that one single time you may not be wearing your evil eye, and, again, we do the best thing humans do, the thing we are all professionals at; we assume. So these traditions are born by your very own mind tricking you. Like every false, hollow, seemingly-useful-but-really-not-worth-a-dime thing on our planet today,superstitions, too, are created only by humans.  They are all things humanity sticks onto to be able to blame something else for what happens to them. Superstitions exist for the same reasons that religion exists for. All these false beliefs are built on the same, selfish, arrogant idea: something went wrong? blame it on someone else.

So, we do knock on wood when we see a very pretty baby, or when someone mentions something horrible happening to another person. I personally do not believe that me knocking on the aged furniture at our house, not even real wood, probably, would delay the Reaper and turn him the wrong way at the intersection just down the road from our home, but my grandma does, and she tells me to do so, insistingly.

Even the most skeptical person on the face of earth, the scientists at CERN or the astronauts in the space shuttle looking down on our blue marble, has an instance of doubt when a black cat walks across the road right in front of them, or when a mirror shatters into a thousand pieces in their apartments.

So when I take the IB exams next year, I won't depend on an evil eye to protect me or a knock on the table to get me a 7. But, just to be safe, I still will wear my blue necklace, be careful around mirrors for the couple of weeks before the exams, pull my hair if I see a black cat on the street while waiting for the bus, and knock on the wood if anyone mentions failing the test or getting a bad grade, because you never know. Someday, those guys at CERN or USC Research Team may just announce that knocking on wood increases your intelligence and awareness.

 

N/A

On the day of mothers last week, a day mothers all around the world are supposed to be showered with love and affection and kindness, two trucks loaded with explosives exploded in Reyhanlı, a province in Hatay, one of the 81 cities in Turkey.

It was initially announced that 45 people passed away.

Then the numbers started increasing, the day on our calenders was painted blood red; but also deep, dark black.

And then, the press was banned from reporting anything that happened or is happening in Reyhanlı. Censorship reared its ugly head.

While the whole country was waiting for the announcement of a national mourning, that very night, two of the countries best and most popular -and also arch rival- teams played a soccer game. And the game wasn't even that important because one of the teams had already declared their championship. Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr were all engulfed by status updates supporting their teams. Only a couple cared about the increasing body count in Reyhanlı.

Three days later, university students protested what happened in Reyhanlı and the government's lack of interest in it. They were doused with tear gas, beaten by the police. They sat on the highway connecting two major parts of Ankara. They were wounded, first by the incidence, then by the ignorant and brutal cops. They were armed only by their hate towards terrorism and their love for their country. Nothing else. Yet they were attacked like they were the ones who killed those now-100 people in Reyhanlı; and the irony is that, the people really responsible for that were not being tried to be discovered, apparently, they weren't as dangerous as these university students.

And now, Turkey has forgotten. Like every event which happens, let it be something good or something bad, it is discussed in news programs, barber shops, market registers and streets one day, and in the next, it is forgotten. The government is desperately trying to change the agenda by trying to pass a law regarding the consumption of alcohol in restaurants in Turkey, and the media gladly took the bait.

But this time around, this procedure was catalyzed. We were forced to forget, or rather, we were not reminded. The newspapers, the evening, morning news broadcasts could not mention anything about this event. I don't think they would want to, anyway. Forgive and forget, right?

Tomorrow is the 19th of May which is the National Youth and Sports Day in Turkey. That day in 1919, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk set foot on land in the heart of Anatolia, and began the war for national independence, the resistance was afoot. Later, in 1938, Atatürk rewarded this special day to the youth of Turkey to whom he tied all of his hopes to. And suddenly, the government which did not bother to declare national mourning on the day of the event and sent its president to the USA to discuss some "critical" matters with Barack Obama while the president's country was soaked with the blood of innocent people, terror and fright, decided to cancel the celebrations of Youth and Sports Day because of the incidence in Reyhanlı. In the time we need to get together as a country and celebrate, unite, stand behind our country and democracy and everything that Atatürk trusted us, the youth of Turkey, with, we cannot. We are not allowed to.

I've blamed everything on the government of Turkey in my post here, but do not be mistaken, the people under the goverment, us, need to get half the blame. The day of the Boston bombings, most of my friends wrote condolence messages, RIP's on their precious Facebook Timelines, for three dead and 246 injured halfway across the world, but when that bloody Sunday rushed in, I saw nothing; nothing on my news feed, it wasn't talked about in Twitter, the same friends who "wished patience" to the injured ones in Boston posted "congratz" messages for their team for the soccer game that night. Of course what happened in Boston was horrible and it should not happen ever again and we are all sorry about it, but when an event of similar sort happens in your country with two hundred times the death toll, you should be able to be sorry about it as well, if not more. You should care about the dead people and the orphan children in Turkey as much as you did about the people in the US, if not more. You should, we should, because it is our country, our people.

Ignorance is being forced into our brains right now, and even though some people, like those university students or the people who organized this protest walk to the parliament building which will take place tomorrow are resisting against it, the media, the important people of the country, its celebrities, its athletes, are not. In fact, most people are not. And now, a week has passed, and still there are bodies being taken out from under the wreckage, the debris, at first by the people themselves because the government did not send any help, and everyone has already forgotten. Maybe not totally erased from their brains, maybe there is still a crumb of care and sorrow somewhere in their hearts when they are at their brunch on the side of the Bosporus with their friends and family.

All I can say is that, they cannot make everyone forget about it, about their mistakes, about their ignorance. Even if they ban the media and not allow congressman into the province, some of us will simply not forget. At least, we will try not to, and stay true to our nation and our values we fought so hard for only a hundred years ago. To every children who has lost their parents on that Sunday, to every mother who has lost her son, to every bride who lost her groom, to every sister who has lost her brother, I present my deepest condolences.

;

Names to Fit

On Friday, I did not wake up at 6:30 in the morning to get dressed up and go to school to "learn" and "have fun", really to be tested all the time. Instead, I woke up at 7:40, with butterflies fluttering in my stomach, my fingers waiting anxiously to embrace my piano for the final time before we got in a cab in the rainy, humid morning to take place in a piano contest.

Each grade was assigned a specific piece before hand, ours was a Kuhlau Sonata, and we got to pick another piece, which could be anything at all... as long as it did not exceed three minutes.

We got there a little early, and sat in the cafeteria of the relatively small school. While my mom and I were waiting for my name to be called, students would come and go, some there for the very same competition, with their sheet music in their hands, some with their fathers making them follow him around, some in haste, trying to get copies of the criteria before he/she got called in. And there were some who came with their teachers. This was the last day of the competition, so it was grades 10, 11 and 12 for piano and guitar, and most of these competitors had their valued tutors and "supporting" parents with them. Their tutors were giving them advice, speaking to them with such hurtful ambition and speed, speaking the way a boxing coach speaks to his athlete, telling him how to beat up his opponent so badly that he faints, just before the bell authorizing violence chimes among the halls of gambling, ambition, and money. The parents on the other hand, were a whole new kind. Some sat by, chatting with their children, as my own mother did, actually, she played a game on the iPad while I studied for my French test,  while some were worse than the tutors; parents instructing their children, and their children frantically practicing the hard passages of their pieces on the plastic coffee table they sat in.  One father was dressed up in a suit, his son also dressed up in a black shirt with black suit pants and black, shiny shoes, lead his son around the cafeteria. The boy didn't look up.

Finally, I was called up, along with fifteen other students, and they took us up a floor, where we continued to wait.

When I had four or five people remaining to go before me, we started talking to each other. I sat next to two very, very different people.

One of them could not afford to but a piano, so she had a keyboard at home on which she would practice the passages and parts of pieces, and then she would play her pieces on the piano at her school every day.

The other one's name was Idil, named after the famous Turkish pianist Idil Biret. Her parents bought her a piano when she was born. She played the piano since she was 4-5 years old; but she hated it. She told us that she did not enjoy it at all and that "she did not have anything to do with it." I had the opportunity to listen to both of my new friends. The first girl played quite well, but you could tell she could use a little bit more practice. The second one, Idil, could not play very well, it was as if she was sight reading the pre-determined repertoire right there, and, it was not that hard to sight read. The jury stopped her at the middle of her first piece, asking her to commence with her second piece which she chose. She came out of the room, happy that it was over, while I went in the room, excited to see the piano, the people, and to cross something off my bucket-list.

And today is mother's day. A day only for the most patient -well, most of the time- , most loving, most encouraging creatures on the face of earth. They are indeed special, all parents are, but when they try to change the course of their children's lives, when they try to make their lives into the life they've always wanted to have but couldn't, they become more ambitious, almost to a degree which could hurt their children... But sometimes, they do help them, some become great pianists, great doctors because of their parents' push, but some always look up to their parents, not in the good way, and to everyone around them, walk with their heads down, always trying to live up to their name, while they fail to realize for their whole lives that it is their names who should fit them, not the other way around.

Murphy's Law? Maybe.

Yesterday, I performed at a concert. And until the moment I got up on the stage (I was the last to go, by the way), I practically lived the statement "Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong".

The concert was organized by my piano teacher and she wanted her students to give a concert. She asked me if I would play in it. I said, "Gladly!". She asked me if I had anything to do that Tuesday night, May 7th. I thought about it for a while, and the date rang the bell: math exam, Ding! Luckily, the test was on Tuesday, so I didn't have any studying to do that night. Anyway. She told me that the rehearsal would be at 18:00. I told her that I come from school around 17:00 and I could easily make it... Haha.

So Tuesday came rolling, I took the painfully hard calculus exam, and was excited the whole day for the concert that night. I got on the bus, and because of the people who took the bus that day, I  realized that I would be dropped off 3rd from the last.

But that was just the beginning.

The road we normally take was unusually and incredibly crowded and a jogging turtle could have passed us for a while there.

When it was finally my turn to get dropped off, the bus driver "forgot" I was in the bus and missed the turn which lead to my street. I had to ride along in the bus until he dropped off the remaining three people.

I finally got home, ate some stuff so fast I couldn't taste it, fixed myself an outfit, splashed on some makeup, and we were getting in a cab at 18:10.

Oh, what's that?

Some people tried to take charge and are running around yelling shallow slogans with banners in their hands, so the police closed off a street.

Some genius city planner decided to work on the asphalt in one of the main arteries at the place I was going to, so bye-bye free flowing traffic!

It took us 30 minutes to go somewhere we would've gone in 10 minutes any other day.

Now, I don't want to commit any logical fallacies or anything, but, if all of these weren't Murphy's Laws alive in flesh and blood, what were they?

Of course, I would not notice the jammed traffic every other day when I did not have a concert to get to.

I would not care so much if the bus driver had forgotten to drop me off any other day. So maybe, just because today I had somewhere and some event I had to get to, because I searched for misfortunes all along the way, I noticed these stuff.

Nonetheless, something, maybe a decision I made or maybe the fluttering of a butterfly's wings on the top of a skyscraper in Shanghai caused me to be late to that concert. I don't know what was at work that day, but that chaotic afternoon was far from normal... Murphy's Law? Maybe.

Drunk From the Wine of Power

When we say kings, queens and monarchy, we immediately think of sword fights, public executions, men in tights with music playing in the background with parallel fifths and fourths, a fat, arrogant man sitting on a throne surrounded by gold looted from conquered cities. We think that those days of kings and queens are in the past.

However, they have never been so close to us.

Once one of the most powerful nations now drowning in its own economic slump powered by unnecessary inflation, the U.K., in fact, has a queen as their leader.

Today was Queen's Day (actually to be King's Day from now on because the current queen has left the throne for his son), a special day in the Netherlands to celebrate the birthday of their queen and the previous queens.

So, opposing contrary belief and our conditioning, kings and queens do play an important role in our society.

And you could argue about what's wrong with that. The glitch in this system is that nobody wants to give up their supreme and unquestioned power; moreover, everyone wants to obtain that power. Because when you're the king or the queen of a nation, you are at the top, you don't take orders from anyone; only mere suggestions posed at "your grace", and, well, if you don't like their suggestions, Off with their heads! OK, maybe not necessarily decapitation in 2013, but you get the gist.

The honorable and right thing to do is to give up the throne when you've had enough time under the limelight and enough glory to carry on with you, to pass on the throne to your descendants to let them rule the country for a while, not to cling on to it until you can barely walk and until your son gets to the age you should have left the throne at.

But again, being drunk from the wine of power is irresistible, and the wine is just too, too sweet to give up.

Symphony of a Thousand

On Tuesday, we went to listen to Mahler's Eighth Symphony, more commonly known as the "Symphony of a Thousand."

The story is that Mahler originally wrote this symphony for a thousand people to perform it, but it was only done once with a thousand people on the night of its premiere in 1910, Munich.

The one we went to was "only" four hundred people on stage; one orchestra (which had two harps, so imagine the size) and three choirs, plus the soloists standing at the front and some part of the brass section in one of the aisles between the seats of the audience because they couldn't fit on the stage.

Still, it was no different than a quartet who's been together for twenty years playing their favorite piece; everything was right, and even in that chaos and in that heap of people, instruments and stands, nothing stood out and everyone managed to listen to each other.

Of course, the conductor played a big part in all of this "staying together" and synchronization.

But the most important thing to do when you're performing with an orchestra, especially with a 300-people one, is to listen to every single instrument and voice. Looking at the director, in my opinion, comes later.

The most amazing thing I observed at one point midst the screeching dissonances, chromatic notes and "themes" to be heard once and never again, was how the huge violin section could pull off such an awesome crescendo; it sounded like one person was playing the whole thing. Playing the right notes and the rhythms is something, but doing a perfect crescendo in unison is another.

The Symphony of a Thousand by Mahler, put together by the Bilkent Symphony Orchestra and three choirs, was surely an amazing experience, one that I would be terribly sorry to miss. Once again, I realized how actually listening to people make the music there and then, with little flukes and perfect nuances is much, much, much more different than downloading the piece from torrents.com and listening to it with cheap headphones.