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.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Faith ...or Belief?
Location: Small town outside Lisbon, Portugal
Time: July 2013
"And there under the roof, was the place where "Our Lady of Fatima" appeared to Lucia, Jacinta and Francisco, the children of the house. Now if you will go there, pray, burn a candle, and have faith, Our Lady will listen to you. Don't forget, this place is very, very special," says the tour guide getting of the air conditioned bus with an "Our Lady of Fatima" super-souvenir-store ticket which offers a gift of a glowing little statue for every 15 euros you spend there in her hand, walking towards, along with many people, the grand church standing at the end and the highest point of a vast, concrete area.
[caption id="attachment_438" align="alignright" width="300"]
"Sanctuary of our Lady of Fatima"-Where the first sighting took place. Millions of Christians flock here every year.[/caption]
This is Fatima, the "Sanctuary of Our Lady of Fatima", to be more precise, where, supposedly, Virgin Mary appeared to three little children for the first time in 1917 and first told the children to build a small chapel for her. Later came the "secrets", directed mainly at Lucia, the youngest of the three; "Our Lady of Fatima" told Lucia in one of her apparitions that World War I, which was going on at the time, would end in a year if Lucia, her brother and her cousin prayed to her. And, in fact, World War I ended in 1918, a year after these apparitions began.
Later in her life, after another "secret" from Our Lady of Fatima, stating that Lucia would be the only one to live through her teenage years, was "proven" to be true, Lucia had a dream. In this dream, a bishop dressed in white was tumbling across the market place, and seemed to be in distress; and when there was an assassination attempt at the Pope, also known as the Bishop of Rome, a few days later and he survived a gun shot wound "which should have killed him", as his doctors put it, he stated that he "became a believer" - along with many, many other people.
Now what stands where Lucia supposedly saw Our Lady of Fatima for the first time, is a poly-carbon room, with a statue inside so deeply embedded behind the bullet-proof glass and the stone walls, risers, and all sorts of assortments, that it is barely visible. And also some three million people who migrate there every year who believe.
These people believe in the power of their prayers, and they do not only believe, but they have faith in it. They may believe the story of "Our Lady of Fatima", but they have faith in her when they buy candles in shapes of various body parts which they or someone close to them needs to survive, they have faith in her when they close their eyes tight with tears welling up around the corners and ask for forgiveness, they have faith in her when they travel thousands of miles and walk 100 meters on their knees to the church.
Faith is a subset of belief. Faith entitles power and hope. Belief entitles a set of mind.
Lucia had faith in "Our Lady of Fatima" when she sat on her knees in front of her bed before going to sleep and praying that the bombs and the crackling radio broadcasts her parents always listened to nowadays and the death all around and the men disappearing from around her to stop. But whether WWI ended because Lucia believed "Our Lady of Fatima", took her word for it, or because the nations were far past emaciated, is up for discussion.
And the main difference between belief and faith is that belief doesn't require the participation of the single most important bundle of muscle in our body pumping red hot liquid through our veins and into our souls; the heart.
Time: July 2013
"And there under the roof, was the place where "Our Lady of Fatima" appeared to Lucia, Jacinta and Francisco, the children of the house. Now if you will go there, pray, burn a candle, and have faith, Our Lady will listen to you. Don't forget, this place is very, very special," says the tour guide getting of the air conditioned bus with an "Our Lady of Fatima" super-souvenir-store ticket which offers a gift of a glowing little statue for every 15 euros you spend there in her hand, walking towards, along with many people, the grand church standing at the end and the highest point of a vast, concrete area.
[caption id="attachment_438" align="alignright" width="300"]
"Sanctuary of our Lady of Fatima"-Where the first sighting took place. Millions of Christians flock here every year.[/caption]This is Fatima, the "Sanctuary of Our Lady of Fatima", to be more precise, where, supposedly, Virgin Mary appeared to three little children for the first time in 1917 and first told the children to build a small chapel for her. Later came the "secrets", directed mainly at Lucia, the youngest of the three; "Our Lady of Fatima" told Lucia in one of her apparitions that World War I, which was going on at the time, would end in a year if Lucia, her brother and her cousin prayed to her. And, in fact, World War I ended in 1918, a year after these apparitions began.
Later in her life, after another "secret" from Our Lady of Fatima, stating that Lucia would be the only one to live through her teenage years, was "proven" to be true, Lucia had a dream. In this dream, a bishop dressed in white was tumbling across the market place, and seemed to be in distress; and when there was an assassination attempt at the Pope, also known as the Bishop of Rome, a few days later and he survived a gun shot wound "which should have killed him", as his doctors put it, he stated that he "became a believer" - along with many, many other people.
Now what stands where Lucia supposedly saw Our Lady of Fatima for the first time, is a poly-carbon room, with a statue inside so deeply embedded behind the bullet-proof glass and the stone walls, risers, and all sorts of assortments, that it is barely visible. And also some three million people who migrate there every year who believe.
These people believe in the power of their prayers, and they do not only believe, but they have faith in it. They may believe the story of "Our Lady of Fatima", but they have faith in her when they buy candles in shapes of various body parts which they or someone close to them needs to survive, they have faith in her when they close their eyes tight with tears welling up around the corners and ask for forgiveness, they have faith in her when they travel thousands of miles and walk 100 meters on their knees to the church.
Faith is a subset of belief. Faith entitles power and hope. Belief entitles a set of mind.
Lucia had faith in "Our Lady of Fatima" when she sat on her knees in front of her bed before going to sleep and praying that the bombs and the crackling radio broadcasts her parents always listened to nowadays and the death all around and the men disappearing from around her to stop. But whether WWI ended because Lucia believed "Our Lady of Fatima", took her word for it, or because the nations were far past emaciated, is up for discussion.
And the main difference between belief and faith is that belief doesn't require the participation of the single most important bundle of muscle in our body pumping red hot liquid through our veins and into our souls; the heart.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
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".
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".
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
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 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.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
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.
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.
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