One could write another Ulysses based on just a few hours of yesterday’s
wildly kaleidoscopic experiences and observations.
The Gezi Park was announced to be officially reopened today. Ignoring
that, the Taksim Solidarity group of the resisters invited people to the square
“to get back what belongs to us.” Now, you can see this either as an
unnecessarily provocative act or a consistent move, depending among others on
how much you’re fed up. I was neutral.
At the other end of the about 2 miles long İstiklal street that links
Taksim to the smaller Tünel square the annual jazz festival was supposed to
take place with several groups at various venues.
Through and through in love with this town anew, even the long ride to
the place in a packed bus in the summer afternoon heat, was something I deeply
enjoyed. Tuning in to his vibrant life is simply electrifying. What in other
times disturbs me, the ugly scar on his face left by the tasteless
urbanization, the crowd, his impossible traffic and all, turns then into a
quasi mystic experience in which I feel discerning perfection in imperfection.
As I’ve met with some friends at my favorite bistro nearby, the slogans
were getting louder. I went out to see, took photos of those TOMA
called ominous police trucks equipped with water cannons and their smaller versions,
the Scorpions (a very appropriate name) for the narrower streets. Istiklal by
then was already full of a mixed crowd of the demonstrators and the regular
Istanbulites who were coming as usual to have a good time. I went back to
resume the chat and finish my beer, having some more French fries while
overhearing the conversation of two ladies about the real estate prices in
Istanbul (1.7 million USD for an apartment with sea view, 7.5 mio USD for a
“yalı” called historical wooden mansion at the Bosphorus) -well off persons who
seemed happily unaware of the connection between this (the system) and the very
uprising surrounding them.
I was in a sense as detached as they were, or living parallel realities
simultaneously, I can’t tell.
Anyway, I left and went to the first venue I’ve chosen for the evening.
A cheerful audience was already gathered. The ongoing sound check was mingling
with the noise coming off the main street. As I was calmly looking for a good
angle to take photos, I've got a call from a friend who warned me to stay off
the Taksim square. “They’ve started their damned ‘intervention’ with gas, water
cannons, and rubber bullets, arresting people randomly. Looks really bad!”
How to describe the mental state I was in? “Being in the world but not
of the world?” Having no fear, but not a particular desire to stay and
participate to the demonstration either, it was all one to me. Staying there
longer would mean to miss the exit for a long time, so I left.
On my way back, I watched people enjoying the bright summer day at the
parks, in the tea gardens. Worlds apart.
Deciding the one I wanted to join, I got off the taxi in Ortaköy at the
Bosphorus, bought kokoreç (intestines kebab) headed to the pier and savored all
what is.
A sequence reminiscent of the mobius strip on which you can cover
separate dimensions with a single uninterrupted movement of your finger.
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