Midnight in Trabzon

Brittany White

It's close to midnight, and I'm walking through Trabzon's dingy bus station. Inside, there's a gloomy silence. The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with citrus cologne and day-old kebab sandwiches lingers. There are only a few of us here, haunting the station's long, cavernous hallways. Old men with thick, grey mustaches sit at the only shop open, drinking çay and barely speaking above a whisper. They ignore their audience of mangy dogs longing for scraps. 

For a moment, I consider stopping for a hot cup of tea, but I'm too wound up to allow myself such a pleasure. Biting the inside of my cheeks, I'm fidgety, like I just took three shots of espresso to the head. I try to keep a stern, confident face but I worry that people can sense my anxiety, my out-of-placeness. 

I stress about the norms that govern time. Does the bus usually arrive early or late?

What about gender? Will it matter if I sit next to a man or woman? 

And social interaction: Do I try to chit-chat with my neighbor, or do I ignore them and pretend they simply don't exist?

I scan the room and try to find a seat next to someone with a friendly face, but, at this hour, no one looks particularly welcoming. I settle on what seems to be a family with two young boys. I approach the bench and give a shy smile as I try to make peace with the tightness in my chest. I take a deep breath and tell myself: It's okay. You've done this before, and you can do it again. You will get on this bus, and you'll be fine. 

After a minute or two of self-soothing, I turn and look at my chosen family. One son, who must be around 6 or 7 years old, is sitting still as a monk in meditation. He is flanked by his parents; I envy his calm, his sense of security. He yawns and struggles to keep his eyes open, fighting sleep the way children do. Soon his head falls to his father's lap as he gives into sweet exhaustion. The man looks down and begins to stroke his son's cheek with the back of his hand, lulling him to sleep—a tender communication. Each stroke saying: I love you. You are beautiful. You are mine. You are safe. Now rest.

The mother catches me looking in on this exchange, and we smile at each other. There's a curious look in her eyes, and I can tell that she wants to start a conversation. I imagine she's going back and forth in her head about whether or not to say something, wondering if I speak Turkish.

"Nerelisiniz?" she asks. Where are you from?

It's one of the first phrases I learned in Turkish, so even though my language skills are shoddy, I'm prepared. 

"Amerikalıyım," I say.

Translated into English, it simply means, "I'm American." But the literal translation is more nuanced. What I'm really saying is, "I'm with America."

I'm uncomfortable whenever I say “Amerikalıyım.” It feels like a blind proclamation of nationalism, and this unsettles me. If I'm with America, am I with the police murders of Black people? The pilfering of Indigenous land? Am I for CIA-sponsored coups and installing dictators across the globe?

In my head, saying “Amerkaliyim” is the equivalent of being that person who hangs American flags off the back of a Ford F-150 and gets mad when NFL players take a knee for the national anthem.

For me, Amerikalıyım feels white.

* * * 

Before living outside of the States, it was easier for me to dissociate from my nationality. Even though I know Americans have a global reputation for their flag-waving, in-your-face patriotism, I've never identified with that. In my mind, that was reserved for white people. They're the ones who have the luxury of looking at an American flag and thinking about life, liberty, and more perfect unions. They’re not forced into questioning these principals by confronting an infinite number of brutal injustices—generation after generation, day after day. 

I think it's safe to say that many Black Americans feel the same way; claiming "Americanness" in such an unabashed manner can feel like lauding your own oppression. Because despite all the good that America is, we know it's a country built on the bloodied backs of our ancestors; white supremacy and anti-Blackness are the cornerstones of American society. What's worse is that these cornerstones are proverbial hills America is willing to die on. 

So, I've always felt most comfortable identifying as Black—full stop. Depending on the context, I may say Black American or African American. But the point is that Blackness matters most; it always comes first. Without the word "Black" as a qualifier, I feel raw. Flayed by way of semantics and left with nothing but the specter of white America. 

But when I moved to Istanbul in 2013 to teach English, I was young—in my early 20s—it was my first time living outside the country, and I was forced to confront the fact that I am very American. My identity revealed itself in the small, everyday happenings of my life: I didn’t know to take off my shoes when entering someone’s home. I could never figure out the mysteries of the metric system or decipher the temperature in degrees Celsius (it’s still a challenge). And, to the dismay of pretty much everyone I met, Turkish, or otherwise, I couldn't care less about football—which I had the nerve to call soccer.

The daily interactions I had with non-Americans forced me to examine the things I knew and assumed about myself and my country. I quickly learned that people have firm opinions about America, often without grey area. They had no qualms professing a fervent love or everlasting hate for anything American. From LeBron James and Barack Obama to cultural imperialism and American racism, most everyone had something to say about the supposed land of the free and the home of the brave.

Sure, I could find equally strong opinions at home. But the views I confronted in Turkey were never centered in Americanness. They were centered in the experiences of secular Turks from Istanbul, Syrians who came to Turkey to escape civil war, Pakistani Brits, and South African expats. Their sense of the world had been molded by a reality and cultural context different from mine. I began to realize that the way I thought about race in mostly a “Black and white” dichotomy was very American. The way I thought about politics, the economy, and education was American. 

I remember talking to one of my students about higher education in the U.S. and realizing that in many other countries, attending a public university is free or of little charge. And there I was grateful, that I “only” had 30,000 in student loans from attending my public institution. I eventually asked my roommate about British public universities, where she got her degree. And when I told her about my loans, she said, “Oh yeah. I heard that you all do that,” referring to practice of going into thousands of dollars debt for education.

“That’s bat shit, bruv.” 

Interactions like these—and there were a million of them—chipped away at the comfortable space I had created between myself and my national identity, the space between Amerikalıyım and me. 

* * *

The mother disrupts my low-grade identity crisis by offering up one of those firm opinions.

"Oh, we love Americans!"

I'm shocked. Not only because I didn't expect to hear English at a random bus stop in Northeast Turkey, but because, honestly, who the hell loves Americans these days?

Her excitement and my piqued interest launch us into eager introductions. I tell her that I had just finished touring the Eastern Black Sea region and that I'm on my way to visit a Turkish friend who lives in Samsun. She tells me that her name is Sarah. She doesn't pronounce it in the typically American way. Instead, she articulates it with soft, elongated A’s—and it suits her. She's not soft-spoken, but she does carry herself with an assured grace. Sarah is short and full-figured, sporting a pink-and-cream-colored hijab that outlines her moon-shaped face.

Relieved to be released from the prison of my awkward Turkish, I ask Sarah where she's from. 

"I am from Iraq. I am Kurdish," she says, forsaking contractions. "I was an English teacher, and then we came here after the war."

And that was it. The shortest story ever told. She doesn't offer up any further details, and it feels too intrusive to ask questions. I sit in silence, and I wonder how long she's been here and what war she's referring to. The most recent Iraq War? Or the Gulf War, perhaps?

But just as I'm running through the list of questions in my head, Sarah looks at me, square in the face and says, “They dislike Kurds here.” Her face dawns a pleasant smile, like she’s just reported the weather: Today will be mostly sunny with a chance of showers in the afternoon. Don’t forget that umbrella, folks! 

Her tone, in no way, matches the weight of what she's saying. But the "they," she refers to is the Turkish government and that "dislike" is an egregious understatement. 

The Kurds are an ethnic group that inhabits Northern Iraq, Syria, Iran, and a large portion of Southeastern Turkey. They've occupied these lands long before nation-states drew their borders across the unforgiving deserts, rugged mountain ranges, and fertile valleys that make up the geographical area we call Kurdistan. The numbers of Kurds in each of these countries vary, but nearly half reside in Turkey.

In the aftermath of World War I, when nationalist movements were sweeping across the region, the Kurds had been one of the ethnic groups pushing for their own sovereign nation. While there had been discussion about the formation of an official Kurdish state, it was ultimately left on the table when all had been said and done. 

When the Republic of Turkey was formed—and within its borders were millions of Kurds, many of whom were disappointed by the denial of sovereignty in post-war treaty negotiations. In the nascent years of the newly formed nation, the Turkish government launched a sweeping "modernization" campaign. One of the many initiatives was the deliberate creation and promotion of a uniform Turkish identity, which often led to the crushing of any ethnocultural expression outside of the confines of this new "Turkishness."

The Kurds were not spared from the heavy hand of these nationalist policies. And because they are the largest ethnic minority and seen as a geopolitical threat—due to self-determination demands—the Kurds have been a particular focus of oppressive state policy over the decades. In the past, the Kurdish language has been banned from public schools and state-run organizations and publications. Kurdish names, folklore, and dress were forbidden. Even the words "Kurd" and "Kurdish" were stricken from the official government lexicon—they were to be called "Mountain Turks" instead. They have endured massacres, along with forced deportations and relocations to large cities to "encourage" assimilation.

* * *

The weight of all that history hang in the air with the cigarette smoke and kebab sandwiches because I don't offer much in terms of a response. I just meet her gaze and nod my head. I suppose I could talk about how Black Americans have also suffered through similar iterations of state terror—race riots fueled by white rage, supposed wars on drugs, the surveillance and assassination of social and political leaders. Straighten your hair, speak "proper" English, and for God's sake, don't name your child LaKeia or Jaekwon. Can’t you just be more like us?

But I sense that neither one of us had the desire to spoil the moment by trading tales of ethnic and racial persecution.

Sarah changes the subject and offers me something to drink and a pack of cookies. I look down to see she has a one-liter bottle of Coca-Cola and mini plastic party cups sitting at her feet. 

I don't like soda much but, I do like Sarah—and I know it would be impolite to refuse. 

So, I lie and say, "Oh, thank you! I'd love some," and make a big show out of drinking the entire cup. I even ask for seconds. 

Sarah's husband, who doesn't seem to speak English, is watching us with a familiar expression on his face. It's the look you give when you're stuck in a conversation and you don't know the language yet, you want to appear to be as congenial as possible; the "I Have No Clue What Is Going on But It Seems Nice Enough" look. 

At a certain point, he taps Sarah on the shoulder and asks her something in Kurdish. Sarah then turns to me and says, "My husband wants to know what part of the states you are from."

I tell them I'm from New York. Whenever someone asks, I never bother to say that I'm from Rochester, New York—an old Rust Belt city with a depressing downtown and not enough job opportunities. I let people assume I'm from New York City because their reactions always amuse me—they get excited like being from the city is some type of accomplishment. 

Sarah and her husband, however, don't seem to care. They nod their heads and move on to the next matter of business.

"We do not like it here, and we want to move to America one day," Sarah reveals. "Do you know how much a ticket will cost?"

I want to say, "Girl, America ain't shit. You don't want to live there either." But I don't. Because even though the country is swirling down the toilet—into an abyss of presidential Twitter beefs and late capitalism—I know "America, ain't shit" is an easy and privileged thing for me to say.  

I let her know that my ticket from New York City to Istanbul cost around $700; and that was a cheap fare. But before we could continue the conversation, the person manning the customer service desk jumps up in a flurry of commotion. The bus to Samsun is pulling up, and as he's rushing to greet the driver, he glances at me and says, "Samsun'a gitmiyor musun sen? Haydi, gel!"

"Aren't you going to Samsun? Let's go!"

His urgency snaps me right back into my travel anxieties. I start to bite the insides of my cheek again. Before getting up, I pat my chest to make sure everything's there:

Debit card and iPhone in my money belt. Check.

Secret cash stash and back up credit card in my bra. Check.

Passport, decoy wallet, headphones. Check. 

I stand up and look at Sarah and her husband, thinking they, too, are making the journey to Samsun. But they remain seated, returning my expectant look with sympathetic smiles. 

"Oh, no, we are not going to Samsun," Sarah says, reading my thoughts.

Even though it's a night bus, and I'll likely be sleeping the entire time, the prospect of having a travel companion was comforting. My posture deflates a bit when I realize that won't be happening. And as someone who typically enjoys solitude, I'm surprised by the attachment I feel for this stranger. I take another deep breath and manage to calm my nerves. And right before I walk away, Sarah asks if we can take a picture together. 

I'm touched to know that she would like to remember me as much as I would like to remember her.

Sarah enlists her husband as a photographer. He releases the hold of his son, who, by now, had woken up to the sound of his mother speaking to a stranger in another language. We take two pictures together—one with her phone, the other with mine—and give our stamp of approval to her husband before relieving him of his duty.

* * *

"Have a good life and please take care of yourself," is a type of goodbye that the English language doesn’t account for in one word; Sarah and I convey the sentiment through warm embrace instead. We hug like two people who understand they will never see each other again. 

When I board the bus, it becomes apparent that I'll be sleeping with 30 other strangers. It's packed—something I hadn't expected—and I've secured one of the worst possible seats if you can even call it that. It's more like a communal row—no arms rest offering a semblance of personal space, no seat back cushion to provide an ounce of neck support—just four of us passengers sitting shoulder to shoulder and collectively bemoaning our bad luck.

I have the spot closest to the window, but it's so dark I can't reap the benefits of watching the world fly by. So instead, I brood over how bizarre it is to bid a final farewell to someone who’s only been in your life for all but 30 minutes. 

The bus starts moving, I let out a big sigh, and my breath fogs up the window.

The route I'm taking from Trabzon to Samsun will outline the northern edge of Turkey; sandwiched in between the Black Sea on one side—with its somber waves crashing up against the coastline—and lush, verdant mountains on the other. Whole cities and towns are built into the side of these mountains, and when we pass through, their fluorescent lights are like shooting stars—or the chance meeting of two strangers in a Trabzon bus station. A flash of brilliance before they disappear into the night.