Monday, September 29, 2008

The following piece was Perihan Mağden's column in yesterday's Radikal. I loved it so much it actually brought tears to my eyes.

Zaman izafi midir?

Fizik dersinde berbattım. En arkada oturup başka şeylerle vakti ‘öldürmeye’ çalışırdım. Öyle zor geçerdi ki fizik dersinde zaman. Açıp açık açık kitabını da okuyamazsın. Yani dersi dinler havasını yaratarak, ne yapılabilirse, öyle geçirmeye çabalamak zamanı... Şimdi bile aşırı sıkıntıyla geçirdiğim zamanları ‘fizik dersi gibi’ diye tasvir ederim.

Oysa gerçekten, samimi olarak, fizikten anlayabilen bir kafam olsun isterdim. O formüller, akselerasyon mesela: Hem gerçekte olagelen şeyler, hem de onca soyutlanarak bir formül halinde -yani bir hap gibi- sana sunuluyorlar. Taş düşüyor işte, işte eğim var, taşın hızı var, hepsini simgeleyen bir işaret var. Sen de yapacaksın hesabını, ama ne önemi var? Gerçi böyle felsefi nedenlerle direnmiyordum fiziğe. İşin içinden çıkamıyordum. Gerçek anlamda kafam basmıyordu işte. Einstein’ın o muhteşem, enerji eşittir formülü. Sonra nasıl Freud sayesinde bilinçaltı ve bilinçdışı olduğunu biliyorsak, Einstein sayesinde zamanın izafi olduğunu biliyoruz.

Zamanın izafi olduğu zamanlar vardı. Kapı çalınırdı. Bir arkadaş sana gelirdi. Sonra bir 24, 36 saat kayıp giderdi. Muhtelif yerlerde yenilir, sokaklarda yürünür, videoda filmler izlenir ve kimseye hiçbir şeyin hesabı verilmezdi. Öle bir durum yoktu. Hesap vermeyi gerektiren bir durum yani. Bir arkadaşın arka odasına kapanılıp üç gün hiç çıkmadan -tabii yemek, içmek ve tuvalet dışında- Shibumi okunabilirdi, diyelim. O zamanlar, yani gençken, zaman izafiydi.

Zaman, içine girilip gönlünce yüzülen bir okyanustu. Rüya görmeye vakit vardı örneğin. Bol bol rüya görülür, onlar hatırlanır, anlatılırdı. Oysa dilediğinizce uyuma hakkı elinizden alındığında rüya da göremez, daha doğrusu gördüğünüz rüyaları hatırlayamazsınız. Zaman, bir hapishane çizelgesine dönüşür. Her saat halletmeniz gereken kalemler, bunlardan kaytarmaya cüret edecekseniz, kendi kendinize vermeniz gereken hesaplar vardır: Dolusunuzdur. Da neyle? Bir sürü hamaliye saçmalıkla. Her gün, listelerle sona erer. Her gün, atlamanız gereken bir sürü engelle donanmış bir koşudur. Siz de iyi eğitilmiş ve yarışmak dışında hiçbir şeye hakkı olmadığını iliklerine kadar hisseden bir yarış atı.

Mekanik bir at üstelik. Her türlü haz duygusundan tasarlanırken muaf tutulmuş. Bazen yangından mal kaçırır gibi, biraz zaman araklamaya kalkarsınız işten güçten. Ne acıklı bir çaba! Bunu faiziyle ödemeniz gerektiğini bilmek, o soluk soluğalık ‘araklanan’ zamanı baştan lekeler. Mükemmel ve el değmemiş bir zaman dilimi, sizin için artık mümkün değildir.

Penang’ta yine üç gün bir ‘otelin’ yatakhanesinde yalnızca aşağıdaki lokantaya inmelerinizle bölünen Dostoyevski okuduğunuz günleri hatırlarsınız. Nerdeyse bir sıla hasretiyle. Bir sürgün duygusuyla. Bir daha böyle günlerin, kapınıza umulmadık bir hediye gibi bırakılmayacağını eşekler gibi bilerek. Eşekler gibi mahzun ve derisi kalın. Gerçek ve derin, ipin ucu koyverilmiş, bedbahtlıklara bile artık zamanınız yoktur. Hiç yoktur.

Karı hissedemezsiniz. Yağmuru. Rüzgârı. Bir nevi izolasyon malzemesiyle tecrit edilmiştir ruhunuz ve bedeniniz. Doğayla ilişkiniz, hayatın doğallığıyla ilişkiniz kopmuş gitmiştir. Zavallı bir memursunuzdur. Artık herkes, bu hayatların her sabah kartını deldirmesi gereken, bitap memurlarıdır. Tüm arkadaşlarınız da sizin gibi enselenmişlerdir. Tesisat işleri, elektrik makbuzu, perdelerin yıkanması, yapılması gereken telefon konuşmaları, ödenmesi gereken borçlardan ibaretsinizdir.

Bazen arkadaşınızla karşılıklı şikâyet ve ağlaşmayla bir yarım saat geçirirsiniz. Yan yana oturup ‘Yüzbaşı Volkan’, ‘Dr. No’ okuduğunuz günlerin zavallı siluetleri olarak. Kavga bile edemezsiniz artık. Şiddetli kavgalar ve ağlamalar çoook gerilerdedir. Vızırdarsınız, cızırdarsınız, laf sokuşturursunuz. Siz artık siz değilsinizdir. Yeni bir insan da değilsinizdir. Zaruretleri yerine getirmekle mükellef bir kılıf. İçiniz boştur. Eskiden kalbin durduğu yerde kırık, imitasyon bir şeyler durur. ‘Şeyler’dir onlar. Gerçek hiçbir şey yoktur artık zira. Olamaz da.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Since the financial markets started recovering already (not by themselves, of course, only when provided by the right incentives), I decided to go back to what I wanted to write about in the first place.

My perfectly flawed country

The story between our prime minister Erdoğan and media tycoon Aydın Doğan has several veins.

Chapter 1 - Government tainted by corruption scandal
A Germany-based Turkish charity (Deniz Feneri) collects money from devout Muslim Turks in Germany, only to send it to affiliated Turkish businesses, such as Kanal 7, a pro-government TV channel. German investigators claim that Turkish authorities applied political pressure for the release of those detained in Germany, and the prime minister's office received some funds from the charity to help tsunami victims. Meanwhile, one of the guys who worked as a "courier" between Germany and Turkey is appointed as the chairman of the Radio Television Supreme Council (RTUK).

Chapter 2 - Freedom of media?
The coverage of the scandal features prominently in Doğan newspapers, which have been critical of the government for a while. In a furious (and public) address at a party meeting, Erdoğan claims that Doğan is seeking revenge because the government didn't agree to the favours he requested for his other businesses. These include the changing of a development license for the land where the Hilton Hotel stands in Istanbul, and an overland broadcasting license for CNN Turk from RTUK. More allegations appear on pro-government newspapers about allegedly illegal practices of Doğan Group. Doğan Group shares fall in the stock market.

Chapter 3 - Political risk: Independence and impartiality of regulatory agencies
Doğan responds that he has not requested anything illegal, he is just seeking his legal rights as a citizen and business man (which is a fair point, I must say.) He goes on to claim that the Energy Markets Regulatory Agency (EPDK) has been denying his oil distribution business Petrol Ofisi a license for the construction of an oil refinery in Ceyhan. He says that Erdoğan told him Çalık Holding would remain the sole license-holder in the port city. Çalık is also building the oil pipeline from Ünye to Ceyhan in a consortium with Italian Eni.

EPDK claims the site proposed by Petrol Ofisi for the refinery belongs to another company, which wants to build a power utility on the same site.

Chapter 4 - Freedom of media?
Çalık Holding, run by Erdoğan's son-in-law, was the sole bidder for our second largest media group, Sabah-ATV. State banks provided financing for the acquisition, and a Qatari investment fund chipped in by buying a 25% stake (the largest interest a foreign entity can hold in a Turkish media company). There were rumors that this limitation (if nothing else!) deterred other bidders, including foreign private equity groups and media companies, from bidding for Sabah-ATV. The government is now planning to lift this rule to comply with EU legislation. Then Çalık could sell Sabah-ATV to one of the foreign suitors for a decent profit.

***
I admire the intricacy of the story, and I think we can recognize several themes here. First of all, the story casts doubt over the independence and impartiality of regulatory agencies, municipalities and state banks. These institutions are clearly open to political influence. The destiny of a business is determined by its relationship to power circles, not its economic efficiency or integrity.

Once we identify this structural flaw as the root problem, it is easy to see why media groups might want to leverage their influence over public opinion to receive favours from the government, or how the government might be able to use these licenses as a stick to punish a media group for its unfavourable coverage. People do things when they are able to.

This is a high price to pay. Journalists play a very important role in the healthy functioning of a democracy. Their job is to raise awareness by providing correct, comprehensive and balanced information and analysis. People can make sound choices and hold decision makers accountable only when they have sufficient information. The independence and freedom of media groups is therefore very important, and media is not just an ordinary economic sector. However, in practical terms, I don't know how we could oblige media tycoons to shed their other business interests in countries where we cannot disentangle politics from business. This would be a second-best solution aimed at curing the symptom of the problem, not the problem itself.

Finally - a word on journalism ethics. Some of the journalists and columnists in Turkey suck. My question is, do these journalists genuinely believe in what they write, or have they lost all respect for themselves, their audience and their job - so that they don't care anymore? Are they aware that they suck?

Monday, September 15, 2008

A costly experiment

I am fascinated by what's happening to Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch and AIG. It's like the Titanic sinking. It's like a beautiful facade collapsing because its basis is rotten. It's people taking risks without understanding the fundamentals of the products they were buying into. A machine that should be working smoothly because it is all based on logic and maths - but then, maybe not, because at the end of the day, it was people calling the shots, people looking over important details. Now it is technocrats who have to make really tough choices to minimize the costs. This is like an experiment with real people and real consequances.

I will write more about it soon.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Painting book

I've been thinking about how we give people and events meaning - and professionalism. Yesterday this image came to me - the image of a painting book. I figured we turn a new page every single day. People, events, information appear before us. Then we start painting them according to their importance to us, and some of them don't even catch our eye.

Some people or events make consecutive appearances, they happen or we let them (or make them) happen, and then we can't look over them anymore, even if we did once.

What we considered important once and painted bright red, sometimes turns out inconsequential and disappears completely from our book. We don't even know what color we'd paint them if they were to make an appearance again.

Sometimes, at work, I have to judge something's importance by my colleagues' reactions to it. Sometimes they react very strongly to something I wouldn't consider important, and sometimes they don't seem to care enough about a seemingly important thing. Because they are more experienced and I assume they know better, their reactions affect my views, as well. I find myself talking passionately about small things, and become indifferent to events I would find important in another setting. Market's priorities started to become my own.

Professionalism, then, is to become devoid of emotion? Reactions are censored and over time, feelings are just not so strong anymore. This may be good when it comes to anger, envy, greed, desire or dislike, it sets minimum standards for the quality of your work and conduct.

But it may not be so good when you take that minimum standard literally and just don't feel so passionately about the subject matter of your work, your audience, or your ability to make a difference. Then you become a boring civil servant who treats everyone equally poorly, and start painting everything the same color - gray.

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Fear is irrational

I looked at a blue blouse at an Indian (Pakistani? - let's say South Asian to be safe) shop on Wisconsin Avenue once. I told the shopowner I would think about it and come back. He said, "nobody comes back." I went back just to prove him wrong, restore his faith in humanity. The blouse turned out really bad, dying my underarms dark blue.

To be able to buy this reading lamp, I had to go to the Barclays ATM by Spitalfields. We negotiated the price and everything with the young guy selling the lamp, then I took off. On my way to the ATM, I wondered whether he was worried that I wouldn't go back. But then I decided he shouldn't be, because I liked the lamp enough to go back. (The energy-saving bulb he gave me doesn't work, I'd like to add with deep annoyance.)

I went all the way to Stoke Newington for this artist's work.

People go, come back. If they like you enough... Fear is irrational, unnecessary.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

How to become a Bobo

I moved into a studio in Marylebone "village". I went to the Farmer's Market on Sunday, and all you could hear was a hushed hum, you could almost see the blue blood running behind serious, charismatic faces picking vegetables and fruits. My mom says the people in this area "don't have battered faces." Their every action, every expression seems measured yet smooth - just right, how it should be. I felt nervous and clumsy. All new reference points - the bar is higher now. My parents hope I'll come out of this more sophisticated.

I passed by the Ginger Pig and La Fromagarie, all anxious as I am when I go to Bebek or Nişantaşı -a little out of place. I will stop by later when I'm not by myself.

Knowing myself for this long, I don't think I have a sophisticated bone in me. I will sound fatalistic, but some people are just born with it. Their faces, hair, clothes, they are intelligent, smooth, serious. They are not flashy or overly confident or annoying. They are respectable. They carry everything they own and are with subdued entitlement, and live up to the life they are born into. I, on the other hand, am clumsy, anxious, worried and late. My face shines and I sweat. I'm not smooth, because I think too much and I worry.

After a trip to Waitrose, I decided to venture into the East End. When I lived there I hardly valued or appreciated it enough, but I missed it and fell in love with it when I moved away. First the stalls of Spitalfields, then onto Commercial Street, the Smudge Gallery with commercial graffiti, vintage shops, and finally Brick Lane. I walked into the Up Market in the old Truman Brewery, people sitting on the threshold with greasy Asian food. First food stalls, then I bought a necklace made from "recycled materials", then a silver ring, then I ran into this artist's stall. I liked his delicate work. I got his card, and moved on to get a reading lamp (more on that in the next post.)

I walked around some more with my reading lamp, stopped by and listened to a dirty but cheerful street band right around Vibe, ran into Gokhan from Athena (a Turkish ska band who performed at Bazaar Day once, back in the day), walked on this side street with expensive little Bobo shops, walked into a small art gallery and got a crispy bacon beigel (I think this was the high (low?) point of the day, depending how you look at it). I walked to the end of Brick Lane up to Bethnal Green. Then walked back to Liverpool Street from Shoreditch High Street. For my next move, I want a wooden-floored loft around there. It will be expensive despite the sketchy (not really), dirty (really), but spirited area. Just like a Bobo likes it.

I felt carefree and happy and myself. Excited about what could be lying ahead. Like I do when I walk from Galatasaray to Tunel and then to Galata.

On Monday, I considered getting Banksy's "feisty maid" for my vast empty wall, something I thought would remind me of the things I sweep under the rug. But on Tuesday, I decided to go find the artist in the Up Market. I e-mailed him and he responded promptly: He lived and worked in Stoke Newington. The Turkish area I've never been to.

I took Bus 73 from King's Cross, and passed through Islington. Islington seemed uglier and more run down then I thought, Stokey more cheerful and pretty - especially around Church Street. (High Street is more "rough" around the edges, as Pierre's London for Londoners book observes.) I found his flat/studio on a residential street, his flatmate (looked like he jumped out of Notting Hill with his white undershirt) got the door. The building was like a communal tower with rooms lined along a staircase. One room - storage for all his work, prints on canvases stretched over rectangular wooden blocks, the other an airy bedroom with the blue paintings he's working on. One piece of the three-piece print I got is cracked, apparently he dropped it off the window. Like the stats book that fell off the Healy Building once. He will replace it when I visit him in the Up Market not this Sunday - but next Sunday.

I got my prints, took the bus passing through Kingsland and Dalston and Shoreditch High and Liverpool Street. I saw what's beyond Shoreditch High for the first time.

I find it ironic how my tidy and clean flat has these prints from this artist's studio in Stoke Newington, how it has this reading lamp from the Up Market.

Does this little deliberate civilized adventure qualify me as a Bobo?

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Under rug swept

Yesterday I was thinking about the things I don't like talking about, writing about, thinking about. Things I pretend do not exist, things I pretend are of no consequance (as long as nobody notices them). Things that make me feel uncomfortable or guilty or awkward or worthless. Things that would make the blood and meat of any good piece of writing - any good depiction of reality - I avoid. Money, sex, injustice, sickness, senselessness, envy, greed, fear, unfulfilled dreams, failure, deterioration, death. Justification and entitlement.

Then in the Smudge Gallery at Spitalfields, I ran into a reproduction of graffiti artist Banksy's "Sweeping it Under the Carpet."


Then I realized, not talking about something doesn't make it go away, disappear. Things you don't talk about make what you talk about less real, what you write about less deep. What is hidden robs what is displayed of part of its truth. Sterile and shallow. In the end, nobody gives you a prize for being that spotless.

People discount blogging as "public confession." There are things in our lives, however, that we can't even confess to ourselves. We just overlook them completely, we don't talk about them even in our heads. Self-censorship prevents one from capturing and depicting reality, one is then left with abstraction -bare bones- and other people's stories.

However disconcerting it is, facing reality with all its details and facets, inquiring beyond what I think I already know is the only way to something real.