Here’s how it goes. We are fasting the day before Eid when we board the bus that’ll take us to my grandmother’s house. The ride is two hours, and I sit next to my mom, alternating between reading the book on my lap and looking out the window.
I have different landmarks for this journey, each one a measure of how long it takes for me to read a chapter from my book, and how much closer we are to the small county of Gemlik. I look for the huge McDonalds billboard first. A business trying to sell fast food in a country that has 81 provinces, 7 regions, and 21 sub-regions, each with its own intricate and unique cuisine. There is a tunnel that goes through a hill, and I stop my reading in the dark. As if on cue, my dad leans over from the seat behind us and comments on the wonders of humanity. How marvelous it is that even small mountains can’t stop humankind when it needs roads to follow. After the tunnel, there is only a lumber mill and an orange apartment complex before I’m leaning over my mom and finally looking at the Marmara Sea.
The sloping hills and curving shorelines of Gemlik are welcoming in their geography – relaxed, like the people who have abandoned their usual routines this month. Most of the street vendors are closed, as are the family restaurants, and most adults are sitting under trees, watching their children gulp down glasses of lemonade and eat ice cream. But don’t be fooled. In a few short hours, the city will be buzzing with energy and renewed joy for the three days that follow.
Later that night, we break our fasts and file into the mosques. I pray on the second floor because from up here, I can see everyone moving together, standing in perfect lines, and prostrating at the same time. Around me, there is centuries old architecture, glass chandeliers, and prayer beads in between people’s fingers. I want to take their photographs, and write their stories. And I do. I record snippets of conversations overheard and snap pictures of neatly folded prayer rugs. It’s a narrative of unity.
We reach my grandmother’s house when the sun starts to set. She and my grandfather live on the second floor of a three-story apartment. The first floor is a shoe repair shop; the third houses the landlord. I can see my grandparents in their balcony from a hundred feet away. My grandmother watering her plants, my grandfather smoking a cigarette, waving at people periodically. I wish I had a Polaroid camera to capture it, but for now, the Nikon D3100 will do.
They rush downstairs the instant they see us walking up the sidewalk. As soon as we are inside, my grandmother pulls me into the kitchen and shows me the stuffed grape leaves. Next to it, of course, is yogurt and baklava, along with freshly brewed black tea. We sometimes joke that it’s tea running in our veins and not blood. After all, we Turks are the largest consumers of tea in the world. In the morning, if it’s chilly, my grandmother and I will fill the old wood stove with logs and paper and brew a new pot of tea. We are both early risers.
But now, we are all sitting on the ground, a big tray in front of us. We have cold water, dates, red lentil soup, grilled Turkish meatballs, and flatbread from the bakery across the street, but our glasses and plates are not yet filled. The call to prayer starts across the city, all the mosques in nearly perfect synchronization. I close my eyes and listen. There is no impatience here, only serenity.
