Today’s Zaman, Turkey
Aug 26 2007
Am I a space chicken?
by AYSE KARABAT
Sometimes I get a strange feeling and I ask myself, am I a space
chicken? When I am outside of Ankara, this feeling gets stronger,
especially after reading the newspapers or listening to the news on
the TV or radio. All these (according to me) nonsense discussions
about risottos, allegedly mafia-linked models, lists of converted
Armenians or claims about the origins of Alevis or Kurds — make me
feel like that.
When I am in Ankara and after reading these kinds of stories, since I
have to write about them I don’t let this feeling of being a space
chicken get hold of me. But outside of Ankara, especially when I am
in holiday, it comes and does not leave me at all.
Since my childhood my mother has claimed that she must have found me
on the doorstep, because it is impossible for her to have given birth
to a daughter who is extremely untidy, the opposite of her. But
anyway, I asked her if I am a space chicken. She answered me with
another question; do space chickens oppose everything? If that is the
case, yes you might be one of them.
My father, who is Kurdish, told me that he is not sure about
anything, especially after the claims of Turkish Historical Society
(TTK) Chairman Yusuf Halaçoðlu. My father told me: `Since I have
known myself I have been Kurdish, I speak Kurdish, I live like a
Muslim Kurd. But if a so-called scientist is claming that maybe I am
not what I am, you might be a space chicken too.’ He added: `It is
not important what the DNA of people says. A person thinks what they
do about themselves and lives accordingly. So if you feel like a
space chicken and if you think that you are one, then you are a space
chicken.’
My father’s answer made me think even more. Halaçoðlu claims that he
has the list of those converted people. He also says that some of
them are not sincere. Then I asked myself if this list had ever been
used by the state to discriminate against its own citizens. Why there
is a list like that? If that is the case, since I cannot understand
it, I accept that I must be a space chicken.
Another story, the 1915 events related to the Ottoman Armenians, is
on the agenda again. So far the only argument from Turkey has been to
hold a meeting among historians in order to find out what really
happened. But will we do that with the historians who are keeping
strange lists? If that is the case, I want to cluck.
Then there is another story; did the prime minister say that those
who do not accept the presidency of Abdullah Gül should leave the
country? The same old story; leave it or love it. But on the other
hand, the writer who was allegedly the subject of these words wrote
that those who voted for the Justice and Development Party (AK Party)
were just the men who scratch their big bellies. I am not a man and
my belly is big, but not that big, although I voted for the AK Party.
So if that is the case, I must be a space chicken. Plus I never like
the idea of love it or leave it, even in my personal relations. The
logic behind this sentence is incomprehensible to me, so I probably
do not belong to this world. I believe in trying to understand the
other party via dialogue and respect while maintaining one’s own
values.
Now we come to risotto stories. It has been in all the newspapers for
weeks. At an official dinner the interior minister was served risotto
that had been prepared using alcohol. The stories clam that the
minister — who did not know that the food contained alcohol — was
upset and removed from his post the governor who had arranged the
dinner. Until now it has been unclear if this was really the case.
But to make this story a regime discussion makes me feel that I am a
space chicken, because for me whoever it is, if someone is that
careful about they eat they should ask what is in their food — and
it is the duty of the host to explain what is in the dishes they
serve. It is just a matter of a simple courtesy question, not one of
revenge, war or regime.
The other stories about the allegedly mafia-linked model, sent to
prison and playing volleyball or wearing an old style of shorts, do
not keep me busy. They make me feel that I just want to fly away, but
my wings are not able to do that.
I have another concern, that if I go on like this then one day I will
find myself in a pot, being boiled to be served with risotto, but
even under these conditions I am sure that as a space chicken I will
tell those cooking me: `Look, this is wrong. We can talk and try to
understand each other.’ Most probably the answer will be, `Love it,
because it is too late to leave it.’
Yes, I think I am a space chicken.
26.08.2007