This Turkish Life:

How I Battled Eviction, Learned to Love Condi, and Stuck It to The Man… with a Little Help from Britney.

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A few years ago, I got into a heated debate with my Australian friend Tim while we were stuck in traffic on a Turkish bus. He insisted that, no matter what her politics may be, the appointment of Condoleeza Rice to Secretary of State had the potential to transform global prejudices about the place of women—and especially, black women—in international politics. I stubbornly disagreed with him, mostly because I was unwilling to make that leap: “no matter what her politics may be.” I’m pretty sure I bandied about some harsh words (“puppet” and “war monger” spring to mind).

A year later, Tim rolled through town on his way home from Budapest, and as we sipped our beers on a Beyoğlu rooftop, I conceded that he had been right. Like a true gentleman, he was gracious and declined his opportunity to gloat. For a foreign woman, negotiating with Turkish men feels a little bit like playing charades with a blind man. Rules are irrelevant. She waves her arms, he listening to her feet shuffle. Things go beyond futility, into the realm of absurdity and farce.

Over the past few months, I have been embroiled in a huge battle with my landlord and (somewhat reluctantly) find myself on the front lines of feminism. Needlesstosay, when Condi hit up Istanbul last month to negotiate with Prime Minister Erdoğan, I found myself whispering to the television…Condi, girl, I feel you. They say all politics is local and if that is true, then my story should hold some useful lessons for Secretary Rice, my apparent compatriot.

Piece of Me

In August my landlord, Mr. Gorgun, invited me upstairs for tea. We were just settling in to our normal bucolic routine, when Mr. Gorgun told me that he was tearing down the building and I had one month to move out. I should’ve just said, “Of course you are.” But instead, I was stunned and doe-eyed. I was locked into a self-delusory state of comfort and ease. Life in the neighborhood was good. Cihangir had imprinted itself in my mind as both the future and the past of Istanbul, and since moving here two years ago, I prided myself on how I managed to carve out a little space of my own.

I found a good tailor and a shoe repair guy. Local taxis took me on short runs, to places most drivers would refuse. My manicurist asked, “How is the book going?” and my neighbor held tickets for me at the symphony. I felt tapped in and connected to my neighborhood in a way that I never had before.

I comforted myself for the lack of genuine civic engagement (something I hardly went in for in my own country) by sometimes imagining that if a car finally managed to run me over, every butcher and baker and candlestick, eh, seller in the neighborhood could point to my apartment and say, “She lives there.” It isn’t quite as small a feat as it sounds. I thought, hey, who needs PTA meetings, or co-ops, or those horrible kick ball teams? We make time to socialize and be neighborly. Isn’t that what America is really craving when they buy more stuff and eat too much?

Oh, how the mighty will fall. I understood that Mr. Gorgun wanted to demolish the building to make six $1 million flats. He plied me with pity, “We are getting old, we need an elevator,” and I really, really wanted to believe him. But I considered the fate of my upstairs neighbor, Sami, who had it much worse than me. He lived in this building for nearly 20 years. He raised his daughter next door to the Gorgun’s two sons. He paid rent at a 1980’s rate and he could never afford to live in this neighborhood again, not even close. In fact, neither could I. In the ultimate irony, the gentrifier was being gentrified.

Six months after moving in: I finally buy a desk.

Mr. Gorgun said the building was scheduled for demolition and I suddenly recognized the glass of tea in my hand for what it was, a custom, not a gesture of good will. Likewise, I saw how my experience of Cihangir was not illusory, but to a certain extent, hollow. Cihangir delineates the differences between neighborhood and community. On a grander scale, it exemplifies the discontinuity between economic and social advancement in Turkey. Flats cost upwards of a million dollars, but meanwhile, landlords trample on legal transactions as simple as a lease. My lease was good until February, and there were no clauses that allowed Mr. Gorgun to kick me out, or as I’m sure he fantasized, to demolish the building while I was in it.

During Better Times: the Gorguns help me celebrate my birthday

When I went to see my neighbor Sami, he was demoralized and weak. He told a long-winded story about a famous lawyer who saved a Turkish village from demolition in the 1970’s. Then he mumbled something about “the people” and “revolución.” We decided to fight the power. Sami and I met with the only other tenant in the building, a young Turkish girl who taught English at a local college. We tried to convince her to stay with us and fight. But she was meek. She said, “I’ve discussed this with my father and we’ve decided that Mr. Gorgun is a very good man, so I will leave.” It was such a heartless response. Sami and I just looked at each other.

Break the Ice

Mr. Gorgun split the property and sold two of his four flats to a nearby engineer, who recently built two new buildings next door. Their plan is to demolish our four story building, shorten the tall ceilings, expand the property to the street, and build six condos with the bottom floor for mixed use. This building is not technically “historic,” but it does bear many of the trademarks of old Istanbul, hardwood floors, huge wood-framed windows, original brass hardware and big balconies. It also bears some of the less desirable hallmarks of Cihangir, most notably shoddy plumbing and scary electricity.

With Sami still in mind, I attempted to hold negotiations with Mr. Gorgun and the engineer. They offered to buy me out of the remaining four months of my lease. They also offered to help me leave by arranging movers, an added value of less than $100. During this meeting, my landlord was my de-facto translator and the whole thing descended into them talking to each other for and about me.

Each time I head into a negotiation, I remember my tough-as-nails grandfather. During the college years I would say, “Opa, I’ve decided to study writing.” Without blinking, he would reply, “Chemistry is an excellent career.” Not really the same thing at all, but then, he was never really listening. Negotiating with Turkish men is pretty much the same game: it’s all about signals and signifiers, tea, handshakes, candies and passive aggressive suggestions that go nowhere. My landlord says, “You can find many, many nice flats in Üsküdar. It is only a short ferry ride away!” Üsküdar? Are you kidding? So I say, “You can delay your project until February, or March, at the latest. Spring will be just around the corner!”

In My Bedroom: We had so much snow that winter!

Since it was my first negotiation with Mr. Gorgun, I wasn’t ready to take the gloves off yet. I didn’t want him or the engineer to know about the revolución until it was absolutely necessary. I batted my eyelashes and said, “The apartment has such nice light. I’d hate to leave,” politely declining their offer. Finally, Mr. Gorgun started to threaten me. He said that first they would rip off the roof of the building, then they would take away the windows. Eventually, they would reach my flat. Without so much as a blink, or trace of guile, he warned me, “It won’t be safe for you here.” He then added that it would be terribly expensive for me to hire a lawyer and I should give up. In a moment of uncommon clarity I looked him in the eye and said, “I have a lease, Mr. Gorgun. The law is on my side. I think you need to hire a lawyer.” We silently finished our tea.

The view of Akarsu Sokak, before Mr. Bicer's first project.

Meanwhile, I went back to the states for about a month and when I returned, I discovered that Sami had caved. They gave him a financial settlement far lower than the $25,000 he wanted. He nearly cried when he told me and I forgave him because I knew the symphony’s season was about to begin, and he was old, and he couldn’t afford a lawyer, and at the end of the day he could use the money to support his daughter. Tenant rights are strong in Turkey, but fighting landlords does require battling it out in court. Sami moved out of the neighborhood. The landlord and engineer forced Sami to swear that he would tell me he was given about half of the amount they actually gave him, which I then understood was the amount they wanted to give me.

Tea for Peace: Sami, Me, and our friend, Irmak in my flat

Sami and I listen to Mete, making another good point.

In another inconvenient blow, my roommate bailed. Mete was scared that things would get ugly and couldn’t bear the atmosphere of anger and pressure that was building around us. Mete wasn’t on the lease, and therefore, he had no vested interest in the negotiations. With all this trouble, he stood to gain nothing but an ulcer. Meanwhile, the engineer moved his construction workers into the flat underneath mine. He also affixed a sign to the front of the building, “Biçer Inşaat,” Biçer Construction. Although Biçer is the builder’s last name, it also happens to mean “reaper.” Suddenly it was my revolución. I was the only one left in the building, not counting the construction workers.

Arriving home to find a sign like this is Never a good thing.

Get Naked (I Got a Plan)

Mete and I calculated that if I delayed the project by only four months, the builder and my landlord would lose close to half a million dollars. Mete is extremely knowledgeable about real estate and based his opinion on their lost rent, as well as potentially losing their construction crew or paying them to sit around and wait. According to the law, I had every right to fight the eviction in court. Since my lease expired in February, the court case would undoubtedly extend into the summer, when the courts close for vacation. Theoretically, I could set this project back for a year or more. Confident of my position, I prepared to renegotiate.

Part of me was determined to get more money, and show that I was not the girl they thought I was, and another part of me was determined to prove that the rule of law could work, should work and was the key to democracy con capitalism. It got weird. I started thinking of myself as someone who had the means and power to stand for the rights of Turkish people. Actually not Turkish people… if I’m honest with myself, I felt that I had the means and power to stand for democratic people. I kept thinking about how swiftly and seamlessly Mr. Gorgun could serve a glass of tea and then stab someone in the back.

The ExPat's concept of "furniture" leaves some room for improvement...

I then did what any normal American would do in this situation—I hired a lawyer, a really good, really expensive lawyer. I decided not to bring the lawyer to the second round of negotiations (keeping another option in my back pocket), but I did bring a translator. I asked Mete’s sister, Yasemin, who just moved back from New York, to come with me. Although many of my male Turkish friends offered to come along, I declined. Negotiation is seen as the purview of men in this country and I was afraid that even if I brought along a man I trusted, he might end up arguing against my wishes, allowing himself to be swayed in some inevitable brotherly, abi-to-abi exchange. I wanted them to look me in the eyes.

Heaven On Earth

We met in my landlord’s empty apartment. Mr. Gorgun and the engineer, Mr. Biçer, had set up four chairs, one of which was behind a desk awkwardly placed in the middle of the room and seeming to serve the sole purpose of this negotiation. They offered me another figure. I told Yasemin to tell them I wanted four times as much. At first they laughed, but that was momentary. They spun into a tornado of indignation and rage. Yasemin was translating at a rapid fire pace. The engineer and Mr. Gorgun were both spewing words. I understood much of what was said, but not everything. The engineer managed 30 sentences all using the word “ayup,” which of course translates to “shame.”

They both insisted that my proposal was an insult to them. They repeated this message. And despite all the lies they told, I did believe this was true. But not for the reasons they suggested. They were insulted mostly because I am a woman and a foreign one, at that. It turns out that the teacher girl, who Sami and I had tried to convince to stay in the building, left for a settlement of 400 lira. Mr. Biçer slammed his fists on the desk... conveniently placed in front of him.

I said, if my request is an insult to you, then give me another offer. Mr. Gorgun went into a tailspin of personal insults and accusations. He launched into a rampage about my roommate, Mete, who had angrily slammed a door the day before. He had no idea that Yasemin, my translator, was Mete’s sister. He embarrassed himself by saying that if he ever saw Mete in the street, that he would beat him up. Mr. Gorgun insisted that Mete move out by the next day, that due to my impertinence, I was no longer allowed to have a roommate. I said, “No problem.” Of course, Mete was already planning to leave in the morning. This made Mr. Gorgun burn with shock and disbelief, “What?! You would just throw your comrade out into the streets like that? In one day?” “Yes,” I replied.

Mete: our erstwhile Business Consultant.

I looked a lot more cool and calm than I was. I tried to channel the advice of my most business-minded male friends who all told me, “Emily, it’s not personal, it’s business. You have something they want. It makes sense for you to negotiate.” Mr. Gorgun’s wife eventually brought us all glasses of tea, but I just held mine in my lap, so that they wouldn’t see my hands shaking.

Mete moves out.

Hot As Ice

Following our failed negotiations, Mr. Gorgun turned off my heat. The construction workers downstairs started to make as much noise as possible, and for the next few weeks, it seemed like they were walking in circles, yelling nonsense to each other, and slamming doors for fun. Once, at 6am, they turned the television on to full blast, a volume loud enough to wake the neighbors. I responded to their loud voices and scare tactics by walking around the apartment exclusively in heels. After Britney’s new album came out, I played it at full blast, day and night, with my speakers laying flat on the floor.

A few weeks later, my lawyer filed a legal response to their letter and then made a house call to see what was going on in the building. She seemed scared; just as I was showing her out of the apartment, some man was uselessly banging on a rusty metal wall next to the windows in the stairwell. A piece of metal went loose and broke the window. Glass and metal was falling around the building and my lawyer told me, “You should move out. I’ll call them to see what they want.”

Anonymous Revelers at my house: Letting the Party get the Best of Them

Not surprisingly, Mr. Biçer and Mr. Gorgun stuck by their original offer. Mr. Biçer said that if I declined the offer, he would renovate the flat above mine and rent it out, “Causing significant noise and inconvenience to you.” I knew he was bluffing, no engineer gets into a deal like this to renovate a flat. But it had been a very cold month and my lawyers suggested that I accept the amount. By this time I was in too deep to back out, I had paid the lawyers, covered the rent on my own for a month, and I was angry. Really angry. I counter-offered 30% more. They refused.

Freakshow

I stopped by the lawyer’s office a week later and had a brief conversation with a nice, young guy, one of the lawyers, who questioned me, “They’ve refused to give 30% more, what would you like to respond to their offer?” I went on a tangent, “They are bluffing. Their proposal to renovate the flat is a complete lie!” He said, “Maybe they will renovate. Maybe it’s not a lie.” I angrily barked back, “They’re lying. They think I’m just some girl they can push around. And they are wrong! So what if I don’t get the money? I never had it in the first place, so I have nothing to lose. They have everything to lose. You know what? F*&^% them!”

My colorful language seemed to paint a picture for the guy. He said, “I get you now.” Which in my mind of course translated to, “You are a crazy American girl.” Good, I thought, we finally understand each other.

The Hallway of the Building, Pre-Bicer.

Post Bicer: the New Face of Cihangir and the Broken stairwell window.

In mid-November, Mr. Biçer agreed to my October offer. And without my knowledge, my lawyers accepted. After spending weeks in a freezing apartment, listening to construction workers come and go, I was furious. I made that offer in October, I told them, before I paid rent and shelled out money for my utilities. By letting a month pass before accepting, the engineer had essentially lowered his offer. I wanted 10% more.

In a surprising turn, my lawyers dumped me. They thought it was unethical to renegotiate after accepting the previous offer on my behalf. In an angry email to the head of the law firm, I explained that we are not negotiating for an object; my offer was obviously time-sensitive. I threatened not to pay. In his reply, Mr. Yazici said, “We recommend that you either accept Mr. Biçer’s offer, or continue to negotiate without our help.” He twice mentioned that the firm admired my negotiation skills, though clearly, the firm also seemed to think I was pushing my luck.

Toy Soldier

Condoleeza Rice’s visit to Turkey was followed by Erdoğan making a visit to Washington, D.C. to speak to President Bush directly. Which figures. In the end, Rice and Bush share the same agenda, but I can imagine that Erdoğan was hoping for a more brotherly conversation with the President. I feel sorry for Condi, who jets all the way around the world to have constant conversations with men who undoubtedly send her away with the message, “Let us know when the President himself is available.”
Likewise, I realized that my negotiations finally required a man to seal the deal. I asked Murat to call Mr. Biçer and tell him I wanted 10% more. Murat works in a traditional industry, and for that reason, he can play a Turkish Turk better than any of my other friends. I knew he could manage the strange combination of machismo and man-on-the-street flattery that was necessary to convince Mr. Biçer.

In the end, I got the amount I wanted. I won. And there it is, the second sentence in the forth paragraph, in the fifth section of a very long story, which is pretty much how it felt, after too many cold months and sleepless nights. Murat came with me a week later when I met with Mr. Biçer at the notary. Somehow, after all my bold negotiations, I didn’t have the nerve to count the money in the guy’s face. I also didn’t have the nerve to carry it around.

Afterward, Mr. Biçer and Murat and I had a very awkward glass of tea to celebrate. I played with my cell phone while Murat engaged in all the requisite “geyik” (chit chat) with the engineer. In a predictably Turkish moment, Mr. Biçer told Murat, “Abi, if there’s anything we can do to help, please let us know.” Under my breath I said, “Yeah, you can turn on the f-ing heat.” Then I realized I would like some heat, and asked him to turn it on. Mr. Biçer chuckled a little, touched my hand and said, “Tamım, canım, tamım.” (Ok, sweety, ok.)

Why Should I Be Sad?

Turkey is in an unusual economic and geo-political position, in which it seems to be getting a little too big for its britches. The situation with the Kurds is a perfect case-in-point. When they finally convened in D.C., I’m sure President Bush didn’t fail to mention NATO, and the obligations therein, to Mr. Erdogan. Turkey cannot push out Incirlik Air Force Base without facing huge ramifications. By the same token, my little pashas, Mr. Biçer and Mr. Gorgun, were riding pretty high until I dug in, reminded them of my lease, and basically called their bluff.

During these months, I drank a dozen glasses of tea, each time perceiving them in a different way. Sometimes the tea seemed superfluous, sometimes grand, sometimes it was a mark of solidarity, and sometimes I was sure it was a passive aggressive swipe at my Americanism. On that final day, after the deal was done, our tea glasses stood there between us like a small tribute to the little that was left of our civility. In a sense, Mr. Biçer was only following tradition when he offered, “If there’s anything we can do…” But he honored his promise, and since that moment, my apartment has never been warmer.

My first roommate, Staton, assembling our stove.

Turkish businessmen may not follow the law, per se, but they are irreversibly traditional, and within that tradition, there is some space for appeal. I learned that there is a time and a place for customs. My hope is that I twisted, pushed at, and ultimately, conformed to their male dominated world in just the right order to come out ahead. I played rough, like they did, using the law when it was useful to me, but I didn’t insist upon it, or take them to court. I accepted their tea, but didn’t always drink it.

Gimme More

Ultimately, I can’t claim any stake on the world of Turks, men, or negotiation. Americans and women don’t belong here, and ironically, I won because I am an American woman. If a Turkish guy had been in my situation, they would have followed him into a dark alley, and reverted to that familiar Hobbesian rule of law, which is no law. My femininity forced these men to act (mostly) within the confines of the law. They yelled, they slammed, and they hammered the building around me, and I certainly felt ill at ease a lot of the time. But ultimately, my gender was both power and protection.

So Tim was right. In fact, he was more than right. Women in politics, in power, have the opportunity to exert pressure and demand action in a way that is unique to them. My landlord, and his partner, “Mr. Reaper,” were taken by a woman. I’m sure this came as a shock to them. I took more than 500% of their first offer.

As you may know, they gave me more than enough money to start a new life. And I’ve decided that Washington, D.C. might be the right place for me. I’ll be in the city January 3. If you happen to meet my new landlord, don’t tell him this story.

After, finally, settling with Mr. Bicer and the landlord.



NOTE TO LOCALS:


WE'RE HELPING THEM TEAR DOWN THE HOUSE...

TONIGHT, THURSDAY, IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO SPRAYPAINT...

CALL OR MESSAGE ME FOR INVITE.