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Writer's pictureAmi Ji Schmid

Two People Walk into a Turkish Sweet Shop...

"Two people walk into a Turkish sweet shop" sounds like the beginning of a joke, right? Maybe just reading the title has changed your mood. Maybe, right now, you are leaning in, ears perked, eyes wide, heart a flutter in anticipation. Maybe knowing (or at least thinking) there is a joke coming has set up an expectation that the story about to unfold will lead to a great punchline... to spontaneous laughter, to feeling surprised and joyful, to the opportunity to (at the very least) step out of the ordinary, and (at the very most) feel freer, lighter... expanded.


Sometimes we feel expanded by stepping through the top portal of our *egg, through "ha-ha" moments or "ah-ha" moments... through an ascension that leads to feeling connected and grateful. Sometimes we get to feeling and being expanded by stepping through the bottom portal, the "dark night of the soul," the portal that breaks your heart open and ultimately, leads to more love, to a deeper and wider level of understanding and compassion. Some people only want to expand through the ascension. I have been through the Dark Night of the Soul. I am unafraid of walking through heartbreak. I know that either way, through laughter or tears, on the other side there is more.


*egg


When I expand, I feel more spacious... more connected to all parts that make up my whole self, to all parts that make up your whole self, to all of Nature, to all of time and space, to beyond time and space, to "Source" (to make this word more personally relevant, please fill-in whatever word or phrase is most meaningful to you). For me, the process of expanding includes surrender, acceptance, and gratitude. When I drop into a more expansive state of being, I feel a sense of calm and peace. I feel connected and immersed in compassion and the largest sense of love... "BIG Love" (as my meditation sister Susan calls it). When I step through the ascension or through the dark night of the soul, the field I step into is beyond boundaries and feels deeply sweet.


This story does not have a funny punchline, though it does lead to sweetness. I also hope that this story's ending is not an ending. I hope the ending will be a beginning.


Nurullah and I met in İznik. I had been stopping into the restaurant where he worked to eat meat soup and say hello. We had been texting and getting to know each other. We had been trying to figure out when we could spend real-life, in-person time together to talk more deeply. Finally, we set a day and time to meet.


We planned to meet at the clock in the center of town by the mosque where Fusun had met me when I first arrived in İznik. I was running late. I texted Nurullah, "I am still walking," and sent a video of where I was (not quite to the border of the downtown area).



At the same time, Nurullah was texting me, asking, "Where are you," and sending a video of where he was. The restaurant on the corner with the big orange "Y" in a circle is where Nurullah works.


We continued to walk toward each other, sending videos along the way.


First me...

...then Nurullah...


Me...

...then Nurullah...



Me...

...then Nurullah was standing in front of me!


Two people (Nurullah and I) walked into a Turkish sweet shop. We sat down with a couple of cups of Linden tea and a chocolate pudding-like dessert and (with the help of Ms. Google Translate) we talked. In the USA it was Thanksgiving. In İznik, Türkiye, it was about to be Halloween.


I spoke into my phone (so Ms. Google T could graciously translate my spoken English to Turkish text). "I would like to ask you about difficult things," I said, "You do not have to answer anything you do not want to answer. You can tell me anytime if you want to change the subject." Nurullah read Ms. Google T's Turkish version of my words, looked at me, and nodded. I continued. "I would like to talk with you about the earthquake, your parents death, and how you are doing. I do not know if you get to talk about these things with anyone. I am wondering if you would like to." Nurulla read my words, looked at me, and slowly nodded. His expression was so deep, like he was thinking: Yes, I would. It is all so much. And I do not get to talk with anyone about it. And I would like to, even though it is so, so sad. I imagined the intent of his nod, felt his depth, and started to tear up. He saw this and his expression changed to one of concern, almost horror. I quickly spoke to Ms. Google T:"I will cry and it is ok." Nurullah read my words, took my phone, switched Ms. Google T to translate from spoken Turkish to English text and said, "I do not want you to cry. If you cry, I will not talk about this." I looked at his words. I looked at him. I took the phone. "These are tears of love." He read the words and looked at me. Then he nodded and said, "Ok."


You may have noticed (just now or even generally, before now) that I talk about talking. I find that this is especially important to do when about to enter tender topics such as death and grieving. There is so much to Grief, so many layers, so many different ways of thinking and feeling. It is a huge minefield. The steps it takes to walk through it need to be finely nuanced. One must test the ground before each step, be ready for an explosion that releases bits and pieces of debris, allow time to feel and settle, and hold space for the pieces to naturally come together and emerge into some semblance of what usually looks and feels to me like love.


Me: Were you living with your parents when the earthquake happened, when they died?

Nurullah: Yes. I was not there that night though. I was away.

Me: So, you were not in the earthquake? And you found out your parents died in it?

Nurullah: Yes.

Me: How was that for you?

Nurullah: I do not get along with my family. I did not want to be there. That is why I was away. I did not like them. When they died though, I was devastated.

Me: Those mixed emotions makes so much sense. I understand.

Long pause.

Me: Do you feel guilty?

Nurullah: Yes. I wish I had been there and died with them.

Me: Ah. (Pause).

Me: That is a common thing to think and feel. So common, there is a name for it. It is called "survivor's guilt."

Nurullah: (looked at me, jaw a bit dropped, and made a sound to the effect of) huh.

Me: Even though it is normal for people to feel that, I am so glad you were not there.

Nurullah: (Slight smile)

Me: You know how devastated you feel about your parents dying?

Nurullah: (nodding)

Me: You are not the only person in your family who felt and probably still feels devastated. If you had died too, they would be even more devastated.

Nurullah: (nodding slowly)

Me: It is hard enough that your parents died. You are so young; it would have been so much harder for everyone to deal with you dying.

Nurullah: (firmly nodding once, like: That is true)

Me: And I am so happy you are here right now, because I love you.

Nurullah: (smiling, teary)

Me: I want to honor your mother being your mother, and I also wonder if she would be ok with me being your mother now.

Nurullah: She is happy to hear you say this. (smiling quite broadly now)

Me: (hand to the sky, to his mother)

Nurullah: (high five to my hand)

Me: (laughing)

Nurullah: (laughing, realizing the miscommunication... that my hand was for her, not him)


Nurullah took my hand and took a picture of me.

Later, when I asked Nurullah to send me the pictures we had taken on his phone of the two of us, and learned that he had sold his phone and lost all of his pictures, he said that this picture (above) was the only one he was able to save.


So, I have another son. My new (nineteen-year-old) son Nurullah is two years younger than my (twenty-one-year-old) grandchild Ash and thirteen years younger than my son Michael. Time is weird. It makes some sort of warped sense to me that I should have another child to care for now, because my children were all eleven years apart and the next one has been a bit overdue. The question I am asking myself now is, how do I support this one? First, I wanted to know what his current support system is like.


Me: How do you get along with the rest of your family? Are you able to talk with them?

Nurullah: I live with my uncle. I give him my money. He treats me like an extra.

Me: I do not know your uncle. I do not know what you have tried. Have you tried telling him how you feel.

Nurulla: He is unkind and he is a bigot. He uses bad words and acts violently. I cannot talk with him. All of my family is like this. I want to leave. I want to live and work abroad.

Me: Where do you want to move?

Nurulla: America or Germany.

Me: I have met plenty of young men from Turkey who have not been able to get a visa to the US. I have met young men who have been able to get a visa to Germany, though. You probably have a better shot getting to Germany.

Nurullah: I want to go (to Germany) but I cannot find a job.

Me: What kind of work do you want to do?

Nurullah: I want to work in the food industry, because that is what I know how to do and what I am good at. But I do not know the language so I have been looking for factory work.

Me: I will try to help you.


I asked about extended family and friends. I asked about moving to a different area of Turkey. I asked a lot of questions. Nurullah's answers have been the same as other young Turkish men's answers during similar conversations. All answers lead to wanting to move out of Turkey. "I want to move out of Turkey. I want a job in (America, Germany, etc.). The economy is bad. The politics are bad." I hear these statements a lot.


I talked with Fusun about Nurullah's situation. She told me that even a visa to Germany has become near impossible, especially for young, unskilled Turkish men. She told me that on top of that, there is an extra tax that German employers must now pay when they hire a Turkish employee, and so, they are reluctant to hire Turkish citizens. I have not said this to Nurullah. He is so depleted, frustrated, almost despondent. He has talked about not wanting to be alive on more than one occasion. He is impatient and wants me to find him a job in Germany NOW. My skill is more along the line of helping people change from the inside. I am not sure I can help Nurullah find what he is looking for. Still, I want to help him.


At some point, the conversation in the sweet shop changed to American holidays. "Today is Thanksgiving," I said, "It's when people get together and eat too much." I laughed. Nurullah laughed. He said, "I am most interested in your Halloween." I explained how Halloween is housed between other holidays having to do with remembering and honoring the dead, and how current Halloween traditions have come from different religious and spiritual beliefs and practices. I explained how currently, kids dress up and trick-or-treat for candy. "I like wearing costumes," Nurullah said, "I would like to wear a spiderman or batman costume." OMGoddes, I thought, this kid (who is taller than me) is so cute. "At your age," I said, "you would not be able to go trick-or-treating around the neighborhood for candy. That is for small children." Nurullah looked a bit like a sad puppy, head hung. "You could go to an adult costume party, though" I said. He looked up and smiled.


The next day, I walked into town, into a shop with bins of candy, scooped a few different kinds of candy into bags, paid for them, and mixed the various candies into one bag. I stuffed the bulky bag into my jacket pocket so that it was hidden, walked to the restaurant where Nurullah was working, asked for him, and sat down at a table with a glass of Turkish chai. Nurullah came to the table, I stood, and we hugged. "Use your imagination and become yourself as a small boy," I said (via Ms. Google T). I waited a beat for him to get there."Now, imagine you are in a spiderman or batman costume." I waited another beat. "Now," I said, "Say to me: Trick-or-Treat!" He slightly scrunched his face, like he was confused or maybe doubtful. "Say Trick-or-Treat to me," I repeated. He looked into my eyes and obediently repeated my words. "Trick or Treat," he said. Then I pulled out the bag of candy, handed it to him, and said, "Happy Halloween!"


I am not suggesting that candy or my action did anything significantly helpful. What it hopefully did though, was to fertilize the ground of our relationship. Now, when Nurullah tells me how he worked every day for a week for 15 hours a day and sends me a picture of himself with dark areas under his eyes... and sends a screenshot of his debt and relays how he sold his (better) phone (and is now using an old iPhone) and still cannot pay down his debt because his uncle tracks his money and insists on taking all of it, and how the banks call to harass him every day... how he sees no way out, is tired of life, and is thinking of suicide... I can say, "Lack of sleep can cause depression. Your circumstances are not good right now. Lack of sleep makes them seem even bigger and makes you unable to see that problems are temporary." When he loops through the stories that bring him deeper and deeper into feeling desperate, I can now say, "Listen to me. Stop talking. Go to sleep right now. We will talk more when you are rested." And now, he says, "Ok, Mom. I am going to sleep now." And the next day he texts, "Good morning, Mommy."


I am still trying to figure out how to help. Maybe you have an idea?




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