Those who are new to Turkey will notice the deference given to elders here. They are impressed with how much they are respected and seats are given to them on buses. ISTANBUL (Today's Zaman), June 1, 2008:
Alongside other long-time residents of our area we have watched the children on the streets near our house grow up, seen businesses come and go, celebrated milestones and comforted each other in times of loss. And, at some point over the last 10 years, unnoticed by me, I crossed a turning point in age in the minds of the neighborhood teenagers. I’m still addressed as abla, or elder sister, but something has changed along the way. Just a couple years ago, when the teens would drop by for holiday visits we all simply kissed each other on both cheeks, as is the norm. Now they feel obligated to kiss my hand in greeting. It’s a very nice gesture, but one I am used to giving to my own elders, and not receiving myself. It makes me wonder just where the cutoff line is for aging in Turkish culture, and when did I cross it?
My father used to come and visit Turkey every year, with each visit becoming longer until he was coming for a month every year. He loved being able to exercise his gallant side and kiss women’s hands, not knowing that this was, in fact, a sign of respect and not taken as another of his mild flirtations.
He noticed right away that elders are valued in Turkish culture, and that may have been why he loved coming here. In many other countries the elderly are overlooked, ignored or pushed aside, deemed to have passed their usefulness. In Turkey they are still a part of everyday life and their opinions are often sought after and valued.
My mother, who has started coming to visit every year, also notices and appreciates the deference given to elders in Turkey. She was impressed that seats were immediately given up to her on buses and minibuses. When she lived in Washington, D.C., no one ever offered her their seat on public transportation. She also likes the way hands are kissed, reminiscent of a vanishing part of the Mexican culture that we grew up with in South Texas.
Since I am now considered a permanent member of the neighborhood, the regulars no longer look at me as a foreigner living in their midst, but rather, they tend to view me as just another of the colorful characters who belong here, albeit one who speaks very poor Turkish at best. However, it is still disconcerting to me to find that I am now considered to be one of the elders of the area by the same children who I played football in the street with just a few years ago.
It makes me wonder when they will start offering to carry my packages, considering me to be too old to manage on my own as I stagger home weighted down with bags from shopping at the local green grocer.
One of my son’s classmates, always curious about me, once approached me at a local café and asked me just how old I was. His mother, slightly embarrassed, yet obviously curious too, apologized for his question. Laughing it off, I told her that I was, in fact, 50 years old. Shocked to discover that I was the same age as her own mother, she said: “But you are so young and active for someone that old! You work every day and are always out doing things. My own mother stays home, saying she is too tired to go out and do very much. She and her friends visit each other and talk about their aches and pains.”
Her comment made me wonder if there is a turning point in Turkish culture that defines middle and old age. If so, did her own mother cross that line and decide it was time to stay home, acting her age, as it were. I too have the usual aches from time to time, but I tend to ignore them and take care of what needs to be done. My own mother, in her mid-70s, just recently retired and is now busy taking history and language classes, as well as attending exercise and tennis courses at the local community center. I certainly don’t think of her as old.
As for me, I’m actually looking forward to aging gracefully. And I’m hoping that I will still receive respect from the younger generations in our area. Becoming one of the ones whose hand is kissed is a sort of rite of passage for me as I realize that to the younger circle of neighbors I am now moving into the realm of the elders. My youth is not gone by any stretch of the imagination, at least in my eyes, but this simple sign of respect shows that even in old age people are appreciated and cherished throughout Turkey. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing to grow older here.
By Kathy Hamilton, Istanbul
Copyright© Feza Newspaper Publishing Co.
