Tag Archives: mother

I Am Switzerland

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It has come to my attention that my sisters in law are constantly in-fighting and I, being the newest addition to the clan, am Switzerland, always trying to broker peace between the warring parties (which is incredibly difficult to do when you do not speak Turkish).

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The battle is a 2 on 1 and every time I walk into anyone’s home I get a rundown of the most recent wrong that had been brought to pass.

Since Vito’s son’s return from the army Vito’s wife (The Onion) has been popping in with plates of food or inviting me down for cay or kahve.  This is a complete turnaround from her behaviour over the past 9 months and I put it down to me making that effort to attend at her son’s welcome home party.  As the cold war has been defrosted slightly I have decided to take this change of attitude in my stride and establish my role in this family as a NATO peacekeeper (which will be an incredibly difficult task believe me).

My first assignment as official conciliator took place on Sunday night.  Songul invited the family over for mangal (BBQ(.  Let me explain – Songul invited this family (The Turk, Daughter and I) and the upstairs sister in law and her family.  This also means that The Onion was and her family were NOT invited.  I suggested that we invite The Onion to dinner but I was shot down.  I explained with my limited vocabulary that it would be the right thing to do and, when this did not work, I said that if she invited The Onion and she said no then Songul was the bigger person and looked like she had made an effort.  Her eyes lit up at the thought of having one up on The Onion but still pride got the better of her so I took the initiative and sent Daughter down with an invite anyway.  The Onion did, as expected, say no to the invite which, of course, made Songul exceptionally happy.

I do understand there are hurt feelings on all sides, I really do, but I also would not want to go through life with such anger towards another person.  The Onion was, of course, incredibly angry at The Turk’s mother for butting in her intended marriage (you can read more about that incident here) and yes I can sympathize with the other sisters having such acrimony with The Onion’s behaviour over the past years.  I just wonder if it isn’t time to bury the hatchet, put aside any old grudge and just get on with it.

Incidentally last night The Onion and her son (who I have decided for the future to call Capt. Awesome) came to our house for drinks and nibblies while Songul was over.  Yep, this has never happened before either.  I am definitely Switzerland.

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My Turkish Auntie Muriel

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My mother in law had two sisters, both older than her and sadly the eldest sister passed away last Saturday afternoon.  It was expected in this case as she had been floundering for some time.  On each visit I could see she was becoming weaker and it seems that she had not been eating at all.  She was surrounded by her family and I imagine now she is with her sister watching over everyone while drinking cay and gossiping.

Again because I did not know her name (and I am quite embarrassed to say this) I called her Auntie Muriel.  In fact I call both sisters Auntie Muriel because they looked so similar.  Now both Daughter and The Turk call them Auntie Muriel too which is a little sad but I think as long as they are in their thoughts that is all that should matter isn’t it?  Perhaps not.

This time around I was prepared for the grief that was to follow.  It was still overwhelming but perhaps I was slightly removed or hardened to the reactions that followed.

I also paid more attention to the ritual of prayer which is fascinating.  I had The Turk translate a lot of what happened so forgive me if this is not spot on and other pieces I had to Google for correction.

When someone passes away in the Village they are returned to their home where the grieving family arrive to help bath and prepare the body for the afterlife.  Auntie Muriel was covered in a white cotton sheet called a kafan and everyone had an opportunity to say their goodbyes.  The Imam arrived and started the prayer Allahu Akbar (Allah is greatest).  He then proceeded to recite verses from the Koran.  I started to get lost at this point as it is all in Arabic.  The Turk (who is certainly not a religious scholar) said that the Imam did the Thana and Fatiha verses followed by part of the Tashahud verse.  He offered his D’ua which is a supplication followed by the fourth tekbir before it was concluded with a peace greeting.*

As expected Auntie Muriel was then taken by the men of the family to the cemetery for burial while the women waited back at the house.  On Sunday morning we travelled to the cemetery for another service by the Imam.

Like the call to prayer that drifts over the village 5 times a day the ceremony itself is very peaceful and beautiful to bare witness to.  Of course I do not have a great understanding of the religious aspect however it does not mean that did not appreciate the sentiment during the ceremony.  Auntie Muriel was a sweet little lady and like my mother in law she was definitely loved and respected as again there were hundreds who attended both at the house and at the cemetery for service.  Sadly I do not have a photo of Auntie Muriel on my computer but I do have a few in an old album somewhere.  I will definitely have to have a look for one so I will put up another of my favourite photos of my mother in law.  This photo was taken on New Years Eve – just a day before she passed away.

 

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I sat with the final Auntie Muriel yesterday and held her hand for some time.  She talks constantly to me and although I probably know 1 in 10 words I always smile and kiss her hand when I sit by her.  In all my years of visiting her I have yet to hear her raise her voice.  She knew how much my mother in law loved me and for this reason she is so kind, knowing that I have pretty much no clue what is going on, but she always ensures that I sit next to her as pride of place.

She is the only sister left now.

*This information was provided by my memory along with The Turk’s knowledge.  Anything posted today is posted with the utmost respect to Islam and its ceremonies. I appreciate your opinion and advice however I ask that you respect me if you feel the need to leave a post.

40 days

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Yesterday marked 40 days since the death of my mother in law.  Another tough couple of days with tears flowing freely for Refika.  She was truly a remarkable woman and loved by so many people.

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Having never attended a Turkish funeral I really had no idea what was going to happen and due to the speed in which a funeral happens here (same day) I did not even have time to gather my thoughts or ask what to expect.

Refika had been feeling under the weather for some time.  She had had heart surgery 2 years earlier however the surgery was not a success and she had never really recovered.  She was still her welcoming and wonderful self to us when we arrived although it was obvious that she was not doing as well as she could have been.  Her death, however, was a complete shock.  I certainly did not anticipate it and when The Turk received a call from the hospital at 5 am requesting that the family attend I knew, as did he, that it was not going to be good news.

By 7 am two trucks arrived with chairs, apparently this funeral was going to be attended by hundreds of aile (family) and also her many friends that she had made over the years.  I am not exaggerating when I say there was over 400 chairs delivered and set up on the street.  A portable morgue, of sorts, was then delivered and set up in the driveway.  I was told that this was where Refika would be washed by a hodja (female washer) and prepared for her journey to paradise.

At this point I started to freak out a little as people were arriving in their droves and clearly I had no idea what was going on or what was expected of me.  Those who know me know that I am not really one to show emotion but the crying, nay wailing, that had already begun was the most awful thing I think I had ever heard in my life.  Of course I had been to funerals before.  My beloved parents, extended family members and also to support my friends in their time of grief.  I have not, however, been to anything like this.

When Refika was brought home absolute bedlam broke out.  There was a lot of screaming and wailing, a lot of tears.  The grief was almost too much for me to bear and I tried to keep out of everyone’s way but before I knew it Daughter and I were brought into the portable morgue to say goodbye.  Daughter was distraught – although I let her come to my father’s funeral two years ago that was a western funeral and quite sedate in comparison – in my mind I kept wishing she had gone to school that morning as her cousins had done to protect her from the emotion and grief.

After Refika had been washed and prepared for burial the imam (leader of Islamic community) arrived and gave a prayer.  The men then took her body and placed it in a casket where it was then settled onto the back of a truck and taken to the mezarlik (cemetery) for burial.  Interestingly women are not invited to attend at the burial.  They will attend the next morning to pay their respect.

There was a constant stream of family members attending over the next seven days.  From early morning through late in the evening there was visitors coming to pay their respects.  The mourning areas were separated – one for the men and one for the ladies.  This annoyed me as the men got to sit in the sunshine while us ladies were segregated to the rear of the property in the shade (and you wonder why people kept getting sick).  Cay was constantly being served and meals were delivered by neighbours for next seven days which is the first part of the mourning period.  By this stage I began to hide as between the tears and the stress of attending on a daily basis was beginning to take its toll on me.

On the seventh day the iman re-attended at our home and gave another prayer for Refika.  This was also the day that a sheep was sacrificed and meals were prepared for all of our neighbours and fellow mourners.  This now marked the end of the official seven days of mourning.

The next date of commemoration will be the 52nd day although again I am unsure exactly what this will entail.

I am glad that we were in Turkey before Refika passed away.  I am glad that Daughter spent at least some time every day with her.  I am glad that The Turk was able to be with her in the end and I am glad that I had met and loved this wonderful women.  She will be missed by me and missed by anyone who ever met her.

Başiniz sağ olsun (Let health be on your head)

Realisation

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I came to the realisation yesterday that I have been excessively blogging as a means of ignoring my feelings.  The time that I have spent sitting at the computer (mid-morning after breakfast and prior to Daughter returning home from school) is the time that I would usually sit with my mother in law in the sunshine enjoying a cup of cay.  So here I am trying to fill this void with typing (as I am doing right now at 10.29 am).

So today I am going to walk away from the computer and perhaps have a little time to examine my feelings.  I understand the finalisation of death although I still wait for Refika to call me downstairs.  I think it is more that I loved my mother in law as an akadas (friend) as well as a motherly figure (and the fact that I had watched her smack The Turk with a stick when he pissed her off).  Her and her little gaggle of friends welcomed me into their lives and she accepted me as her daughter not her daughter in law.  Sure I was a yabanci (foreigner) but Refika always included me in her day whether it was teaching me to cook the Turkish way, visiting her sisters for a good gossip session or merely watching her favourite shows on television.

Looking out my window I can see it is yet another beautiful, sunny day in Karaduvar.  Time to close the laptop and get out there.  Enjoy the sunshine and enjoy my life.

Until next time.

Sadness

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I was extremely lucky as a child.  I grew up in a home with a mum and a dad who loved me and with a brother that, well, let me just say that he loved me (or maybe liked me) sometimes.  Then when I was 19 I got lucky again when I met my natural mum and dad.  I have forged a good relationship with my natural mother and my natural brothers and sister not the same as with my adopted family but a good relationship nevertheless.  Unfortunately I lost my adopted mother in 1995 and my dad a little while back.  I still see my natural family as often as we can arrange it (well I did when I lived in Australia anyway) but my little family had become very tiny indeed.

One of our decisions to move to Turkey was to enable Daughter to have a relationship with her Turkish family and learn about her Turkish heritage.  Not every child can grow up to have the best of both worlds but we intend to give Daughter everything that we can.  So moving to Turkey it would be.

My luck continues in Turkey with family as well as I had a mother-in-law who I adored and a father-in-law who is a little batty but still a sweet old man.

My cup overflows so to speak.

Over the past couple of weeks my mother in law had had a cough.  Nothing drastic but a niggling cough that over time slowly got worse.  She had made numerous trips to the doctor and to the hospital but the cough was always there.  She still cooked her delicious meals and she still called me down “J-j-j-a-a-a-n-n-n-e-e-e” every morning for cay.  She still washed her husband’s clothes, made him dinner every evening and went to visit her friends in the village.  But you could see she was not strong.  Her smile was not as bright as it once was and her steps a little slower than they once were.  Her eyes showed more sadness but her heart was still full of the love that she gave to her family and friends.

On New Years Day my sister-in-law again took Refika to the hospital one last time where she fell into a coma and soon after passed away.  The sadness I feel right now is overwhelming me.  The tears that flow are real and pained.

I will delve further into this on another occasion but right now the feelings are too raw to process clearly.

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Everybody needs good neighbours

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I am going to have a little rant, just a little one.

I have never been a part of a very large family.  I am adopted and no I am not crippled with issues about being adopted.  I had a happy childhood with my adopted parents and brother.  They are my family.  In case you are wondering, yes I have met my natural mother (who is lovely) and my three natural brothers and sister.  I have been very lucky with my upbringing however it was and is a very small family.  I did not have cousins to run around with and family gatherings were always a very small affair.

Now I am part of a very large family with sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, distant cousins – I could go on.  Not only are they my family they are also my neighbours.  Next door is a three storey house with The Turk’s parents (at the rear), his older brother and family on level 3, his youngest brother and family on level 2 and another (estranged) brother on level 1.  It is the estranged brother on level 1 that I will have my little rant about now (thankful that he cannot read English I might add).

In Turkey military service is compulsory for all men aged between 20 and 40 years.  For those men without a university degree the service is 15 months and for those with a degree it is a six month service.  On Sunday night The Turk’s nephew was leaving home to spend the next six months to complete his conscription.  Like most Turkish families they threw a party and invited their nearest and dearest.  There was a lot of music, drums and dancing.  It was most likely a wonderful evening and I say most likely because we were not invited to this shindig and nor was anyone else in the family!  Frankly I was shocked at this blatant rebuff.  Daughter could not understand why she was not invited so she dragged me downstairs to watch the frivolities.  I stood with Hurley (should anyone ask I was waiting for my dog to pee) before moving to the shadows only to find my mother in law behind her gate standing alone watching her grandson dancing.  It nearly broke my heart (and it made me pretty darn angry).

The next morning I rang The Turk and yelled down the telephone at him.  Why would his mother not be invited to the farewell?  Actually why was no one invited to the farewell and while I am at it why have they not spoken to me since I arrived 8 weeks ago!  The Turk’s reply was simple but was definitely not an explanation, “Fuck them!”

I am sitting here thinking of my mum and dad, wishing I could just give them one more hug or talk to them just one more time and here is a family who have no idea just how lucky they are.

“Fuck them!”

Well no thank you.