{"id":8806,"date":"2022-06-15T09:55:08","date_gmt":"2022-06-15T07:55:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?p=8806"},"modified":"2023-10-16T17:33:21","modified_gmt":"2023-10-16T15:33:21","slug":"nektaria-anastasiadou-gold-in-taksim-square","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/nektaria-anastasiadou-gold-in-taksim-square\/","title":{"rendered":"Nektaria Anastasiadou: &#8220;Gold in Taksim Square&#8221;"},"content":{"rendered":"<figure id=\"attachment_8982\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-8982\" style=\"width: 1200px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/artsandculture.google.com\/asset\/taksim-square-nazmi-ziya-g%C3%BCran-turkish-1881-1937\/JAGDm-3rWVOEBA\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-8982\" src=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/The-Republican-Monument-in-Taksim-Square-Taksim-Square-by-Nazmi-Ziya-Gu\u0308ran-1935.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1200\" height=\"946\" srcset=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/The-Republican-Monument-in-Taksim-Square-Taksim-Square-by-Nazmi-Ziya-Gu\u0308ran-1935.jpg 1200w, https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/The-Republican-Monument-in-Taksim-Square-Taksim-Square-by-Nazmi-Ziya-Gu\u0308ran-1935-600x473.jpg 600w, https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/The-Republican-Monument-in-Taksim-Square-Taksim-Square-by-Nazmi-Ziya-Gu\u0308ran-1935-300x237.jpg 300w, https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/The-Republican-Monument-in-Taksim-Square-Taksim-Square-by-Nazmi-Ziya-Gu\u0308ran-1935-1024x807.jpg 1024w, https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/The-Republican-Monument-in-Taksim-Square-Taksim-Square-by-Nazmi-Ziya-Gu\u0308ran-1935-768x605.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\" \/><\/a><figcaption id=\"caption-attachment-8982\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nazmi Ziya Gu\u0308ran, the Republican Monument in Taksim Square, 1935 (courtesy <a href=\"https:\/\/artsandculture.google.com\/asset\/taksim-square-nazmi-ziya-g%C3%BCran-turkish-1881-1937\/JAGDm-3rWVOEBA\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Sak\u0131p Sabanc\u0131 Museum<\/a>).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><em>\u201cGold in Taksim Square\u201d is a translated extract from Nektaria Anastasiadou\u2019s new Greek novel: the story of Athena Arzuhaltzi, a single woman reflecting on life, dishing out witty advice, and reimagining her future. Born in 1940s Istanbul, Athena lived through the 1955 pogrom, various engagements and affairs, the expulsions of thousands of members of her Rum Orthodox community in the 1960s, the death of her parents, childlessness, and a handful of juntas.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>She now lives alone in an Istanbul building that was once inhabited by Christian and Jewish families and is now occupied by rented offices. It\u2019s 2016, the year that Athena promised, forty years prior, to meet at the Patisserie Markiz with Rafael, an old lover from whom she has not heard since. While attempting to find traces of Rafael on social media with the help of Nina, a Greek architect who works in her building, Athena repeatedly quarrels with her Jewish neighbor Rita. As the meeting with Rafael approaches, Athena is faced with a choice: reevaluate her antisemitic tendencies or lose her younger friend Nina.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Scenes of past and present Istanbul are infused with musings on food, aging, loneliness, and love, as well as visits from the ghost of Athena\u2019s dead father. The novel is a nuanced and humorous story of friendship, the portrait of a stubborn woman attempting to break free from tired prejudices, and a love letter to Istanbul and single people everywhere.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h4>Nektaria Anastasidou<\/h4>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>Once upon a time a Kurd from a faraway village in the East heard that the roads of Istanbul were paved in gold. He sold his cows and sheep and hid in a cart on its way to the City. The morning of his first day here, he found a gold sovereign in a muddy street. \u201cAm I going to start collecting them already, before I\u2019ve even had a look at the place?\u201d he said, kicking the sovereign. \u201cI\u2019ll have holes in my pockets in no time!\u201d Of course, he never again saw a gold sovereign in his life.<\/p>\n<p>Something similar happened to me when I was seventeen and fresh as the fragrant grass surrounding the Republic Monument in Taksim Square. It was an afternoon in June 1961, the last day of classes at Notre Dame de Sion. As soon as I entered the house, my father Avraam took my school bag, put money in my hand, and said, \u201cGo get us a box of mastic lokumia, Athena.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>My father had never before sent me on an errand. When I was nine, Madame Olga from the flat opposite ours asked me to go to the green grocer for potatoes. My father found me crying in the street outside the shop, for I had no idea how to choose potatoes and I was ashamed to ask for help. He took me home, knocked on Olga\u2019s door and said, \u201cNobody sends my daughter out alone, Madame Olga, nobody! To think, a bite-sized girl all by herself with a sack of potatoes that she can\u2019t even carry!\u201d That was Avraam, always ready to protect me, as if he had a truncheon in hand.<\/p>\n<p>And so, when he sent me to buy bite-sized sweets in June 1961, it meant that I was no longer a bite-sized girl. I bought a box of mastic-flavored lokumia from Hac\u0131 Bekir in the Grand Avenue and then, instead of going home, decided to take a walk to celebrate summer insouciance and my new status. Wearing the smile that my father had forbidden when I was unaccompanied, I strolled into Taksim Square and lifted my gaze to the bronze statue of Atat\u00fcrk, who, dressed like a film star in a suit and trench coat, gazed eternally toward the dome of Holy Trinity. His left fist, coquettishly placed on his hip, held a pair of gloves; his right palm was opened toward the church, as if he were saying \u201cNow <em>that\u2019s<\/em> nobility.\u201d Behind the figure of Atat\u00fcrk stood \u0130smet \u0130n\u00f6n\u00fc, the statesman who never liked us Rums; and behind \u0130n\u00f6n\u00fc stood two mysterious Russian generals, envoys of Lenin.<\/p>\n<p>While I was considering the statue and thinking what a fine fellow our blue-eyed Mustafa Kemal Pa\u015fa was, I suddenly heard my name in Turkish: \u201cAtina! Wait for me if you don\u2019t mind!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I turned and beheld Fikret Aslano\u011flu, the son of a highly regarded family that lived in Hay\u0131rl\u0131 Palas, an aristocratic apartment building near our own. Ten years before, Fikret\u2019s doctor father had picked me up when I fell off my bicycle in the park. Dr. Aslano\u011flu, wearing a fine suit that felt like silk beneath my fingers, had examined the bruise on my arm and said to me in a voice as comforting as sage tea, \u201cDid you know, Atina, that we grow up only when we fall?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Plenty of Greeks consider the Turks barbarians who \u201clearned everything from us.\u201d But that\u2019s not the way it is. There are Ottomans so refined that they still smell of rose water and cloves, as if they left their palaces only five minutes before. The Aslano\u011flus were such a family, <em>eminent <\/em>\u2014 and I use that word literally, not because I am obliged to do so according to protocol, as the Greeks do with their bishops.<\/p>\n<p>I digress. We return to 1961.<\/p>\n<blockquote><p>If you have the great luck to find gold \u2014 wherever it is, in whatever form, and whenever \u2014 put it straight into your pocket and forget all the cities that you\u2019ve seen looted, stained, and desecrated.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>Fikret took a frightened breath and said, \u201cI would like to speak with you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Both his elegance and his use of the formal <em>you<\/em> impressed me. We hadn\u2019t spoken before, but we were children of the same neighborhood. The informal would have been fine, that is, but Fikret stuck to the respectful plural. I closed my eyes to the sun \u2014 I\u2019d forgotten a hat \u2014 and said, \u201cI\u2019m listening.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Fikret must have understood that the light bothered my eyes because he said, \u201cThe sun is burning you. Come this way.\u201d Without touching me, he led me into the shade of the black locusts \u2014 trimmed like upside-down mops \u2014 that surrounded the monument. Perhaps he needed the shade as much as I did, because his forehead was beaded with sweat. \u201cI\u2019ve seen you many times,\u201d he said. \u201cAlthough I\u2019m just beginning university \u2026 to become a doctor like my father\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n<p>While waiting for Fikret to finish his sentence, I discreetly observed him: his worn but freshly shined shoes, his thin but well-trimmed mustache, the pimples around his mouth, which could also have been swollen shaving cuts.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI like you,\u201d he said finally, \u201cand I would like to marry you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I took a deep breath. He smelled of Arab soap, lemon cologne, and man. If I said yes, I would smell him every morning. I imagined us, for a few seconds, walking behind a buggy with our first baby. I imagined myself without fear, since no one would bother me if I had a Muslim husband. I looked at Atat\u00fcrk and the Russian generals, then at Fikret with his big brown eyes, full of hope. He was only eighteen, but he stood before me in a noble way, without flirtation and silliness \u2014 a naked soul, exposed. I liked him. I wanted to say yes.<\/p>\n<p>And here, you must permit me another digression so that I can explain why I didn\u2019t say what I had in my heart. On the evening of September 6th, 1955, we closed up our summer house on B\u00fcy\u00fckada island, passed a pleasant hour on the steamboat, and debarked in Galata without knowing that a pogrom was going on in all the Rum neighborhoods of the City. There was so much noise in the harbor \u2014 shouting, smashing of glass and wood \u2014 that my father said to mama, \u201cWoman, the Russians are invading the City.\u201d I was eleven years old then, and I believed that we were indeed having a Russian invasion.<\/p>\n<p>We took a taxi from Galata to Kabata\u015f, and from there we tried to ascend the hill to our building on foot. The way, however, was blocked by crowds, and the pandemonium coming from the Grand Avenue was even more frightening than that of Galata. It was impossible to reach our building. We knocked at the door of the merchant Pericles Athanasiadis in lower G\u00fcm\u00fc\u015fsuyu. As soon as we entered his flat on the sixth floor, my father said, \u201cI\u2019m with the wife and children, Pericles, and I don\u2019t know what to do.\u201d This sentence frightened me more than the Russians and the invasion. It was the first time ever that my father didn\u2019t know what to do.<\/p>\n<p>We slept in the living room of Mister Pericles, with a view of the Bosporus and the flames burning the Rum churches on the Asian side. Seven churches to be exact. I counted them. The Russians burned seven of our churches. In my heart, I despised the murderers of the Romanov family \u2026 until I learned, the following day, that we weren\u2019t having a Russian invasion at all. The perpetrators, mostly criminals and villagers, but also some of our neighbors, were the <em>others<\/em>. They burned our churches, destroyed Rum shops, and opened holes in our hearts. After a numb breakfast, we left Mister Pericles\u2019s flat and walked home through streets covered with papers, pastries, cloth, flour, and cast-off shoes, pressed down on the heel caps; the pogromists had abandoned them after looting new shoes from Rum stores. Muslim neighbors offered to hide us in their houses, but my father wouldn\u2019t listen. He said, \u201cWe will live or die in our own home.\u201d As soon as we made it to our flat, he locked the door, filled his hunting rifle with bullets, and slept in the armchair of the foyer, waiting for an attack that never came.<\/p>\n<p>I won\u2019t tell you that our opinion of families like the Aslano\u011flus \u2014 who didn\u2019t have anything to do with those events \u2014 changed in 1955. But even before the pogrom it wasn\u2019t easy for a Rum family to accept an Ottoman son-in-law; after the September 1955 events, however, things became even more difficult. The pogromists smashed all the porcelain in our shop and stole the silver. My father had to resurrect his business from ashes at the age of fifty-one. The girls at my school, when someone mentioned the September pogrom, would say \u201cmama told us not to speak of those events.\u201d That\u2019s how afraid we were. So it wasn\u2019t possible for me to speak to my father about Fikret, however golden-hearted the boy was. I had to cut the subject at the root.<\/p>\n<p>With a tight knot in my chest, I said, \u201cThank you, Fikret, but I\u2019m still a student. My school doesn\u2019t allow us to become engaged.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019ll wait for you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n<p><em>Wait<\/em>, I wanted to say. <em>Wait<\/em>.<\/p>\n<p>Out loud I said, \u201cI\u2019m sorry, but I haven\u2019t yet thought of marriage.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWould you like time to think about it?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>If I thought about it, my family would cut me into thin slices like pastirma.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Fikret lowered his gaze. \u201cForgive me. I disturbed you.\u201d He said goodbye and left. I remember the back of his corduroy sport jacket, which seemed too warm for that summer weather. Perhaps he needed it to face my coolness. I wanted to call him back. Instead, I remained silent beneath the shade of the pruned black locust. Part of me may still be standing beneath that tree, despite the fact that it was cut down and burnt decades ago. There is no lost opportunity that I regret more than Fikret\u2019s proposal, the most plainspoken, pure gesture that I received in my entire life. He was only eighteen, but honorable and brave \u2014 truncheon in hand, just like my father Avraam.<\/p>\n<p>Fifty-five years have passed. There\u2019s nothing I can do to turn back time and change that mistake. But you, dear, can take the lesson. You must be just as ready with your <em>yes<\/em> as you are with your <em>no<\/em>. No road is paved with gold sovereigns. If you have the great luck to find gold \u2014 wherever it is, in whatever form, and whenever \u2014 put it straight into your pocket and forget all the cities that you\u2019ve seen looted, stained, and desecrated.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>The novelist behind &#8220;A Recipe for Daphne&#8221; returns to multicultural Istanbul to write about love and death amongst the city&#8217;s minorities.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":135,"featured_media":8982,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"default","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"footnotes":""},"categories":[16,24,71,50],"tags":[649,759,920,1006,1489,1734,1739,1742],"article-category":[],"article-type":[],"coauthors":[2075],"class_list":["post-8806","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-review","category-tmr-22-stories","category-tmr-issues","tag-fiction","tag-greeks","tag-istanbul","tag-kurds","tag-rum","tag-turkey","tag-turkish-jews","tag-turks"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.5 (Yoast SEO v27.4) - 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