If I was to choose any piece of clothing I own as my favourite, it would be my blue wool shawl. No contest. Shaped in a large square with a plaid stripe of light brown on it, I have worn it every winter under various coats for over 20 years, and it has held up. Draped in a triangle over my shoulders and wrapped around my neck (and face when it's really cold), my sentimental shawl keeps me warm and makes me feel like I have been hugged by a special woman who was there when I first purchased it at the Bazaar in Istanbul.
It wasn't the original shawl that I paid 11 whole dollars for after proudly thinking I had negotiated the price with the stall owner. No, the shawl I ended up owning was the 10 dollar one that Sabahat, my guardian angel in Istanbul, purchased for me at the stall next to it. When she found out that I had been ripped off by the equivalent of a dollar, and was left thinking that I had made a good purchase, she was very angry and took control of the situation. She purchased the second shawl with her own money, then stomped back to the sneaky first stall owner, ripped a strip off him in fast talking turkish that I couldn't understand and embarrassed him in front of his male peers. Probably to end the loud tirade as quickly as possible, the stall guy gave Sabahat the money back. She in turn, pointed to me to return the original shawl to him. Then, she took the 10 dollars out of the money, and with a big radiant smile handed me my new shawl and the change. As soon as we were out of sight and ear shot, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and then laughed with hearty glee over the fact that she had embarrassed a proud sneaky man.
Sabahat was no pushover. In a country and city where women were (and still are) subservient to men, Sabahat continued to show her cheeky side where ever we went with her. With a twinkle in her eye, and a streak of troublemaking, I witnessed Sabahat quietly step into the hearing area of a group of men who were circled around discussing serious men issues just to find out what they were bantering about. We had originally pointed them out and asked her what they would be debating. So, she took it upon herself to find out. After eavesdropping for about 5 minutes while we stood by laughing, she was finally noticed and shooed away, only to return to her brood (3 adopted North American girls backpacking their way through Europe that she handpicked and saved during a melee in a bus depot the day before, and her 15 year old daughter) to inform us that the serious debating men were talking of nothing important.
In a previous posting, I described my first memorable night in Fatih, Istanbul after being saved by this woman from the chaos of Turkish bus depots. Our time with Sabahat and her family turned out to be a series of lessons in everything from true generosity, trust, love to a front row view into the life of a family in a country that was very different from anything that I had encountered or experienced. To this day, I consider her someone who made a tremendous impact on my life and sadly I will never see her again. I don't even know how to attempt to find her.
Sabahat's home consisted of two bedrooms a small living room/dining room, kitchen and bathroom equipped with a porcelain hole in the floor. It was full of her few prized treasures that made it welcoming and cozy. When we first arrived late one night, her husband was still away fishing so it was only her son that greeted us. I'm sure he was surprised to find three tag alongs with his mother and sister when he opened the door. We were given the largest bedroom complete with soft beds and homemade quilts to sleep in. Her son was given the master bedroom. Sabahat and her daughter slept in the livingroom on a small daybed. At her insistence. When I went into the livingroom to make another attempt at convincing her that we could sleep on the floor and she could have the bedroom, I found mother and daugher snuggled together, arms around one another talking and laughing quietly, sharing their thoughts. It was a bond of love between the two females in the family that I felt would remain tender and close for eternity.
Saturdays were Haman days. The Haman was the local Turkish bath where all the females in the neighbourhood congregated for their weekly bathing ritual. Since communication consisted of basic sign language and acting out gestures, all we knew were the basics about our trip to the Haman. All I cared was that I wanted to get clean after travelling for 2 days without a shower.
The local Haman in Fatih turned out to be nothing I could've envisioned. The entrance to the building was quite non-descript. Inside, however was another story. This new world had high arched ceilings in the central part of the Haman that let in natural light. From there, were smaller rooms decorated with white and grey marble tiles on the floor and walls, large metal sinks shaped like conch shells , slabs of marble situated in the middle of every small room. And as we entered, it was obvious that we were the first lily white females ever to be allowed to enter this sacred place. All eyes were on us. This was not a tourist haman. No, we were the guests of honour and once Sabahat had explained to her friends who we were, and how she had adopted us, the other women and children welcomed us to their cleansing sanctuary.
As the morning evolved, the Haman filled with steam and laughter. Tentatively, we took our soap, haman cloth and began a ritualistic soaking that quickly turned into a water fight with women of all ages. One at a time, Sabahat took her little chicks aside to scrub us down. As I laid on the marble slab that had warmed from the steam, she massaged my back, and scrubbed my limbs with a rough cloth all the while smiling and making kissing noises to ensure that I felt at ease and loved. The layers of filth that I didn't even know existed fell off me until I was left with a glow of pink skin.........so clean and so cleansed. It was the most relaxed I had felt in the two months that I had been travelling.
The moment that I want to always recall as a picture in my memory took place after Sabahat had finished her kissing/massaging/scrubbing ritual with the 4 of us. It was then that she relaxed, sitting with her best friend and quietly talking about their week. As much as these women in a lot of ways seemed like kindreds to all women I had known, their lives were very different. For, it was only once a week generally, that they were able to connect with one another without the pressure of their responsibilities floating over them. Their role in their families, and communities and the rules that they had to live by, only allowed them this precious time every week to be with one another. The Haman truly was their only female santuary. it was the only time and place that was theirs and theirs alone. It was a truly spiritual place, where freedom of thought and action was embraced.
It was 4 days of being unconditionally accepted and cared for by a woman who for all intents, did something quite out of the norms of her daily routine and life. In her own way, Sabahat showed that she had some control over her destiny, despite the subservience and inequality of her reality. She opened her heart fully with trust and love to three young women whom she inherently knew she could share a bit of her life with. Somehow too, we all figured out how to communicate with one another despite the lack of a shared language. And by so doing, we were able to bring to her a snapshot of sorts of our very different lives and perspectives into her livingroom.
On the last evening, while Sabahat's husband (who had arrived home after day 2 of our visit to an unexpectedly boisterous and chaotic home) presided over a dinner table laden with many wonderful and strange dishes, including the fish he had caught that week, I presented Sabahat with her own shawl. I had purchased it in Athens the week before, not knowing that I would meet this generously loving woman. The shawl was a fine white lace, woven and delicate; not something that I normally would buy for myself. But, it was perfect for her. When she opened her present, which to me was so little given how much she had shared with us, she was overcome with tears and smiles. She placed the shawl lovingly over her head to frame her face, wrapped it around her neck, and then looked up with her gorgeous smile. It made her glow.
I would love to see her again. She'd be a grandmother many times over now. I'd love her to meet my daughter who's a little younger than her daughter Sengul was when we met and to know that there are nights when I crawl into bed with the only other female in my family to laugh and share thoughts. I'd love her to know that I still wear my shawl during my Canadian winters to feel her presence and loving smile. My guardian Angel so far away....
Honestly, I think she somehow does know..........just like I know that when she places her shawl around her shoulders, she thinks of me and wonders.......................
It wasn't the original shawl that I paid 11 whole dollars for after proudly thinking I had negotiated the price with the stall owner. No, the shawl I ended up owning was the 10 dollar one that Sabahat, my guardian angel in Istanbul, purchased for me at the stall next to it. When she found out that I had been ripped off by the equivalent of a dollar, and was left thinking that I had made a good purchase, she was very angry and took control of the situation. She purchased the second shawl with her own money, then stomped back to the sneaky first stall owner, ripped a strip off him in fast talking turkish that I couldn't understand and embarrassed him in front of his male peers. Probably to end the loud tirade as quickly as possible, the stall guy gave Sabahat the money back. She in turn, pointed to me to return the original shawl to him. Then, she took the 10 dollars out of the money, and with a big radiant smile handed me my new shawl and the change. As soon as we were out of sight and ear shot, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and then laughed with hearty glee over the fact that she had embarrassed a proud sneaky man.
Sabahat was no pushover. In a country and city where women were (and still are) subservient to men, Sabahat continued to show her cheeky side where ever we went with her. With a twinkle in her eye, and a streak of troublemaking, I witnessed Sabahat quietly step into the hearing area of a group of men who were circled around discussing serious men issues just to find out what they were bantering about. We had originally pointed them out and asked her what they would be debating. So, she took it upon herself to find out. After eavesdropping for about 5 minutes while we stood by laughing, she was finally noticed and shooed away, only to return to her brood (3 adopted North American girls backpacking their way through Europe that she handpicked and saved during a melee in a bus depot the day before, and her 15 year old daughter) to inform us that the serious debating men were talking of nothing important.
In a previous posting, I described my first memorable night in Fatih, Istanbul after being saved by this woman from the chaos of Turkish bus depots. Our time with Sabahat and her family turned out to be a series of lessons in everything from true generosity, trust, love to a front row view into the life of a family in a country that was very different from anything that I had encountered or experienced. To this day, I consider her someone who made a tremendous impact on my life and sadly I will never see her again. I don't even know how to attempt to find her.
Sabahat's home consisted of two bedrooms a small living room/dining room, kitchen and bathroom equipped with a porcelain hole in the floor. It was full of her few prized treasures that made it welcoming and cozy. When we first arrived late one night, her husband was still away fishing so it was only her son that greeted us. I'm sure he was surprised to find three tag alongs with his mother and sister when he opened the door. We were given the largest bedroom complete with soft beds and homemade quilts to sleep in. Her son was given the master bedroom. Sabahat and her daughter slept in the livingroom on a small daybed. At her insistence. When I went into the livingroom to make another attempt at convincing her that we could sleep on the floor and she could have the bedroom, I found mother and daugher snuggled together, arms around one another talking and laughing quietly, sharing their thoughts. It was a bond of love between the two females in the family that I felt would remain tender and close for eternity.
Saturdays were Haman days. The Haman was the local Turkish bath where all the females in the neighbourhood congregated for their weekly bathing ritual. Since communication consisted of basic sign language and acting out gestures, all we knew were the basics about our trip to the Haman. All I cared was that I wanted to get clean after travelling for 2 days without a shower.
The local Haman in Fatih turned out to be nothing I could've envisioned. The entrance to the building was quite non-descript. Inside, however was another story. This new world had high arched ceilings in the central part of the Haman that let in natural light. From there, were smaller rooms decorated with white and grey marble tiles on the floor and walls, large metal sinks shaped like conch shells , slabs of marble situated in the middle of every small room. And as we entered, it was obvious that we were the first lily white females ever to be allowed to enter this sacred place. All eyes were on us. This was not a tourist haman. No, we were the guests of honour and once Sabahat had explained to her friends who we were, and how she had adopted us, the other women and children welcomed us to their cleansing sanctuary.
As the morning evolved, the Haman filled with steam and laughter. Tentatively, we took our soap, haman cloth and began a ritualistic soaking that quickly turned into a water fight with women of all ages. One at a time, Sabahat took her little chicks aside to scrub us down. As I laid on the marble slab that had warmed from the steam, she massaged my back, and scrubbed my limbs with a rough cloth all the while smiling and making kissing noises to ensure that I felt at ease and loved. The layers of filth that I didn't even know existed fell off me until I was left with a glow of pink skin.........so clean and so cleansed. It was the most relaxed I had felt in the two months that I had been travelling.
The moment that I want to always recall as a picture in my memory took place after Sabahat had finished her kissing/massaging/scrubbing ritual with the 4 of us. It was then that she relaxed, sitting with her best friend and quietly talking about their week. As much as these women in a lot of ways seemed like kindreds to all women I had known, their lives were very different. For, it was only once a week generally, that they were able to connect with one another without the pressure of their responsibilities floating over them. Their role in their families, and communities and the rules that they had to live by, only allowed them this precious time every week to be with one another. The Haman truly was their only female santuary. it was the only time and place that was theirs and theirs alone. It was a truly spiritual place, where freedom of thought and action was embraced.
It was 4 days of being unconditionally accepted and cared for by a woman who for all intents, did something quite out of the norms of her daily routine and life. In her own way, Sabahat showed that she had some control over her destiny, despite the subservience and inequality of her reality. She opened her heart fully with trust and love to three young women whom she inherently knew she could share a bit of her life with. Somehow too, we all figured out how to communicate with one another despite the lack of a shared language. And by so doing, we were able to bring to her a snapshot of sorts of our very different lives and perspectives into her livingroom.
On the last evening, while Sabahat's husband (who had arrived home after day 2 of our visit to an unexpectedly boisterous and chaotic home) presided over a dinner table laden with many wonderful and strange dishes, including the fish he had caught that week, I presented Sabahat with her own shawl. I had purchased it in Athens the week before, not knowing that I would meet this generously loving woman. The shawl was a fine white lace, woven and delicate; not something that I normally would buy for myself. But, it was perfect for her. When she opened her present, which to me was so little given how much she had shared with us, she was overcome with tears and smiles. She placed the shawl lovingly over her head to frame her face, wrapped it around her neck, and then looked up with her gorgeous smile. It made her glow.
I would love to see her again. She'd be a grandmother many times over now. I'd love her to meet my daughter who's a little younger than her daughter Sengul was when we met and to know that there are nights when I crawl into bed with the only other female in my family to laugh and share thoughts. I'd love her to know that I still wear my shawl during my Canadian winters to feel her presence and loving smile. My guardian Angel so far away....
Honestly, I think she somehow does know..........just like I know that when she places her shawl around her shoulders, she thinks of me and wonders.......................
2 comments:
This was so Beautiful Dana.
what a beautiful story Dana, I loved reading this - what a fantastic experience...who knows where guardian angels come from but they do... huge hugs, xx Katie
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