RESIDENCY NOWHERE – A Foreign Sense of Belonging

Human beings’ desire for belonging is a shared and fundamental trait. Our creation of a bureaucratic system seemingly designed to expressly deny the fulfillment of this desire is equally universal and all together astounding.

I arrived in Turkey on a student visa painlessly obtained over the summer via two trips to the New York City Turkish Consulate, a transaction fee of $37, the completion of a few documents and the submission of a handful of those ubiquitous passport size photos.

With my Turkish visa good for a year I cheerfully assumed that I was footloose and fancy free upon clearing immigration at Istanbul’s International Airport. Safe and sound upon foreign soil, it was time to tuck my passport carefully away and begin to build a new life in Turkey as a foreign exchange student excited to learn Turkish.

However, upon further scrutiny of the finer print of Turkish immigration procedures during my initial weeks of stay in country and the collective rumblings of fellow University students I quickly realized that much more was involved in order to claim my Turkish residency necessary for my year -long study abroad program.

Stated plainly, although in Turkish, on the back side of my immigration card was the single sentence: ‘Turkish Student Visa holders need to apply for a Residency Permit within thirty days of arrival.’ Further investigation, through snap translations by any Turk with the slightest knowledge of English willing to help turned up the fact that the application for a Residency Permit with its attendant laundry list of requirements needed to be completed in person and directly within those now dwindling thirty days. The kicker being that all information was to be provided in Turkish and required to be answered in Turkish.

Arriving in Istanbul not speaking a word of Turkish, suddenly my basic, although intensive, Turkish language classes became woefully inadequate. Rather than grant me license to live in Turkey for the year, my student visa in effect had merely gained me admission to the true Turkish Bureaucratic Dance of Belonging for long-term residency. I had thirty Days or I would face undisclosed legal sanctions.

Although I pride myself on being a nimble and limber fellow ready for any and all challenges, here I was now squarely out of my league. Bank statements, official documents from the University, a street address of an apartment I was still looking for, mother and father’s name all had to procured and translated into Turkish. Copies in triplicate, Turkish, Turkish, Turkish, those pesky passport photos again, this time in an absurd amount, everything type written and in capital letters.

Thirty Days. This was going to take some serious linguistic, cultural, administrative and bureaucratic gymnastics.

After an all consuming and endless amount of scheming and treasure hunting for directions, paperwork and translations, that at times was tedious, ridiculous and outright illogical, I arrived at the fortress-like Foreign Residence Office ready to begin the intricate Turkish Bureaucratic Dance of Belonging. I was certainly not the lead for this number and only hoped that I could follow the dance steps closely.

There I was, having arrived just as the building opened but my no means first in line, between the girl from the Ukraine and the woman from Kyrgyzstan; a young Lebanese man pressing tightly against my back as he in turn jockeyed for position with the multitude of applicants behind him. With my hands clenched tightly to the counter so ingeniously constructed whereas one had to simultaneously stand on tip toes and yet bend down, head against the grimy Plexiglas, in order to “converse” with the woman behind the counter I held my ground. The throng of people pushing from behind was constant and physical. I flexed my arms outward in response to protect my space. I had waited hours to reach this counter and I wasn’t going anywhere.

Beyond the great divide of Plexiglas sat the finest assembly of Turkish bureaucratic officers. Diligently, if lifelessly, cutting and pasting and stamping and laminating. Enthusiasm having been checked at the door, work continued a pace as the overhead air condition leaked water onto a dangerously large puddle growing in the middle of the floor that threatened the spider web of extension cords that criss–crossed the office. As the officer workers mindlessly stepped over this mid office water hazard without a second thought, the young care free chai server, dishing out small shot glasses of piping hot sweet tea on a massive silver platter to all workers looking for an excuse to remain unproductive adeptly danced around the puddle without soaking his feet or spilling a single drop of tea.

Shoving my paperwork through the mail slot of an opening, there was a pit that began to grow in the bottom of my stomach and resonated to the tips of my fingers. As a momentary pause to gather up my documents turned into an eternity of scrutiny, I prayed silently that everything was duly in order and the immigration clerk wouldn’t ask me any hard questions –any question at all really— and the desperate pleas of “please do not send me back to the end of the line” were hard to suppress.

Within a few moments, papers were shuffled, stamps were meted out and signatures were scribbled. The only true human interaction was a quick smile as the woman behind the counter quickly grabbed my eighty Turkish Lira as payment for services rendered.

Three times the woman said that I was finished. Three times I didn’t believe her until she spelled it out in no uncertain terms that all I needed to do now was to comeback next week to pick up my official residency documents. Not wanting to shift my weight even an inch and allow some else, equally as frantic and frazzled, to push in from behind and steal away my coveted spot at the counter, I didn’t leave until she raised her hand, extended her finger and pointed me to the door. I still had my doubts about the success of my residency application and thus my ability to remain in Turkey as I followed her silent instructions away from the counter and melted back into the masses.

The Stars and Stripes forever. Without question, I am an American by birth and more importantly by choice. However, upon returning to scene of the crime exactly one week later – again early but nowhere near first in line—and receiving my Turkish Residence Card, the sky has never been bluer, the Turkish flag never flown more proudly and as I knelt down upon my knee to kiss the ground beneath my feet, the Earth never tasted sweeter.

I practically skipped out of the fortress of Foreign Residence Permits, my heart bursting with song as this Turkish Bureaucratic Dance of Belonging had triumphantly come to a close. As I swiveled and weaved through the crowd in search of the exit –and the light of day— I bade farewell and good luck to those who were just arriving: a young married couple, a woman with a newborn baby, the troupe of foreign students and well dressed but powerless businessmen. Bewildered and exasperated. All looking to belong.

It is of interest to note that most countries and in fact most people are most welcoming when they know that you are leaving. An indefinite stay however always causes a bit of consternation and unfortunately a more reluctant form of acceptance.

SUNDAY MORINING CONGREGATION

Six weeks on in a city six centuries Muslim, I have been able to peel back the hands of time and discover the still thriving religion of the city once known as the Second Rome. Perhaps better stated, I have found the western import of the original Rome, alive and kicking and having weathered the years of a city that pugnaciously sits in the tidal basin of life, religion and history.

Saint Anthony’s Catholic Church
Sent Antuan Kilisise
Istiklal Caddesi
Istanbul, Turkey

Although I enjoyed the opportunity and experience of living in an ardently Muslim neighborhood, albeit in an intensely secular state, complete with headscarves, mosques and pray beads and my Turkish neighbors, most Turks in fact, have welcomed me with unfailing hospitality and warmth, I have longed for the familiar and my own sense of community.

Muslim or not, the five times daily call to prayer sung ethereally in Arabic from the Mosque’s minaret causes one to reflect, to think and ultimately to pray. It is truly a vocal, timely reminder to help keep one’s priorities in check. Even my visits to Mosques throughout the city, although initially historically and architecturally motivated, have provided a time of spiritual quiet, stillness and reflection.

The Blue Mosque (Sultan Ahmet Mosque) and the Aya Sophia notwithstanding. However, the need to participate in the celebration of mass, both a product of my upbringing and a conscious choice of faith from St. Cecilia to Georgetown University and Peace Corps Paraguay to Panama, still remained.

Sunday Morning Mass at Saint Anthony’s welcomes an eclectic mix of Catholics befitting such an international, historic and criss-crossed city.
It is even quite possible to define it as a true catholic gathering of Catholics. Most striking and remarkable was the fact that it happened on an ordinary Sunday in September. A centuries old cathedral, with high arching ceilings and intricately inlaid mosaics located in the heart of Istanbul was standing room only. Presided over by Father Joseph from Romania, the church was filled with parishioners from all walks of life motivated by a sense of faith and duty.

By no means trying to diminish their stature, the standard issue Italians and Spaniards were in attendance. The Korean choir was led by a trio of beautiful Vietnamese vocals and without question, the Filipinos played an active role in the celebration. They however just could not fit into my attempted alliteration. English was the lingua franca of the service. Finally and most intriguing was the unusually (again from my perspective) large proportion of, for a lack of a more intimate and accurate term, Africans present in prayer. It was an awesome sight to see and never one to allow my “demographically discerning eye” rest I am interested in learning their story.

It was truly a powerful and awe inspiring experience to see and feel a cathedral in full swing for the service of daily mass. I could not help but feel reenergized and excited as I stepped out of the shadows of the worn wooden doors and on to the sunlight stone patio, to be greeted by the international parochial community of Catholics who had splintered back into their multitude of languages and identities.
Content to know that I was welcomed back next week.