I don't remember much about the little time I spent with my great-uncle Nazim, but what I do recall was his raucous laughter. Not a bad way to be remembered, I think....
I've taken a short trip to Adana with my parents to see Iclal (pronounced Ijlal with a soft j) and related family, and to support my dad as he travels to pay his respects to a man who, in his words, was like his second father.
Thursday morning, after we arrived the previous evening, we took a stroll across the Taskopru (literally meaning stone bridge, it is famous for being 1800 years old), through a park with a statue of the revered physician and metaphysician Ibn-i Sina, and past the Sabanci mosque before returning to the hotel for breakfast.
Over breakfast I investigated Sabanci (pronounced Sabanchi for my anglo-saxon friends) and Ibn-i Sina on my interweb connected phone. Some curious stories emerged. First Sabanci. For one thing I found it interesting that Sabanci holdings, a family business on the Global FTSE 500 list, saw fit to build a mosque beside the park and Hilton which, oh by the way, they also own. One could view this a number of ways: we might be tempted to say that it is a wonderfully generous act (although as my mum pointed out, they could have decided to build a homeless shelter or hospital instead ;-)), or perhaps it's because the Sabanci HQ used to be based in Adana and so maybe there's a family connection to the city, or, looking at it more cynically, one might say that constructing a mosque is excellent PR for a company with fingers in every pie and maybe an ego trip for the owners. In any case I found the multiplicity of reasonable perspectives intriguing.
As for Ibn-i Sina, if you are not familiar with the figure I strongly recommend a quick wiki trip since his work as a physician bridged the gap between 'the enlightenment' and the first medical heroes: Galen & Hippocrates. I glossed over his metaphysics this morning, however, and was intrigued to find that his argument for the existence of god was rooted in the argument of first-cause. This position is curious because it rests on an irrational desire to insist that there is not, and can not be, an infinite regression instead. Certainly the idea of an infinite regression is rather unpalatable, but how can we insist that it cannot be? In fact, the proposition that the universe had a beginning is just as incredible if you stop and think about it, and in such cases that any outcome at all would be remarkable one cannot argue that something is true because its antithesis would be remarkable. Furthermore, it's interesting because if Ibn-i Sina was alive today, he would be obliged to argue that God must be whatever substance preceeded that near infinitessimal point of plasma which comprised our universe in the first fractions of the first second that ever was; or even (if you agree with Lawrence Krauss) nothing at all. Yet the story which caught my imagination was that it fell to Al-Ghazali, in his work 'The Incoherence of Philosophers', to point out that Ibn-i Sina was not applying logic to his metaphysics in the same way that he was to his other, many disciplines. Al-Ghazali's work has been noted by some as the beginning of the end for the golden era of science in the Islamic Empire (he also argued that Ibn-i Sina's position was heretical which probably didn't help), and I found it a rather amusing irony that, strictly speaking, Al-Ghazali was right: Ibn-i Sina did fail to apply his logic as rigorously in some aspects of his metaphysics. It is a strange feeling to find oneself agreeing on a point of logic with a figure famed (in part) for the end of a scientific era. This story, like most historical stories, is surely a gross simplification of the matter, but I thought the irony worth sharing.
We took a taxi to Nazim and Iclal's house. The apartment block was apparently commisioned by Nazim (it even has his name on the front door) and designed by my uncle Mehmet. I was gladdened to note that the rendezvous with Iclal and family was less sullen than I had imagined it to be although whenever, on greeting a newly arriving family member, my mother produced that most appropriate phrase of mourning "i'm sorry for your loss" the inevitable response, a silence accompanied by a downward look and a saddened shrug of the lower lip, was a heart rending admission of pain. I found that I was deeply moved by contrasting observations this day. The solemnity of the bereaved, as well as the quiet continuings of the ever-present poorer members of society busily eking out an existence outside to gain a fraction of the luxuries I squander daily (Adana has many such residents), were starkly contrasted with the incredible hospitality that my Turkish relatives seem to be naturally endowed with, and the sheer joy and wonder and elation displayed by my adorable 3 and 7 year old cousins who mostly occupied themselves during the meeting by throwing their tiny bodies into sofas only to be chastened by their mother with "yavas!" (slowly).
Two of my relatives, Ertos and Nilgun, busied themselves in the kitchen preparing a traditional mourning sweet similar to Halva. After browning a mixture of pine nuts, semolina, and butter, boiling water and sugar were mixed in. We shared the sweet and tin-foiled portions were delivered to the neighbours. Iclal explained that it is traditional for this sweet to be cooked and eaten 3 days after the passing, and that it was also traditional for family to gather on the seventh day for a feast prepared by the widow. Some elements of prayer were mixed into this tradition (in that manner which typically blurs the division between culture and religion) although I am informed that Nazim himself was not a religious man (further attested to by the bar in his living room with shelf adorned with many spirits as well as photos of my brother and cousins). I imagine that the preparation of food for others is probably a good way to keep ones mind occupied when the blackest thoughts lurk nearby, and I've no doubt that the sharing of that food with family promotes the function of the family as a social support mechanism. Tradition can be comforting in difficult times.
A little later we went to visit the grave. The site was rather beautiful: a valley backdropped with a pine forest and cooled by a constant gentle breeze running down it's slopes. On arriving we were greeted by a stray dog whom I quickly befriended (my mother chastening me to leave the 'fleabag' alone, though I have now outgrown such years as I must oblige). The dog enjoyed the shade produced by Mehmet's car while we paid our respects at the grave.
After our visit, Mehmet generously took us to dinner at a restaurant named Elem (meaning sorrow) which I am only just now realising is a particularly apt name.
I recently stumbled upon a pleasing turn of phrase by Salman Rushdie: "We strive for the heights but our natures betray us... ...[we are] clowns in search of crowns". Well if we be clowns, let us be remembered with laughter.
I've taken a short trip to Adana with my parents to see Iclal (pronounced Ijlal with a soft j) and related family, and to support my dad as he travels to pay his respects to a man who, in his words, was like his second father.
Thursday morning, after we arrived the previous evening, we took a stroll across the Taskopru (literally meaning stone bridge, it is famous for being 1800 years old), through a park with a statue of the revered physician and metaphysician Ibn-i Sina, and past the Sabanci mosque before returning to the hotel for breakfast.
Over breakfast I investigated Sabanci (pronounced Sabanchi for my anglo-saxon friends) and Ibn-i Sina on my interweb connected phone. Some curious stories emerged. First Sabanci. For one thing I found it interesting that Sabanci holdings, a family business on the Global FTSE 500 list, saw fit to build a mosque beside the park and Hilton which, oh by the way, they also own. One could view this a number of ways: we might be tempted to say that it is a wonderfully generous act (although as my mum pointed out, they could have decided to build a homeless shelter or hospital instead ;-)), or perhaps it's because the Sabanci HQ used to be based in Adana and so maybe there's a family connection to the city, or, looking at it more cynically, one might say that constructing a mosque is excellent PR for a company with fingers in every pie and maybe an ego trip for the owners. In any case I found the multiplicity of reasonable perspectives intriguing.
As for Ibn-i Sina, if you are not familiar with the figure I strongly recommend a quick wiki trip since his work as a physician bridged the gap between 'the enlightenment' and the first medical heroes: Galen & Hippocrates. I glossed over his metaphysics this morning, however, and was intrigued to find that his argument for the existence of god was rooted in the argument of first-cause. This position is curious because it rests on an irrational desire to insist that there is not, and can not be, an infinite regression instead. Certainly the idea of an infinite regression is rather unpalatable, but how can we insist that it cannot be? In fact, the proposition that the universe had a beginning is just as incredible if you stop and think about it, and in such cases that any outcome at all would be remarkable one cannot argue that something is true because its antithesis would be remarkable. Furthermore, it's interesting because if Ibn-i Sina was alive today, he would be obliged to argue that God must be whatever substance preceeded that near infinitessimal point of plasma which comprised our universe in the first fractions of the first second that ever was; or even (if you agree with Lawrence Krauss) nothing at all. Yet the story which caught my imagination was that it fell to Al-Ghazali, in his work 'The Incoherence of Philosophers', to point out that Ibn-i Sina was not applying logic to his metaphysics in the same way that he was to his other, many disciplines. Al-Ghazali's work has been noted by some as the beginning of the end for the golden era of science in the Islamic Empire (he also argued that Ibn-i Sina's position was heretical which probably didn't help), and I found it a rather amusing irony that, strictly speaking, Al-Ghazali was right: Ibn-i Sina did fail to apply his logic as rigorously in some aspects of his metaphysics. It is a strange feeling to find oneself agreeing on a point of logic with a figure famed (in part) for the end of a scientific era. This story, like most historical stories, is surely a gross simplification of the matter, but I thought the irony worth sharing.
We took a taxi to Nazim and Iclal's house. The apartment block was apparently commisioned by Nazim (it even has his name on the front door) and designed by my uncle Mehmet. I was gladdened to note that the rendezvous with Iclal and family was less sullen than I had imagined it to be although whenever, on greeting a newly arriving family member, my mother produced that most appropriate phrase of mourning "i'm sorry for your loss" the inevitable response, a silence accompanied by a downward look and a saddened shrug of the lower lip, was a heart rending admission of pain. I found that I was deeply moved by contrasting observations this day. The solemnity of the bereaved, as well as the quiet continuings of the ever-present poorer members of society busily eking out an existence outside to gain a fraction of the luxuries I squander daily (Adana has many such residents), were starkly contrasted with the incredible hospitality that my Turkish relatives seem to be naturally endowed with, and the sheer joy and wonder and elation displayed by my adorable 3 and 7 year old cousins who mostly occupied themselves during the meeting by throwing their tiny bodies into sofas only to be chastened by their mother with "yavas!" (slowly).
Two of my relatives, Ertos and Nilgun, busied themselves in the kitchen preparing a traditional mourning sweet similar to Halva. After browning a mixture of pine nuts, semolina, and butter, boiling water and sugar were mixed in. We shared the sweet and tin-foiled portions were delivered to the neighbours. Iclal explained that it is traditional for this sweet to be cooked and eaten 3 days after the passing, and that it was also traditional for family to gather on the seventh day for a feast prepared by the widow. Some elements of prayer were mixed into this tradition (in that manner which typically blurs the division between culture and religion) although I am informed that Nazim himself was not a religious man (further attested to by the bar in his living room with shelf adorned with many spirits as well as photos of my brother and cousins). I imagine that the preparation of food for others is probably a good way to keep ones mind occupied when the blackest thoughts lurk nearby, and I've no doubt that the sharing of that food with family promotes the function of the family as a social support mechanism. Tradition can be comforting in difficult times.
A little later we went to visit the grave. The site was rather beautiful: a valley backdropped with a pine forest and cooled by a constant gentle breeze running down it's slopes. On arriving we were greeted by a stray dog whom I quickly befriended (my mother chastening me to leave the 'fleabag' alone, though I have now outgrown such years as I must oblige). The dog enjoyed the shade produced by Mehmet's car while we paid our respects at the grave.
After our visit, Mehmet generously took us to dinner at a restaurant named Elem (meaning sorrow) which I am only just now realising is a particularly apt name.
I recently stumbled upon a pleasing turn of phrase by Salman Rushdie: "We strive for the heights but our natures betray us... ...[we are] clowns in search of crowns". Well if we be clowns, let us be remembered with laughter.
