A new agony uncle: “Brother Trust”

There is a new Turkish language monthly women’s magazine in London: the first of its kind in fact. It’s only four months old. I got in touch with the Editor through a friend and it looks like I may be writing for them every now and then.

To start with, they asked me to write about their agony uncle. This agony uncle lives in Turkey and is called ‘Brother Trust’ (or Guven Abi in Turkish). Given that the main preoccupation of women is men (just as the main preoccupation of men is women), it’s much more logical for a women’s magazine to have an agony uncle than an agony aunt!

In his first article, he recounts his conversation with the Editor and how she persuaded him to take up the position. In his hesitation, he asks her ‘I don’t know anything about the concerns of Turkish speaking women over there…what am I supposed to write?’ That got me thinking.

I guess, in general, every woman has similar concerns (like every man does). But there are perhaps two main differences for a Turkish speaking woman (or man) in the UK (for that matter any immigrant in any country).

The first one is about format: having to write Turkish using an English keyboard. Well, OK, this one is only valid for speakers of languages that use hybrid alphabets. Those who are not as lazy as I am download Turkish software or buy Turkish keyboards. But I am lazy. So sometimes, letters i, o, u, g, s, c, appear in the most inconvenient places (that is, instead of ı, ö, ü, ğ, ş, ç). This leads to a particularly funny mistake every now and then when i gets mistaken for ı which turns the Turkish word ‘bored’ to ‘f****d’….it’s not impossible to be both at the same time but that usually is not what the writer wishes to convey….apologies for lowering the tone.

The second is about content. It’s the very fact of living abroad. To borrow the phrase I used in a recent post: that is the problem of being ‘twice a stranger’. I’ve adapted well to British society (or shall I say London?) but even so there is always something missing. Although I’ve been only very rarely made to feel a stranger, there is something missing. But we are strangers to Turkey, too. On holiday in southern Turkey a few years ago, someone asked me: ‘you speak very good Turkish, where did you learn?’ I laughed at it at the time but can you imagine how (unintentionally) hurtful a question this could be? Never mind.

I guess other than these two, the concerns and problems are the same. There are Turkish speaking women here who, despite living half an hour’s bus ride away, have never been to central London; just as there are women in Istanbul who have never seen the sea. Then, there are those like me who live more closely with the rest of the British society, and, whose foreignness and gender have not been obstacles for them, but nevertheless long to hear a dear one say ‘canim, bir tanem, hayatim’ (my soul, my one and only, my life…wonderful terms of endearment). I am not saying these words come easily to Turkish speaking men or when said are actually meant whatever the language.

What’s clear is that Turkey we miss and Turkey we’ve missed out on are two different but equally worthy places to long for. But perhaps having such longings is what makes one more appreciative of what’s there as well as what’s missing.