Hope Never Requires Action
There was no flash photography allowed inside, which was fine. He admired the blue interior in real time. 20,000 tiles, hand painted with tulips, trees and fruits. Intricate geometrical designs and Quranic verses written in sweeping calligraphy.
He texted Zola.
You were right. Definitely worth the detour.
He spent even more time in the park outside the mosque. Friends chatting around tables. Students out of school for the summer. He didn’t know hijabs came in animal print. These were the pictures he wanted to take. Snap, snap. He started conversations. The Turkish people were curious about him too.
A security guard waved him over. He was tall, with a big belly, a beard, and a few grays that put him in his 40s, but a baby face that put him in his sophomore year of college.
“What magazine do you work for?”
“Oh, these are just for me,” the photographer replied. “But I am doing an assignment for Outpost Magazine. How did you guess?”
“You have more patience than most tourists,” he said, smiling.
It wasn’t patience. Just nerves.
“I’m Kerem,” the guard extended his hand.
“Tahir.” They shook.
“Tahir from America?”
“Did somebody tell you I was coming?”
The guard grinned. Tahir imagined that in 30 years he would make an excellent candidate for Santa Claus.
“It’s your accent,” Kerem said. He invited Tahir to sit on a nearby bench, and they continued their conversation.
Kerem talked to no end, and listened like it was part of his security detail.
“So, what will you take pictures of here in Turkey?”
“Actually I’m doing a piece on refugees. I’m on my way to Izmir. I understand that’s where many refugees leave for Greece,” Tahir added, seeking confirmation.
Kerem lit up. “Izmir, that’s where I’m from! Yes, yes, many refugees there. It’s unfortunate, but you are doing a good thing! We need more people like you.”
The jolly guard pulled out his phone. “When you are there, you must visit my cousin.” He pulled up an address and gave it to Tahir. “He has a restaurant in Izmir on the boardwalk. You must!”
Asirlik Tatlar Ve Sanantlar
Tahir was cruising up the Bosphorus when Vincent called.
“Vince, my man, good looks. This shit is real!”
An Ottoman fortress on the European side. A summer palace to the east.
“Did you get my message?” Vince asked.
“No. What’s up?”
History gave way to expensive nightclubs and waterfront restaurants with piers at the foot of forested hills.
“They pulled the story, that’s what’s up. It’s not happening.”
“What? Why?” The spray caught Tahir in the face, and he turned around.
“They feel like it’s been done before. They’re saying it’s old news.”
“There’s no way this is old news! Do you know how many people are here at this point?”
“Believe me, I understand. But you know how it is, they’re ‘going in a different direction…’”
Tahir didn’t actually know how it was. He hadn’t been in the business long enough to know how it was.
“…Long story short, they’re not going to foot the bill for your time there. They’ll cover one night and the cost of changing your return flight, but that’s it.”
“You’re fucking with me, right?”
“I wish I was, but I’m not. This is the game. It is what it is. So what do you want to do? I can set you up in a hotel near the water – great lounge, late check out – then get you a return flight for tomorrow afternoon.”
Tahir summoned all the patience in his jet-lagged body not to hang up on Vince.
“Do I still have the reservation in Izmir?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuckit, I’ll go anyway, spend some time out there.”
He watched the nightclubs thin out, replaced by mansions with manicured lawns and private yachts.
“Alright man,” Vince said, “if that’s what you want. But remember, after the first night, you’re on your own dime. Call me tomorrow to let me know what you wanna do, and I’ll book your return flight.”
“Alright, peace.” Tahir hung up.
He got off the ferry at Kadikoy Pier, and just like that, he left Europe for Asia.
Vince’s news drained Tahir, and after the one-hour flight to Izmir, he collapsed in his hotel room.
The next morning, he woke up early to the booming oscillations of the morning call to prayer. He rolled out of bed, popped an espresso capsule into the machine. Nice hotel. He opened the curtains to see shards of sunlight falling across rows of bodies along the sidewalk. A police officer arrived, and the people, carrying armfuls of plastic bags and pillows, ambled away towards a nearby park.
He called Vince. There was no way the refugee crisis was stale. This would be his story. He just needed to find new insights – the underbelly of an already wretched story.
“Listen to me Tahir,” Vince said. “It sucks they pulled the story, but this shit happens all the time. You’ll get something else.”
“Vince, I got a new angle. Just put in a word for me with the editor, ok?”
“That’s not how this business works Tahir. You’re great. Outpost knows that. They’ll pick you up again. But don’t push it on this story. You don’t wanna mess things up this early.”
“I won’t. I think she’ll like this.” Tahir grabbed a copy of the magazine from his suitcase. Inside he found a double-sided, laminated card that explained his job in Turkish and in Arabic and asked for permission to take photos. He stuffed both into his backpack. Now that he didn’t have a translator, he would need these more than ever.
“Just keep me on her radar, ok? Keep this alive.”
He put a fresh battery in his camera, and set out in the direction of the displaced bodies.
Click "Listen in Browser" for an Aural Journey
Tahir walked towards a neighborhood known as Basmane, and as the streets narrowed, the sounds of Turkish disappeared, replaced by the more emphatic, guttural sounds of Arabic. Young men hawked SIM cards on crowded streets. Older men in newsboy caps sat around plastic tables in the shade of PepsiCo umbrellas. Children idled away the morning with broken hula-hoops and frayed jump ropes. Mothers watched from square holes in the apartment buildings where windows should have been.
Clothing stores spilled over with candy orange life vests. The stores seemed to swell with all the air-filled inner tubes and puffy life jackets that filled their racks.
Snap snap.
A grocer stood by the entrance to his store, between piles of fruit and waterproof ponchos. Everywhere, there were signs of sea travel and hope.
Tahir stopped to talk to the man. He didn’t understand English, so Tahir handed him his double-sided card. The grocer smiled and straightened up for his photo.
Snap, snap. People were the same, everywhere. As Tahir was sharing the picture with the man, his son came out. The man pushed his son towards Tahir and said something in Arabic.
“You are from news?” his son asked.
“Yes.” Tahir showed the young man his card and magazine.
“Welcome. You come about Syrians?”
“Yes.”
“We are Syrians too, but here for many years.”
Tahir learned that the family lived in a one-bedroom apartment above the store, but they let a mother of four sleep in the office with her children. Neither father nor son could remember how many families they had housed since the war started.
The morning was peppered with similar exchanges. Every time people read his card, they smiled and stood up straight, fixing their shirts and tidying their hair.
Snap, snap.
Tahir collected one story after another this way. But lurking at the back of his mind was always the fear that Outpost wouldn’t find it new.
Snap. Snap. He questioned every photo he took. Where he used to see individual differences, he now saw a sea of similarities. Similar features, similar ragged clothing. Similar cries from similarly tired babies.
“Similar features, similar ragged clothing. Similar cries from similarly tired babies.”
He wound his way through the Byzantine maze of refugees, searching for an angle that would be acceptably “new,” until, worn out from the heat, the stories, and all his second-guessing, he found his way out of the neighborhood and onto Fevsi Pasa Blvd.
The cavernous Kizlaragasi Han Bazaar was a cool break from an aimless walk in the sun. He walked through high arches, past fat bags of spices and mounds of dried fruits. He walked beneath hand-painted lanterns and past piles of chewy Turkish delight.
He stopped at a jewelry stall staffed by three young women who looked just as excited to be there as the tourists passing through.
He admired the jewelry. Through words and hand gestures, he learned that they painted the beads by hand.
“From Syria,” one of the women said.
“You, or the jewelry?” Tahir ventured.
She nodded and smiled.
“May I take your picture?” he asked.
He pulled out his laminated card, along with his copy of Outpost Magazine.
“Okay,” she said shyly, after reading the card.
The women smiled and arranged themselves around the stall, open hands pointing to the bracelets and necklaces for sale. Snap, snap.
They brought over a man from the neighboring carpet stall. The man’s English was much better, though still limited. Tahir learned that the women were selling jewelry from his stall.
He had moved from Syria to Izmir with his wife 25 years ago. They had set up the carpet stall a few years after that and had been in business ever since. Now with the influx of refugees, they let some of the women sell crafts from their stall to earn money for their families.
“Better than other jobs,” the man said. He shook his head. “Very bad jobs for Syrians now. Dangerous. Bad people. Very bad.”
Tahir took a quick shower back at the hotel before heading off to find Kerem’s cousin. He walked listening to music, familiar beats playing against an unfamiliar setting. For the first time since he had arrived in the port city, he saw Izmir’s waterfront. A wide, stone boardwalk. A narrow, parallel lawn, where teenagers laid out on their backs. Apartments with colorful restaurants at the bottom. People sitting on balconies, smoking and laughing with friends. Red and white Turkish flags everywhere.
The restaurant was set against the boardwalk, with clear views of the ocean lapping the rocky embankment. Inside, exposed stone walls made you feel like you were in a grotto.
Courtyard (Purple and Blue)
An older gentleman greeted him.
“Hello, my name is Tahir and I was told by Kerem in Istanbul to stop by here and ask for Omer. Do you know him?”
The older man laughed. “I hope, this my son. Kerem, this my brother’s son. Welcome! Please sit.” He showed Tahir to a table.
“Thank you.”
“I get Omer. Forgive me, my English is not well but Omer much better.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
Omer was shorter than Kerem and younger – closer to Tahir’s own age – but he shared Kerem’s broad smile.
“I am Omer. Kerem told me you may visit,” he extended his hand. “Welcome to Izmir!”
Omer peered out the window at the available tables. “Let’s sit outside and enjoy the view.” He grabbed a bottle of wine from the bar, and they headed out.
“Your father was right,” Tahir said as they ate olives and bread. “Your English is very good. Maybe even better than mine.”
Omer’s voice dipped when he laughed. “I lived in California for almost eight years. I went to school at USC.”
“Got it,” Tahir said. “Straight outta Compton.” They both laughed.
“How long have you been here?” Tahir asked.
“I came back to Izmir four years ago, when I took over the restaurant from my father.”
He mopped up olive oil with his bread. “I have to tell you, you’re lucky you met Kerem. This is the best seafood place in Izmir.” He grinned and waved over a waiter.
The seafood came out with a tall bottle of something that looked like vodka.
Omer picked up the bottle. “Do you like raki?”
“We’re about to find out.”
Omer filled their glasses halfway with the national drink of Turkey. When he added water, it turned white, like something in an afterschool science special.
“You’re a photojournalist, is that right?”
Tahir blinked. The afterschool special turned out to be 90 proof.
“Yes. I am.”
“Kerem was so excited to meet you. He couldn’t stop talking about it. He expects you to kick start our democracy.” Omer served Tahir some fish. “But no pressure,” he added, smiling.
“Oh yeah? How is that?”
“I don’t know how much you know about Turkish politics –”
“I’ve been reading up,” Tahir said.
Omer spoke of the current president, who was on the fast track to becoming a dictator, and who found freedom of speech especially distasteful.
Tahir sighed. “Unfortunately the magazine just pulled my article, so I’m not sure I’ll be much help in kick starting your democracy.”
After grilled fish, mezze, fried calamari and several bottles of rosé, Tahir conceded that Omer’s family was, indeed, in the right business.
“Food and beverage,” Omer announced. “That’s my specialty.”
Tahir stayed for one more bottle of wine, soaking up Turkish politics and Omer’s reflections on the country.
“You know, I’m disappointed that they pulled your article, but I’m not surprised,” Omer said.
“They’re saying the crisis has already been covered,” Tahir said. “It’s not ‘news’ anymore. But I think we’ve hardly scratched the surface.”
“Exactly!” Omer replied. “I think it’s difficult. Requires patience.”
Tahir told Omer about the bazaar and what the carpet seller had said.
Omer nodded. Going to Greece was very expensive for most of the Syrians, even in a little rubber boat, and there weren’t many legitimate work options for refugees.
“Syrians are very vulnerable here, and there is always someone who wants to take advantage of the vulnerable.”
Tahir put down his wine.
“I am hopeful that things will work themselves out,” Omer continued, “but hope alone will not stop the current wave. Hope never requires action. Do you understand?”
“Yes…I do.”
The wheels of Tahir’s mind were spinning. Something was coming together. A story was just out of reach.
“So, how long will you be in Izmir? Tahir?”
“Huh? I’m sorry. I’m not sure anymore…” Tahir’s mind had briefly wondered.
“If you’re still here on Thursday, you should come to Cęsme with me and some friends!”
Tahir barely registered Omer’s invitation, but responded anyway.
“Yes, that sounds great. Thanks very much. Can I let you know when I figure out my plans? I think I may have found a story after all!”
He was just out of the restaurant when he pulled out his phone to text Vince.
Definitely a story here. Possible sweatshops ?? Call me.
“...There is always someone who wants to take advantage of the vulnerable.”
“…Hello?” He cleared his throat. It was 1:00 am.
“Hello Tahir, Caroline Peters here, from Outpost Magazine.
Tahir rubbed his eyes and sat up.
Caroline wanted him to know that the refugee crisis had been widely covered and the editorial board had not been able to find any new angles. She said the editorial board didn’t go back and forth with their creative artists.
“All this to say that you shouldn’t expect calls like this regularly.”
“I understand.”
“But, Vincent mentioned you may have a new story… something about sweatshops?”
“Yes.”
Apparently exploitation was a new angle.
“Tell me about it. Have you been in yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“But you know where they are?”
“I have the neighborhood located.” Hopefully the sweatshops were actually in Basmane.
“And you have a lead?”
“Yes.” Hopefully the carpet seller actually had information.
“How soon can you get in? Never mind. I’m going to need to know what you have in the next 24 hours if I’m going to send a writer out there. I’ll call you this time tomorrow.”
She started to hang up.
“No,” she said on second thought. “It’s late there isn’t it? Let’s call earlier. 2pm here. 9pm your time.”
Caroline Peters of Outpost hung up.
The next day, the bead makers were gone, but the stall owner remembered him.
“How can I help you today?”
“I would like to learn more about life in Basmane,” he said. “Yesterday you said that selling jewelry is a good job for the young women. You said it is much better than other jobs. Can you tell me more about that? What did you mean?” He showed the man the same laminated card and magazine he had showed the young women the day before.
The carpet seller didn’t know the word sweatshop, or if he did, he didn’t use it, but he described as much.
“Do you know where they work?”
He didn’t know where any of the workshops were, but when Tahir asked where the beads were made, he lit up and gave Tahir an address.
Turkish Delight
The address took Tahir to a beauty parlor two blocks from the train station. A woman standing in the doorway was surprised when he stopped at her door. As she read his card, one of the bead makers saw him and waved. Minutes later, the three women came out, along with several others. They invited him to photograph them in front of the salon and posed with their latest jewelry creations.
After taking several photos, he explained why he was there.
Yes, bead making was good work, they agreed. The salon, too, was very good work. They worked for themselves.
But when he asked about the other jobs, they turned quiet.
“Sewing,” one suggested.
“Clothes,” someone else said.
But that was all he got.
Snap, snap.
He stopped at a coffee shop and used bookstore. Near the front, a teenager in a hijab was reading a worn paperback, while two younger children ran around. She snapped at them once in a while and each time apologized to the storeowner, who waved away her embarrassment with his hand. In the far back, two boys picked through the titles on a bookshelf.
The owner welcomed Tahir and offered him a seat anywhere he would like. He sat down near the counter and ordered some Turkish tea.
The owner’s English was good. Tahir learned that, like the owner of the carpet stall and the grocer the day before, the man had relocated from Syria decades ago. He had started collecting Arabic books for his children, and when they grew up, he put the books on sale in his coffee shop. He had found it difficult to part with the books, and, in reality, many of his customers couldn’t afford them, so the bookshop had become more of a library.
“I feel happy to see young Syrians come to read and learn their culture. I only wish they were here under different circumstances,” he said, trying to straighten out the corners of a book that was clearly well loved.
Tahir told the bookseller about his work, and invited him to sit down.
“Do the children go to Arabic-language schools or do they go to the Turkish schools?”
The man grimaced, “most of them do not go to school. That is also why I am happy to see them here.”
“What do they do all day when they’re not here?”
“You can see them, in the streets. Many others want to help their families so they find a little work.”
“What do they do for work?”
“They work in shops. Or they make things.”
Tahir told him about his article. “I can’t seem to get much information from people.”
“Well,” the bookseller said, “if you make a story, maybe the bad treatment stops, but then they also lose their jobs. And without work, they cannot get to Greece.”
The man studied Tahir.
“I don’t know if this will make things better or worse, but I know one person who can maybe help you. Can you come back at 6:00?”
“Yes, thank you.”
If the bookseller could help him, he would just make it before Caroline’s 9:00 deadline.
“If you make a story, maybe the bad treatment stops...”
At 6:00 the bookseller, whose name was Ousama, closed his store and led Tahir through a series of winding streets until they got to an electronics store. At the back of the store, they climbed a narrow flight of stairs ending in a one-room apartment that was overflowing with children. The kids flocked to Ousama, who hugged them and made funny faces until their mothers called them back. They stared bashfully at Tahir and his camera, and Tahir smiled.
“Tahir, I would like you to meet Marwa.” Ousama introduced a very pregnant woman with beautiful green eyes. Tahir introduced himself and pulled out his copy of Outpost Magazine.
Ousama spoke rapidly as she paged through the magazine. But when Ousama started to translate Tahir’s questions, she shook her head.
A boy ran up to Ousama with a book in his hands, but Marwa sent him off.
An argument. Polite, then increasingly heated. Tahir’s guide and the woman who could help him. Their voices dipped and rose. The room grew quiet until only Ousama and Marwa were talking. After what seemed like only five minutes, it was time to go.
Back in the electronics store, Ousama explained that Marwa’s son had lost his finger in one of the sweatshops.
“Marwa was very upset. She will not let him go back, and she tells all of the kids she meets that they should not be there. She tells their parents too.”
“Why didn’t she want to talk?”
He sighed. “Many of her friends work in the same shop, and they need the money. I’m afraid it is like I told you.”
Ousama shook his head and continued, “I believe she would work in the shop if she could. Maybe she will after her baby comes. But I hope she is not here so long.”
Outside the electronics store, Tahir thanked Ousama, who asked for pictures and the article when Tahir finished. Tahir took his email address and promised pictures. He didn’t want to promise an article that may never happen.
7:00. Tahir was searching Google maps for his location when a woman touched his arm.
She pointed towards the second floor of the building. “Ousama.”
She had been in the room.
Her English was virtually non-existent, but using gestures, she directed him to follow her down the street. They reached a clothing store and turned inside. She grabbed a life vest off the rack and shook it.
“You work in the shops?”
“No good.” She shook the vest again. “No good.” She made a stuffing motion.
“You make these?”
She held out her hand. She held it low, by her side, beneath a rack of t-shirts, so no one else could see.
Tahir looked at his phone. 7:20. He gave her 50 lira. She wanted more. He gave her another 50.
“I have no more.” He showed her his empty wallet.
She nodded.
“You make these?” he asked again, pointing to the life vest.
She squeezed the vest and wiped her eyes. “No good.” She threw it aside and hurried out of the store.
“Where do you work?” he said, running after her.
Without stopping, she pointed across the street.
Tahir followed her finger. “The car shop?”
She nodded once. She was hurrying back towards the electronics store.
“You make them in the car shop?” he clarified.
A series of quick nods.
He wasn’t confident she had understood him, but before he could say anything else, she disappeared into the store.
Tahir looked up and saw a face in the window. Marwa? He thought better of following the woman back in.
Back to the clothing store. He found the vest on the floor where she’d thrown it. No distinguishing marks. No brand label. He paid for it at the register.
Across the street: Arslan Otomotiv. A big, round sign with cursive writing. White on red. Reminiscent of a Coca-Cola bottle top.
Tahir gave the men working his card.
They smiled and stood up straight, like everyone else, thrilled to be his photo subjects.
Snap, snap, snap.
They showed him around the shop and posed for photos.
Point. Click. Shoot.
Point…Point…Point...
From behind his camera lens he scanned each area for unmarked doors, stray bits of orange fabric, or other evidence of a hidden workshop. Nothing.
Point. Click. Shoot.
The men waved and smiled as he left.
Ordinary Love
Walking back without a story, he couldn’t miss the throngs of people settling in around the hotel. Not loitering, but using the pavement for beds – one square per person. Disheveled and desperate.
A man leaning against a wall. A black, plastic garbage bag in place of a blanket. Toes poking through his socks.
Snap, snap, snap.
No time for his little laminated card. No point either.
A man lying on a crunchy tarp with a rolled up sweatshirt for a pillow. There wasn’t enough tarp to wrap around his body. How did he choose between a mattress and a blanket?
No one seemed to notice Tahir, or if they did, they didn’t care. People had stared before, and people would stare again.
One exception. A little boy, awake, among so many grown, sleeping bodies. He looked like the sole survivor of a shipwreck.
“May I take your picture?” Tahir held up his camera and pointed to it.
The boy tracked Tahir with his eyes, but he didn’t move.
“Picture?” Tahir repeated, approaching.
Snap, snap.
The little boy looked at the camera. Tahir moved closer, offering to show him how it worked. He was two feet away when the boy sprang towards him and tried to smash the camera with his fist.
Tahir pulled back. The boy went for it again, but he couldn’t reach above Tahir’s head. Missing the camera, the boy punched Tahir in the face.
Bone on cartilage. Tahir grabbed his nose with his free hand. The boy froze, looking from Tahir to his fist, back to Tahir.
“It’s ok,” Tahir said. He felt a wetness just above his lip.
“It’s o –”
The boy bolted towards the park, the sounds of his footsteps disappearing under the hum of distant traffic.
Ice machines, like college sports and cookie-flavored cereal, were uniquely American, so when Tahir got back to his room he soaked a washcloth in cold water and put it over his eye.
It was almost 7:00 in London. Most likely Zola was still at her desk, working into the night, but allowing herself the occasional distraction on social media. He pulled out his cell phone.
Hey
Zola is typing…
A call came in before he could see Zola’s message.
“Hello?”
This time Caroline had the art director on the phone, as well as the writer who would be working with Tahir. They were all very excited about the new story and eager to see the day’s shots.
The writer got started while Caroline scrolled through the photos.
“Tahir? It’s Lawrence Griffin here. Can you tell me a little more about the industry and the employees?”
“Mostly young women. Some children.”
“Children? What ages?”
“It’s still unclear.”
“Textile industry?”
“Yes. And life jackets.”
A pause.
“Life jackets?” Lawrence repeated.
“Yes. It’s actually kind of racket because Syrians are the main buyers of life jackets here. You can see the rows and rows of them in my – “
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Caroline said, “but I can’t find the photos. Are you sure this is everything?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“But the sweatshop. Where are the sweatshop pictures?”
Tahir didn’t have an answer, at least not an answer Caroline Peters wanted.
Lawrence the writer started asking Tahir more about his leads, but Caroline interrupted. “You did find the sweatshops, Tahir?”
“No,” Tahir finally said. “Not yet.”
Caroline took a deep breath. “Clearly there’s no story here.” She was annoyed. “And if there is, it’s not one we’re going to find before the deadline. In the future, please respect the decisions of the editorial board. Vincent has always referred good talent to us. I imagine the same is true for other publications. It would serve you well not to abuse your friend’s good reputation.”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Have a safe flight back.” She hung up.
He thumbed through the pictures on his camera, and stopped at the boy. His shirt hung on him like a jacket on a coat rack. He could’ve been six, or he could’ve been 12. It was impossible to tell, he was so small and thin.
His phone flashed.
Zola: How’s it going?
Tahir: Haven’t gotten bored yet.
He dialed Omer. “Is the invitation for tomorrow still open?”
Aegean Sea(thru)
“Tahir, please meet my girlfriend, Elena and her sister, Yaren.”
“Hello,” Tahir said, waving to two young women in the backseat.
He glanced in the side mirror. Omer hadn’t said anything about his eye, so he hoped it wasn’t noticeable.
“Yaren also studied in the U.S.,” Omer said. “She just returned!”
“Really?” Tahir looked back.
Yaren nodded and smiled. “In New York City. At Parsons.”
“You’re an artist?”
“Well, yes. I am a designer, but I am currently not earning any money as a designer.”
“Then you are definitely an artist.” They all laughed.
“Omer said you came to Izmir for a story. How is it going?” Elena asked.
“No story in the end.” It sounded worse aloud than he had imagined.
Omer offered some conciliation. “Well, you’ll just have to enjoy our beautiful beaches then!”
On the hour-long drive to Cęsme, they shared stories of their work, dreams and travels.
“Unlike me,” Omer said, “dear Yaren doesn’t want to return to the States.”
“Why’s that?”
“She didn’t like the people. Hated them.”
“Omer!” Yaren slapped him on the shoulder, and he laughed.
“I liked my time very much, and I have some very good friends there now.” She took a deep breath. “But yes, the people in New York can be a little…cold? Do you know what I mean?”
“Definitely,” Tahir said.
“Where are you from?”
“New York.”
Her eyes grew wide in the rearview mirror.
“I’m just messing with you. I’m from Chicago.” They all laughed.
The red had already started rising in her cheeks. It stopped at a medium pink.
Babylon was their first stop.
“Today, we beach club hop,” Omer announced as they were escorted to lounge chairs on the sunny, oceanfront deck. “Cęsme style-ee!” Omer explained that many big Istanbul nightclubs moved to Cęsme as beach clubs in the summertime.
Babylon Life
Give me a run for my money. There is nobody, no one to outrun me. So give me a run for my money. Sippin’ bubbly, feelin’ lovely, livin’ lovely. Just love me.
Tahir’s joint. And clearly it was Yaren’s too. No sooner had they put down their things, she started dancing to the song as if they were shooting the music video.
He didn’t mind. Yaren was lovely, and she knew good music too. He joined the designer while Omer was dancing with Elena and gave thanks for sisters.
They ordered some drinks and enjoyed the DJ’s mix. Tahir relished the day with his new friends, swimming, drinking, talking, eating, and laughing.
At the third club, sun drunk and a little tipsy, the group abandoned their cabana for a swim in the ocean.
The water was cool and clear, instantly refreshing.
Tahir swam towards the edge of the cove, Yaren close behind him, an endless blue expanse before them.
“I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave,” he said, as they floated on a pair of forgotten foam noodles. Life was good. He had no qualms with Turkey or Cęsme. No qualms with his new friends or the day’s DJs. At this moment, on the Aegean, he couldn’t even complain about Outpost Magazine or Caroline Peters.
Yaren stretched out her legs and pointed her toes. “There are lots of problems in Turkey, but I feel that when you live in a place for long enough it becomes a part of you. You know?”
Tahir nodded. “Of course.”
“I don’t talk about this often, but I think there’s a real future in design here. Rich traditions. You’ve been to Istanbul?”
“Yes.”
“Think about all the Byzantine and Ottoman artwork you see.”
“One-of-a-kind,” Tahir acknowledged.
“Have you noticed that there aren’t drawings of people on any of the mosques?”
The 20,000 tiles of the Blue Mosque floated across his cerebrum. “Now that you mention it, yes.”
As Yaren explained it, Muslims believed it was sacrilegious to draw humans because it was like reproducing life – taking on the role of the creator.
“It seems like that would be limiting, but I think it is liberating! It stretches your mind. Pushes you to think about new patterns and designs.”
“I can see that,” Tahir said, nodding. “I like that.”
“So for centuries artists have put their creativity into other images – beautiful calligraphy, geometrical designs, and flowers. We have such rich designs here, and I think if the world could see that, it would help Turkey and also help more people see the beauty in Islam.”
Tahir thought about Zola. She would love this.
“Plus, I think it will help the artists here. I don’t think it should just be me, or people like me, doing this. You don’t have to go to Parsons to be a great artist and a great designer – ” she cut off.
“I’m sorry, I’m talking so much.”
“No, not at all! Your vision reminds me of a good friend.”
She smiled. They relaxed under a naked sun in a cloudless sky. Without the sound of small waves breaking behind them, they could just as well have been adrift forty miles out.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Hm?”
“Your eye.”
Tahir chuckled, “Is it that obvious?”
“Only up close,” Yaren replied. She was less than a foot from him.
He shook his head. “Oh man, you were just starting to like me too.”
The medium pink from the car returned to her cheeks.
“It was a bar fight.”
“Really?” Her eyes expanded like dark sponges.
“Definitely,” he said, furrowing his brow, “and if you think this is bad, you should’ve seen the other guy.”
The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile and she punched him playfully.
“You’re teasing me!”
He laughed. “You make it too easy!”
When she smiled, he could see a tiny gap between her front two teeth.
Tahir dragged his fingers through the water. “The truth is, I was trying to take some pictures last night, and a little boy punched me.” It sounded even more ridiculous than he had expected.
“In the hotel?”
“No. On the street.” He laid out the scene.
“It’s my fault. I was worried about getting a story. I try to ask permission before taking photos, but when I asked he didn’t answer, and I didn’t wait. Actually,” Tahir continued, “he tried to smash my camera first, and when I pulled it away, his fist met up with my face. I guess maybe he didn’t want me to take his picture because it would be sacrilege, as you said?”
Yaren shook her head. “I don’t think so. Most Muslims today are fine with photographs. Think about all the photos you’ve taken here. I think maybe he just wanted some pride and…what’s the word…dignity?”
“How do you mean?”
“You said he was with many people who were sleeping on the streets, yes? Well, would you like having your picture taken when you are dirty and tired and unprepared?”
Tahir was always looking to explain conflicts by the differences between people. But maybe there were better explanations in the similarities.
“That boy. He was a refugee, you know?” Yaren said.
“Yes. I was originally sent to write about the refugees.”
She gathered her long, wet hair in her hands. “I pray the world will see and start to do something.”
“How can we make them see what’s really going on here without hurting people’s dignity?”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know. You have a difficult job.”
“It stretches your mind. Pushes you to think about new patterns and designs.”
After dinner, the four friends headed back to the car. Cesme was exactly how you would imagine a Mediterranean village. Small homes on cobblestone streets. Pink and purple bougainvillea spilling over the stucco walls. More flowers than wall. Snap, snap, snap.
In his pocket, Tahir’s phone buzzed.
“Maybe it’s a magazine that wants your story?” Yaren suggested.
Tahir looked at his phone. “If only. Excuse me, I’ll just be a minute.”
“Where you at man? I been trying to get ahold of you.”
“Sorry Vince. I’ve been at the beach. What’s up?”
“I heard about the photos.”
“Yeah man, I’m sorry.” He thought about Caroline’s warning from the night before. “I should have listened to you.”
“You’re funny. But for real, cover page?? Anyway, I’m glad to hear you’re celebrating. Well-deserved. I just wanted to say congrats!”
“What? Wait! What are you talking about?” Tahir was caught off guard.
After last night’s phone call, Caroline must have looked closely at Tahir’s photos again. Apparently one image had stood out: a boy, awake and alone in a sea of sleeping men. They were going to feature it on the cover. The art director had suggested it might even be the next “Afghan Girl.”
The lahmacun in Tahir’s stomach turned over.
“They can’t use that one.”
“What?”
Tahir had to repeat it twice before Vince understood him.
“What? Why man? Isn’t this what you wanted? More coverage of what’s happening there? For people to know what’s going on? Your first big magazine piece?”
“It is. I really appreciate everything you’ve done –everything you’re doing. It just can’t be that picture.”
“What are you talking about man? I put my reputation on the line for you. My credit at this bank is limited.”
Tahir wondered what Vince knew about the meeting from the day before.
He looked down the narrow alleyway, out towards the sea and Greece beyond.
“They can’t use that one. I’m sorry. We can talk about it later.”
“It’s outta my hands now, T. Caroline’s the one making that call.”
“Ok. I’ll call her.”
Tahir passed through the alleyway to a rocky patch of beach –unwanted real estate as far as the clubs were concerned – for a few final shots before they left. Sunset over the Aegean. Snap. Snap. Snap. He couldn’t hurt anyone with a simple landscape. There was no way to get it wrong.
Orange light fell over the water, causing it to shimmer - a sea of painted glass. Then darkness, like a cloak over a magician’s hat. Suddenly, almost imperceptibly, a flicker appeared in the dark sea.
The flicker moved nearer, and when it started yelling, Tahir realized it was a person. He ran down the rocky path, camera smacking against his chest, rough stones cutting into the soles of his sandals, until, up to his waist in water, he reached the drowning man.
The man grabbed his forearm, but instead of coming to shore, he kept reaching backwards, thrashing his free arm and pulling Tahir with him.
Tahir followed the direction of the man’s reach with his eyes and realized there was another flicker. The reflectors of a second life vest?
“More people?” Tahir asked before yelling for help.
Reaching the shore, the man collapsed. He was so out of breath and so distressed that even an Arabic-speaking policeman had trouble understanding hm.
Eventually they discerned that he wanted to salvage his ripped rubber raft.
He begged to go back out and get it, but the man’s little raft had long since disappeared.
He broke down. He had a wife and three children waiting for him in Greece. Twice already he had paid smugglers to make the trip on a bigger boat, and twice the attempts had failed.
As he cried, he fought with the buckles on his life vest. Finally he wrenched it off and threw it aside.
Tahir picked it up. It was soaked through.
“Tahir!”
He looked up. Yaren and the others had arrived and found him on the dark beach.
“Look at this,” he said. He squeezed the life vest and water poured out.
“He’s lucky he made it to shore.” Omer said.
Limitations, Imagined or Otherwise
1:00 am. Again Tahir was awake, but this time Caroline Peters wasn’t calling. He got up and found the life jacket he had bought two days earlier. He filled the bathtub with water and threw it in. It floated.
He made some tea. Back in the bathroom, he leaned against the sink. He didn’t know what he had been expecting – that it would sink like a rock? It had felt light and airy to hold. He watched the orange horseshoe skate around the tub.
Drinking his tea, he noticed that the bottom of the vest was darker than the top. Twenty minutes later, the vest was completely submerged.
He pulled the vest out, grabbed a pair of scissors from the hotel sewing kit, and snipped at the stitches. When he pulled his hand out of the vest he held a chunk of wet, porous sponge – like a dish-sponge with huge holes.
The next morning, Tahir went into Basmane and bought three life vests from the first seller he passed. Back in his bathroom, he repeated his experiment. After twenty minutes, only one was floating.
He ran his experiment two more times with vests from two more stores. In the end, half the life jackets had sunk. He drained the tub, and the vests sat there in a soaking heap.
Again, out into the streets of Basmane. Shouts and cries in Arabic flooded his ears.
The first storeowner didn’t speak any English and wasn’t worried about figuring out what Tahir had to say. The second spoke some English and didn’t care at all about what Tahir had to say. “You don’t want them, don’t buy them.”
His third trip took him to a men’s clothing store, sandwiched between a snack shop and a cheap hotel. The store was dark, and inside a crowd of young men waited to charge cell phones at a single outlet against the back wall. When Tahir found the shopkeeper, he decided to try a different tactic.
“I make life jackets,” he said, pointing to one of the unlucky horseshoe-shaped vests. “I see you sell them in your shop, but it looks like you need more. I can get you a good deal.”
“I wish you came earlier,” the shopkeeper said, after Tahir named an impossibly low price. “I just bought some of the orange jackets. Higher price than what you offer.”
Tahir learned that the vests were supposed to be delivered that day, so he decided to wait for the drop off at a café across the street.
“Tahir?”
The photographer looked up from his coffee. “Kerem!”
The jovial security guard looked completely in his element in a bright yellow polo, carrying bags of trinkets and snacks. Tahir learned that Kerem and his family were visiting his parents.
“I like to help the businesses here because I know the business owners are helping the refugees.” Kerem said. “And it lets me practice my Arabic. So, what are you doing with all these vests? Helping the businesses too?”
Tahir told Kerem about the jackets, and Kerem looked like he was going to throw up.
“I want to help,” he said.
“Thanks Kerem, but I’m not even sure what I’m doing.”
“When they come to drop off the vests, what will you do?”
“I’m playing it by ear. I might follow them back. I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“You can use my car! And I will wait with you in case they don’t speak English.”
In the end, Tahir didn’t need Kerem’s help because the new delivery of orange vests never arrived. Tahir was reluctant to leave until the store closed, and when the storeowner finally put away his sidewalk displays, Tahir resolved to come at dawn the next day and wait again. Kerem insisted that he would come too.
When Kerem dropped him off at his hotel, Tahir pulled out his phone. A flashing light in the corner announced a missed call and voice message.
Caroline. She was excited about the little boy’s photo. They were incorporating it.
He didn’t wait to hear the rest. How could he have forgotten to call?
She picked up on the first ring. “Tahir! I’m glad you called!”
The call went downhill from there.
He talked about dehumanization. She talked about sales and deadlines.
“You think I’m working against you, Tahir, but I’m not. We can’t inform and inspire if we go out of business. And let me ask you this, how else will we get people to think about this topic and address the problem if not with pictures of what’s really happening?”
Tahir had asked Yaren the very same question less than 24 hours before.
“You’re very passionate, which shows through in your work. But unless you have something else – something better – by 3pm EST tomorrow, we’re taking the issue to print with that cover shot.
Click "Listen in Browser" for an Aural Journey
When Kerem arrived the next morning, he had Fela Kuti playing on the radio. It was the first time Tahir had smiled in hours. Kerem was full of surprises.
“Let’s do this!” Kerem said, like someone who had watched one too many action movies, and they pulled away from the curb.
As Kerem rounded the corner, Tahir nearly jumped out of his seat.
“Stop!” he yelled.
It was the boy.
“Is something wrong?”
“How do you say I’m sorry in Arabic?”
“What?” Kerem blinked
“How do you say I’m sorry?”
“AH-na AS-sif,” Kerem faltered. “Ana assif.”
Tahir repeated the phrase to himself as he got out.
“What are you doing?” Kerem asked, but Tahir didn’t have time to answer.
He waved to the boy and approached, holding his hands up and away from his camera.
“Ana assif,” he yelled. “I’m sorry!” The boy froze. He was gripping something in his left hand.
“Ana assif,” Tahir repeated.
The boy darted into the park, dropping a handful of bills.
“Wait!”
Tahir picked up the money – 60 lira. It was more than many families could expect in a week.
He ran after the boy. He heard the screech of Kerem’s brakes as his friend followed him to the park’s edge. He couldn’t stop to explain now.
On the other side of the park, Tahir and the boy wove in and out of the cluttered streets that he now knew so well. They passed one shop after another displaying deadly life preservers.
They tumbled down stepped streets and beneath low hanging power lines. They were moving farther from the city center. They cut across a football field, and through an abandoned tea garden. The boy turned one corner and then another before Tahir could catch up.
Tahir stood at a quiet intersection, among dilapidated buildings. He was listening for the boy’s footsteps, trying to hear over the blood pulsing in his ears, when he noticed a familiar red-and-white sign. Cursive writing. It reminded him of a Coca-Cola ad.
Arslan Otomotiv. It had the same name and logo as the body shop he had investigated two days earlier.
He approached the shop. Light came through a gap at the base of the garage door.
He pressed his ear against the corrugated metal.
Women talking quietly. Then two small voices. The hum of sewing machines. He circled the garage, looking for a way in. Unable to find anything, he knocked lightly and slid his card under the door.
Bare feet running to pick it up.
“It was not easy to find you.” Kerem appeared behind Tahir, panting.
“Shhh.” Tahir pointed at the door and whispered to his friend. “This is it. I think this is where they make the life vests, but I don’t know if there is anyone inside besides the workers. Can you talk to them?”
Kerem spoke through the door. There was a long pause before he got a response.
Just workers.
Yes, they were making life jackets.
Yes, they had been there all night, but they needed to do this work. To help their families and to help the other refugees.
Kerem told them about the vests, and the hum of the sewing machines stopped.
Sultanahmet Camii (Ramadan)
Back at Ataturk Airport.
“Hey,” Tahir answered the phone.
“Have you seen the new cover?” Vince asked.
Heaps of orange jackets in an empty body shop. Scraps of fabric and chunks of the cheap sponge.
“It’s damn good,” Tahir replied.
“Yeah, almost professional.” Vince laughed. “You did it man. I hear you gave Caroline hell, but you did it. You boarding yet?”
Tahir didn’t hear him.
“Tahir?”
Breaking News from the BBC: a boat had capsized in the sea, many bodies recovered and many still missing. The coastguard rescuers were from Izmir.
A boy, sitting all alone, like the sole survivor of a shipwreck, appeared to Tahir. Was he on the boat? No, not likely. What were the odds?
An image impossible to shake loose. A strange feeling, to see death in a body that is alive and to contemplate its conclusion.
Rows 20-40 were now boarding.
He turned away from the TV, put in his ear buds, and forgot to hit play.