Feministanbul

Reprinted from Tales From the Expat Harem: Foreign Women in Modern Turkey; Seal Press; 4th edition (February 22, 2006)

As any woman knows, a sustained savage and searing itch in one’s female regions is – best case scenario — a yeast infection. While common and generally considered a minor inconvenience by most of my peers, it’s not something I discuss openly. Especially with strangers. And never in Turkish. But this is what I had to do. And fast.

My husband and I had been living in İstanbul for over two years since I’d been recruited to run the Turkish subsidiary of a Central Eastern European public relations network. We’d come from Tallinn, Estonia where we’d worked for three years. Unfortunately tonight he was away on business, and while he probably couldn’t have helped it would have been nice to have had him around for moral support. Ailing, I would have to fend for myself in a foreign country, something I normally do well, but I didn’t relish the idea of having to confide in strangers about my intimate complaint, even to a trained pharmacist.

There are no pharmacy chain stores in İstanbul of the kind I was used to in Chicago, Illinois, my hometown. In the United States, people can buy all kinds of potentially embarrassing products off the shelf, from adult incontinence pads to condoms, without even meeting the eyes of another person thanks to self-serve bar-code scanner check-outs and a debit card.

Turkish pharmacies are quite the opposite. Like traditional European bakeries or butchers, eczane are small, often family-owned neighborhood businesses. So, despite İstanbul being a metropolis of twelve million people, it’s impossible to be anonymous when buying personal health items. I really didn’t want the employees of the pharmacy I passed every day on the way to work to know any more about me. They’d already helped me out in the past with remedies for acid reflux and a severe hangover or two; I thought that was detail enough about my life and bodily malfunctions.

Increasing my apprehension over a trip to the eczane, Turkish interactions of all kinds are close and personal, which always causes me serious anxiety. The kissing especially. Which side first? Each encounter is a potential nose bumping fiasco! Americans might hug when greeting family or close friends and kissing is appropriate within immediate family, but is mostly reserved for babies and small children. We do not kiss strangers, for any reason. However, in Turkey kissing on each cheek is the standard greeting and farewell, often even among new acquaintances. And Turks do it smoothly without ever putting a nose in an ear. After two years in the country I still close my eyes for the salutory kiss. What do I think it is, a make-out session? Yet even during the most innocuous transactions, I found that Turks wouldn’t let me go without a genial conversation. The last thing I wanted tonight was small talk while trying to obtain a yeast-busting cocktail.

My situation had become more complicated because by the time I finally conceded that this was no minor allergic reaction to laundry detergent or nylon hosiery it was after 7 p.m. My neighborhood eczane, as much as I dreaded it, was closed. I’d have to track down the designated all-night pharmacy in my area if I wanted any relief. As the on-call pharmacy, it was bound to be crowded. A bit of medical ‘research’ was in order. On the internet I looked up the names of popular over-the-counter remedies in the U.S. I figured these manufacturers exported their products to Turkey. And finally, hoping for a quick and tidy exchange, I got out my Turkish-English dictionary and looked up ‘yeast,’ ‘mold,’ ‘fungus’ and ‘infection.’ I wrote them down: Maya, küf, mantar, enfeksiyon. Then I headed out to my closed pharmacy to check the name and address of that evening’s all-night eczane posted in the window. The place listed was a fifteen-minute, itch-aggravating walk away.

As I set out through the upper class neighborhood, trotting past Versace and Hugo Boss boutiques with my pocketful of potential remedies, I knew the chances of obtaining an antidote and escaping unnoticed were slim. There are often more people in the eczane than have any clear reason for being there. In addition to the employees and customers, the pharmacist’s friends often come to have a chat. Five or six people turn to stare at me instead of just one or two. One time, I opened the eczane door and a guy in a lab coat asked me what I needed before I’d even set foot inside, while the owner put down her glass of tea and her patron/friend with whom she’d been chatting, stubbed out her cigarette, eyeing me up and down, and all the assistants turned to look. Carefully monitored, I made my way to the pharmacist and waited until I could tell him, patient-to-expert, what brand of antihistamine I needed. It wasn’t an intimate purchase, but that still didn’t mean it was for public consumption.

As I don’t speak the language well, I’d managed to steer clear of the congenial small talk for which Turkish people are famous. Meaningful conversations weren’t possible with my limited vocabulary, so most interactions with strangers were trying and awkward. I couldn’t imagine how much more inelegant the conversation would now be given the very personal topic. How was I going to communicate in my current state? Frantic for relief, I was in no mood to chat, but I knew it would be inevitable.

I loped past the flower sellers at the main intersection, rotund women in baggy şalvar pants and cotton headscarves, smoking cigarettes and sitting on large upturned twenty-five liter olive oil cans amid their colorful flowers. They smiled, waving bouquets in my direction as I slid past.

I was mortified, thinking I’d have to detail in my clumsy Turkish something I didn’t even discuss with close friends in my native language. I’d dealt with other feminine discomforts and embarrassing inconveniences in my travels abroad for study in Spain and England backpacking through Europe and Africa after university, so I wasn’t entirely unprepared. The annoyances were minor, though, and didn’t give me much that I could put to use here in İstanbul, where I was for the moment, alone and itchy. The most difficult issue I’d had to contend with was learning, through trial and error, how to use the hole-in-the-floor toilet facilities in Northern Africa. Simple as they are in design, I approached them with the arrogance of one who has mastered the flush toilet. A hole in the floor – how hard could it be? Unfortunately, most of my travel wardrobe consisted of giant cargo pants and nearly floor-length palazzo pants, which I couldn’t seem to keep off the wet ground around the pit. Holding one pant leg up, then pulling the waist down, straddling the hole, losing a pantleg…where’s the paper? Oh, great. That’s what the woman was selling at the entrance. I usually ended up soaking my pant bottoms thoroughly – unless, straining for balance, I lost hold of everything and the pants ended up around my ankles, making me wish I could just leave them there. My current problem was even more embarrassing than walking around with sodden, septic trouser legs. While wet pants might have spoken for themselves, I was the only one who could explain the problem at hand, in bad Turkish, in front of more people than really needed to know.

I continued on in a fast gait past gaudy furniture stores gleaming with overwrought, gilded living room suites, and mangy stray dogs keeping watchful guard over neighborhood children.

I hadn’t been able to glean much from the Turks themselves about intimate topics. Confounded by the co-existence of religious conservatism and big city liberalism around me, being unable to categorize Turks made me agonize even more about discussing my ailing genitals with any of them. If I knew how to classify them, perhaps I’d know how they might react to my current need. Upon entering a pharmacy for a genital disorder, would people spit out their tea in horror, or would my request be par for the course? Was it something they discussed or would I be pelted with glares for broaching a taboo topic?

In all of my travels I had discovered that it isn’t easy to ascertain how a culture handles medical issues before the necessity of treatment occurs. In Tallinn, I found that Eastern Europeans tend to be naturalists, possibly because commercial pharmaceuticals have always been prohibitively expensive. For me, however, flower petals and sea salt positioned on the counter next to an abacus – actually still used to calculate purchases – did not inspire confidence. My employees further mystified me as, while they seemed to become ill with nearly predictable regularity and for weeks at a time, they refused my annual offers for flu shots each November. Perhaps, like me, they felt their health and well-being was private domain, and would have preferred that their boss mind her own business.

On tonight’s quest, the only thing I knew about Turkish medicine was that I could buy most drugs without a prescription. If the pharmacist recognized any of my listed American remedies, I might be out the door before ever finding out what Turks thought of a woman waltzing in with a yeast infection. But what if they misunderstood? What if they thought I was describing a sexually transmitted disease? After all, in many European countries, American and Western women are stereotyped as being loose. I wondered if perhaps these fabled women had been any better equipped than I to explain genital ailments to strangers in foreign languages and, if so, maybe they’d paved the way for me? I should be so lucky.

As I turned left up a steep residential side street, I spotted two middle-aged Turkish women standing before a stunning sequined gown in a store window. One woman, speaking and gesturing, began to smooth her hands over the other woman’s breasts, down over her waist and then her hips, completing an hourglass motion. The tactile description of how the dress might fit didn’t cause the woman being touched to flinch, rather she nodded in agreement as she eyed the glittering gown, and mimicked her friend’s caress over her own bust and midriff. It reminded me that European women often seem more comfortable in their bodies than the women of my culture. In Estonia I’d observed hefty older women struggling to hoist themselves up the steps of a tram. The man or woman waiting to board behind her would place their palms on her ample buttocks, and give her a helpful shove up. Those women didn’t seem to mind having their bottoms touched by strangers and yet here I was terrified at the prospect of talking about a rebellious bit of my anatomy with a trained professional. Another thing that surprised me in Estonia was the common practice of saunaing naked with family, friends and work colleagues of both sexes. When I expressed my shock an Estonian colleague said, “Dana, I think you have issues.”

Perhaps she was right. Many countries and cultures have public baths as part of the lifestyle, a place where one routinely cleanses and relaxes with friends. Albeit gender segregated, public baths, called hamam, were a Turkish tradition as well.

If ladies in Turkey bathed naked together, what was I getting so worked up about? Here I was, a woman in my thirties with considerable life experience, yet the genital equivalent of a bad headache had caused me to lose all perspective.

Checking my directions and taking the next right while rehearsing the very direct, muted exchange I would have with the pharmacist:

“I need something for ‘female mold.”

“But of course,” she would say and come back with my relief in a tube.

As I slalomed past other evening shoppers, a horse-drawn cart rolled by carrying fresh farm-grown garlic and leeks for sale. It seems a modern city like İstanbul can be totally progressive and cosmopolitan while abiding in relative harmony with age-old tradition. The cart plodded along slowing traffic as the driver called out to people living in apartments above Dolce & Gabbana, Donna Karan, and Thierry Mugler boutiques. Frustrated drivers of Mercedes Benzes, BMWs, and all varieties of obese SUVs honked their horns. I could have been strolling through the center of Paris or New York, places where I’d have to do much more than mention my crotch to get anyone to pay attention to me. Maybe the people of this chaotic city would be just as difficult to impress, frighten, offend?

I considered the possibility that the taboo was of my own manufacture. Americans have developed a vast vocabulary of euphemisms for human genitalia. Even in adulthood, we refer to the genital area as ‘down river’ ‘privates,’ or ‘unmentionables.’ My parents talked to my sister and me about everything gender-related openly and honestly, though, and we weren’t surprised or shamed by nudity as we’d seen our parents in all stages of undress. As a kid, my upbringing hadn’t taught me to be repressed or overly body-conscious, but it seems that somewhere along the way I’ve become exceedingly modest about certain things. At least in the U.S., however, I know I have lots of company.

Despite the fact that Americans are surrounded by gratuitous sexual images in the media, we remain largely self-conscious. As much as American culture acts as if it’s accepting, it’s actually quite puritanical. People are portrayed in advertisements discussing intimate topics with friends, spouses, mothers and sisters, as if American women seize every chance to discuss ‘not-so-fresh’ feelings, in or around our ‘nether regions.’ Yet it’s telling that feminine hygiene commercials don’t reference genitalia by name. The only people I can think of who do seem to talk freely about a foul-odored, discharging, itching bacterial mess in a person’s ‘private parts’ are doctors and sex education teachers. This is why I prefer the discretion of over-the-counter remedies… and why I so wished I could just hand whomever I encountered a slip of paper with a brand name on it.

If we don’t mention our unmentionables in my supposedly liberal country, what indeed was the protocol in a country where some women cover their heads out of religious custom? To some extent I was a victim of the foreign media’s portrayal of all Muslim cultures as repressed, conservative, inflexible, and intolerant. Which side of this culture was I about to confront? The puritanically devout, or the other one?

Turkish culture is a contradiction. Just like the juxtaposition of horse carts and haute couture, headscarves and halter tops, the extremely conservative exists with the incredibly tolerant. A couple of months prior I’d been indignant when a male Turkish friend revealed another side of this paradox while explaining his Nipple Theory. According to him, visible nipples – those protruding through clothing – are offensive in Turkey. The idea did explain the generally rigid appearance of many Turkish women’s breasts – their brassieres seem to have more padding than a bullet-proof vest! Yet, while erect nipples may be a no-no, trendy Turks happily join the rest of the world in exposing their pelvic bones in low-riding pants while their crop tops reveal belly button rings, tattoos and a whole lot of flesh. But even though every shop window displays mannequins with erect nipples, none of the women I saw, no matter how they were dressed, ever sported protruding nipples. Last month after deciding the Nipple Theory might be true, I ended up buying a new bra.

On this evening I was wearing my specially padded bra. It was hard-won. Acquiring it had highlighted gender issues in Turkey as well as my own. I’d gone to the Beşiktaş bazaar, one of many outdoor markets held daily in different neighborhoods where one can buy everything from clothing and shoes to fresh fish and produce at rock bottom prices. That day, I had been both bewildered and entertained by the pandemonium of merchants barking out their wares and prices from every direction. There were dozens of stalls full of strappy bargains but no female vendors. Some of the peddlers wore bras on their heads while tossing handfuls of g-strings into the air! I’d laughed at the whimsy, until, without any affectation of subtlety, one retailer eyeballed my bosom and suggested a 36 B-cup.

More shocking was that everyone else — women in kara çarşaf, the head-to-toe black covering of conservative Muslim females, those in mini-skirts and every kind of Turkish lady in between – were buying intimate apparel from these men in a nonchalant manner akin to selecting ripe tomatoes or fresh cheese. The salesmen treated us all the same – as customers with money to spend. But we weren’t the same. I had never in my life purchased a bra from a man and felt weird doing so. Talk about old fashioned!

Finally, I’d arrived at the extended-hours eczane. I counted a dozen people inside, thankfully the one in the lab coat was an attractive young woman with bright pink lipstick. Others appeared to be employees but there were also a handful of teenaged boys standing about aimlessly until, to my dismay, one of them asked how he could help. I so didn’t want to be helped by a young man! I ignored him and tried to wait until the pharmacist was available. She wasn’t free but she noted my entrance and shouted across the small crowd to me: ‘buyurun!’ (‘May I help you?’) I clutched my list of Turkish words and treatment names but was not about to shout back.

I ‘tssked’ the colloquial Turkish ‘no thanks’ to everyone else who approached until the pharmacist was free. Her crisp lab coat eased my panicked mind, as did her French manicured nails and high-heels. I started asking for American product names, but none were familiar to her so I referred to my list for all things embarrassing and began to croak them out in uncertain Turkish: ‘female mold?’ ‘women’s yeast?’ ‘girl fungus?’ She showed no glimmer of recognition. To my horror, she gestured to the seventeen-year-old who’d tried to help me on the way in. He looked at my list of synonyms, then conferred with her and began throwing out words to me in Turkish. I didn’t understand any of them. The few people standing next to us must have sensed a true heroic opportunity, as they listened for the next clue in this bizarre game of “guess that malady.”

“İşte, anladım!” (‘Here, I understand!’) After much fruitless guessing, the ailment I’d been trying to describe was finally clear to the pharmacist, who was eager to prove her comprehension. While my heart tried to beat its way out of my body, this woman began miming a frantic crotch-scratching session, enhanced by some dramatic and spot-on facial expressions of simultaneous agony and ecstasy.

My worst nightmare came to life as customers, shoppers and teenaged delivery boys turned to focus on the sweaty foreigner trying to buy medication. Or, more likely, to observe their boss who could have earned an Oscar for her stellar performance as ‘young woman with an itch.’

I quickly yelled, “Evet!” (Yes!), to affirm her correct assessment of the problem but more importantly to get her to stop scratching.

Sometimes, sharing secrets brings relief. This was not one of them. My husband and best friend, had no idea of my present malady, yet twelve or so strangers were guessing the gravity of my predicament, as they now knew its general location. With alarm I realized that from the demonstration of the pharmacist they could have surmised any of several related conditions; I was just grateful that the other would-be pharmacists didn’t head toward the shelf for even more embarrassing remedies like a shampoo for pubic lice, or a herpes ointment.

After I examined the tube she handed me, thankfully recognizing the polysyllabic active ingredient, I turned to the teenaged cashier as I fumbled for my money. Mercifully, the end of this ordeal was near. Or so I thought.

“How did you get it?” came a voice from behind me. Incredulous, I turned to look at a fellow customer who’d witnessed the entire exchange. Had I heard the woman correctly? Had someone actually inquired in English as to where I might have contracted the affliction? When I didn’t respond, she conceded that she often gets yeast infections after a visit to her summer cottage where she swims in the sea. Here was a total stranger, talking to me–in a language foreign to her–about a topic I’d deemed unspeakable in my own. I did not have any exotic cause to offer. No cottage, no sea, just me.

I slapped some lira bills on the counter, not waiting for change as I slunk past the inquiring woman, mumbling that it just happened, I didn’t know how. I was out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, in the cool comfort of my home, medicated in body and spirit by one part chlotrimazole cream and several parts gin and tonic, I was tempted to regale some friends with the crazy ordeal I’d just survived. “And there she was scratching her crotch for all the world to see….”

Yet in the lull brought on by my newfound peace of mind, I realized that it didn’t really matter what my health problem was, how Turkish women view their bodies or how they relate to others about intimate topics. What they wear or don’t wear and whether or not they reveal erect nipples through their clothing was and is a non-issue.

None of these were things I needed to contemplate.

The only thing I needed to know was the nature of Turkish people. I did know it, but was overwhelmed by the greater knowledge of my own repressive culture. So worried about what people would think, so afraid of embarrassing myself not to mention those around me, it didn’t even occur to me that ultimately my Turkish neighbors are people. And, had I asked, they would have cared for me as a person. In the end, even without adequate language skills, I found a professional pharmacist willing to humiliate herself in order to help me in my ‘trauma.’. I found a teenaged boy willing to assist me in a calm and professional manner. What’s more, I now realized that far from prying, the customer asking how I contracted my infection was probably trying to ease my misery by openly joining the league of the beleaguered.

I’d seen the universally accepting character of Turks a million times without recognizing it. The stares inside of a pharmacy might well have been each person’s interest in being able to help, should a foreigner like me need assistance. Maybe all those people looking at me and asking me what I wanted were just trying ensure I felt at home.

As I sat alone in my apartment that evening I realized that I didn’t feel at home, not in Estonia and not in Turkey, and maybe it’s because I’ve never felt at home in my own body, much less in my own body in another country.