Sirman Celâyir. Vol.2 of 3: Ottoman and our History

Father (Cavit) and Mother (Zekiye) have Turkish names. Zekiye is the female version of Zeki, a man's name. There are other old-fashioned Turkish names for men which transform, by the "ye" extension, to a woman's name. Mother says that she can tell the approximate age-group of a person by this person's first name. For example, except perhaps in some villages, Zekiye is no longer used as a name for modern Turkish girls. Only some names are eligible for conversion with the "ye" extension and it is also true that the female names that end with "ye" do not always become a man's name when the "ye" is removed. For example, Harbiye, a woman's name, does not convert to "Harbi" for a man. Cavit is strictly a man's name; it does not have a feminine equivalent. In rare instances, some names apply to both men and women. Deniz (Sea), Ümit (Hope), and Muzaffer (Victor/Victoria) are such names, though the former is generally given to a girl.

My sister Femsi is named after Father' mother. It is not a Turkish name and we have not heard of a Femsi in other Lâz clans. We are not sure of its origins. In turn, my first name, Sirman, is Mother's maiden name that Grandfather Dr. Haşim adopted in 1934. We are not sure that it is a Turkish name, for we have not heard of another Sirman in Turkey, as a first or last name. Gülhis is also not common, though it is a Turkish name. (At age five, I was allowed to name my sister.) She is "Gigi" in America.

"Abi," derived from "ağa bey," an informal designation for an important land owner in a village, is the term used to address an older brother. The term "kardeş" implies a brother or a sister. The gender must be specified. For example, I would describe Gülhis as "Gülhis benim kız (female) kardeşim." In turn, she would describe me as "Sirman benim erkek (male) kardeşim," or "Sirman benim abimdir." ("Sirman is my--older--brother"; "abimdir" implies that I am older.)

The Turks differentiate between an uncle on father's side, who is "amca," and one on mother's side: "dayı." This is also true for aunts: on father's side she is a "hala," on mother's side a "teyze." ("Dadı" is the Lâz word for "hala" and "teyze," equivalent to "cumadi" for "amca" and "dayı.") "Yenge" is the wife of a brother or cousin; "Enişte" refers to the husband of a sister or cousin. "Teyze" (or Lâz dadı) and "amca" may be also used to address older women and men, even if they are not relatives. For example, a boy sent to purchase bread may approach the owner of the bread shop, if he is obviously a much older man, as: "amca, taze ekmek varmı?" ("uncle, do you have fresh--baked--bread?") If the age difference were only a few years, the boy might have addressed him as "abi." Father always addressed his older brothers as "abi," his two older sisters as "abla" (older sister).

"Efendi" (effendi) is an older and a more colloquial synonym for "bey" which is still used. Like "Mister" in English, but less formal, "bey" added to a man's first name is a polite way of referring to this man, also when talking directly to him. For example, Father would be addressed or referred to as "Cavit bey" or "doktor bey," though he would be Cavit to his close friends. Within the family, he would be addressed as "Cavit amca" (or just "amca") or "Cavit dayı" (or "dayı"), depending on his relationship to the speaker. If Father were the subject of a newspaper article, he would be mentioned as Dr. Cavit Celayir, as in America.

"Efendi" is also a somewhat outdated adjective that describes a man of fine manners and/or demeanor. The comparable reference (and adjective) for women is "hanım." The phrase "o çok hanım bir kız" ("she is a fine/mannerly/well-brought up girl or a young woman") illustrates the use of this word as an adjective. Turkish does not differentiate between a girl and a young woman, though it does between a girl ("kız") and a woman ("kadın"), adding "genç" (young) to both. A girl or boy child would be referred to as "çocuk."

It is common to address an older woman with something like "Merhaba, Ümit hanım, nasılsınız?" (Hello, Mrs. Ümit, how are you?) This use of "hanım" is different from the adjective. It is a polite way of addressing or referring to a woman, like the English "Mrs," "Miss," or "Ms." But there is a significant difference from the English: "Ümit" is the woman's first name. Turkish men and women are not addressed by their last names. For example, no one has ever addressed Mother as "Celâyir hanım," but always as "Zekiye hanım," which is pronounced together as "Zekiyanım." For a man the corresponding address is "Cavit bey."

In correspondence, "Sayın" is equivalent to "The Honorable" or German "Sehr Geehrter," if the addressee is a person of position. However, "Sayın" may be also used as a form of respect, for example for an older common person, similar to German "Herrn," with an "n" added to "Herr." A formal correspondence would begin (on line one) with the word "Sayın," as in "Sayın Bay" (where "Bay," like "bey" in speech, stands for "Mister") or "Sayın Bayan" (Mrs. or Miss. or Ms.) for a woman. The name would follow on line two, where the middle initial is often discarded. The Turkish word "Profesör" is derived from French. A correspondence addressed to the university professor who has also a doctorate would begin with "Sayın Profesör Doktor" (line one), "John Doe" (line two), then the address.

Ours is the story of five generations of a Turkish-American family that spans the years from the 1880s. The story traces them from Latakia, Syria and Arhavi, Turkey through Bulgaria, Russia, Yemen, and Iraq and anticipates their migration to America in 1958. The focus is on two very remarkable people and outstanding parents: our "baba" (Father) and "anne," (pronounced "aen'nEE," Mother). Their lives span the beginning of World War I through the end of the Ottoman Empire, the Occupation Years, the İstiklâl (Independence) War, the emergence of the Republic of Turkey, World War II, and the Eisenhower era to the Clinton Presidency in the United States. This volume reviews our history in Turkey; Volume 1, "Assimilation, an American Experience" is about us in America, covering the years after 1958.

A story of five generations and a geographic reach covering half the world during a turbulent period in history is destined to go through times of unbelievable hardship and hopelessness, unfortunate decisions, and misfortune, but also through cycles of unimaginable richness, mutually-exclusive lifestyles, endless memories, and golden years. Throughout, there was one consistent element: the courage, self-sacrifice, and innate goodness of our parents. But if we were asked to single out the one ingredient that served as our cushion and insurance against adversity, all of us would point to Mother, to her indefatigable optimism, kindness, generosity, patience, and inner strength. With her we could not fail. Then again, we always suspected that life only played with us from time to time, but it did not really wish us cataclysmic harm, for after each trial, there came a wondrous reward. How could we feel anything but gratitude for a life that has had equivalent scenes from Dr. Zhivago, Gone With the Wind, War and Peace, Roman Holiday, Of Human Bondage, On Golden Pond, and other memorable depictions? We did not act in them; we lived them.

Historical figures, statesmen, authors, movie stars, and other "famous" personalities never die, for they are remembered through their images and work. Something about them continues to live on. For the majority of people, "passing away" also puts an end to everything about them. They may be remembered one or two or three generations and then they become nothing, not even a memory. Death and time terminate people as if they never existed. It seems unfair that fate or circumstance can bestow permanence to some people and irrevocable transiency to others. I wrote this diary for Parents but also for a future Celâyir, connected through many a John and Jane Doe, who may be a novelist or historian. I wanted to leave this person enough information so that he or she could put together our story some day and produce a work that not only enriches other people but also provides a stage on which "we of now" can come to life again, even if we appear as mere silhouettes. I thought this Celâyir must know that we existed, be able to find us.

I had already prepared the family trees for Father and Mother but this was not sufficient. The names on the tree were people who emerged as babies once upon a time. They grew up, married, made babies, sacrificed, fought, laughed and cried, and gave life to generations of other people. Then they were forgotten, or, at best, reduced to a name on a chart, just like the name of an unknown place on a map. "Not my parents," I thought. This diary is about several generations of Celâyirs. Of course, the emphasis is on our branch. We were the first clan members who became Americans. Future generations of all Celâyirs in America, regardless of the names and achievements by which they will be known, will have emerged through the children, Sirman, Femsi, and Gülhis, of Dr. Cavit Celâyir of Arhavi, Turkey and his wife Zekiye Sirman-Celâyir of Aleppo, Syria.

I began to write this diary in Femsi's town house in Virginia. Parents were staying with her then. The idea for a family diary dates back to 1967, when Father's oldest brother, Uncle Bahri and his wife visited us in Waynesburg, PA. Bestowed with a phenomenal memory for dates, names, and events, Uncle Bahri, who was also a medical doctor, maintained scattered notes about our family history and connections. He passed on some of this information to me then. Unfortunately, his original notes could not be found after his death. The idea emerged again in Columbus, OH in the winter of 1981. I was going over family photos when I saw my notes from 1967. There were other things on my mind then and I decided to delay the "diary" project. The opportunity came in 1989 when I decided to construct a family tree of Celâyirs.

The impetus to the tree came through the work of a family member, Münir, in İstanbul in the summer of 1988. He designed his tree on large "blueprint" papers engineers use. (Münir was a few years short of his retirement as an engineer with the Department of Highways in İstanbul.) His tree was elementary: a flowchart of names in blocks. It excluded many family members, assigned some of them to the wrong branches, and mentioned no dates or life-giving anecdotes. People were listed as if they were items needed for a construction job. I thought to be remembered this way is perhaps worse than to be forgotten. His hand-prepared chart was fixed; it did not allow for corrections or additions. This was obviously a project that had to evolve on a computer. After experimenting with several genealogy shareware, on Jan. 12, 1989, I decided to do my version of the tree on a spreadsheet, using Lotus 1 2 3. I relied on my own notes and inputs by Münir and Orhan, another family member. Uncle Cevat's daughter Saadet updated the data about folks in Arhavi.

Anne, as everyone in our immediate family calls her, was my main source. A wonderful story teller, Mother had narrated to us stories about us since we were children. So we grew up with one foot planted solidly in the past, the other foot off the ground extended to the present, searching for a future on which to step, like a frozen snapshot of someone treading over a puddle of water. I began to interview her on Mar. 12, 1994. We did this initially on Sundays, but later more frequently. The pace increased considerably in May, when Mother, Father, and I prepared the section about the nuances of the Lâz language in Appendix-D.

Mother's memory is an encyclopedic source of dates, names, events, stories, and impressions. However, she talked when she was in the mood, not always when I prompted her. An unexpected call from Turkey could trigger her mood. Otherwise, it did not matter that I was ready to jot down information. I had to wait for her to be in the right spirit. Sometimes this happened in the middle of the night. Before Father's retirement, we had usually followed a regular schedule. After that, Parents slept when their inner clocks dictated. They got half of the sleep they needed during the day and the other half at night, any time. So someone in the household was always awake, regardless of the hour.

I slept near Parents, just in case the night brought out the poet and the narrator in Mother. I could not interrupt her spontaneity, because this usually broke the spell. So I wrote down as fast as I could, filling the gaps from memory, later when I transcribed my notes. On these occasions, Father only listened. However, occasionally when Mother experienced an unusual memory lapse, Father displayed the capabilities of his mind: one that thoroughly knew medical terminology, understood prescriptions, comprehended several languages, read Sarasate's music, so that his hands could play it on the violin.

In July 1990, I began to collect the data for a similar tree for Mother's family. When I was in İstanbul that summer, I met Rawan, the youngest daughter of Mother's cousin İbrahim from Amman, Jordan. I began to compile the second tree on Aug. 17, 1990 and updated it periodically, based on the additional information I received by mail from Rawan. (I have not updated the trees after Aug. 19, 1991.) As with most conceptual undertakings that begin with an idea, the family trees were the seeds that gradually bloomed into this diary.

Family Album, Video, CD-ROM. Mother had our family photos scattered in about a dozen large albums and a few envelopes. Some of the albums were in Virginia, others with Gülhis in California. Having worked with computers since 1967, I thought it was time to "modernize" our albums, including mine and my sisters', as scanned and digitized the photos and important documents. I started this work in California on Jan. 1, 1994, using three-pass Microtek Scanmaker IIsp there and single-pass HP IIcx in Virginia, using the versatile PCX format for the images. I concluded this part on Dec. 22, 1994, 2750 scans later. The scanning process actually took about 70 days, or 43 slides in 8 to 12 hour sessions per day. I switched between scanning and writing the diary, to give myself a break, with one or the other.

By all means, the scanning effort alone was a major project that could have taken several years. (The 11-hour Civil War series by Ken Burns took six years, including research and the sound effects.) All of the old photos were black-and-white and of 1918 to 1961 vintage. Many were faded, worn out, out-of-focus, and/or too dark. The frames captured as much the people as the surroundings. Sometimes the faces were too small. Most of the color photos from later years were 3-by-3-inch Polaroid images. They were of low quality. Some of the other color photos looked all right as prints but the paper on which they were printed produced moire patterns when they were digitized. They required extensive use of an image editing software. I used Photoshop 2.5. So after each scanning session the real work began.

For each image, I cropped the frame to enlarge the relevant contents without losing the surrounding ambiance and sized the frame to 640 by 480 pixels, for basic VGA output at 72-150 dpi (dots-per-inch) print resolution. I could have scanned them also at a higher resolution, say at 1280 by 1024 (Super-VGA) pixels and at 300 dpi, but then the file size would have increased enormously. With 2750 images, file size, thus storage, was always a concern. For each frame, I adjusted levels (color, hue, saturation), variation (lighter/darker, more yellow, less red, etc.), contrast, brightness, and sharpness, in that order, based on subjective judgment. After adjustments, I passed each color frame through the NTSC filter to produce better color equivalents on television. Then I imbedded identifying text on each image, as to when and where this particular photo was taken and the persons on it. The editing and text-imbedding effort consumed about two-thirds of the 70-day effort.

Then came several quality-reducing steps. Although each original color scan picked 16 million "true colors," I had to limit the number of colors to 256, to reduce the file size by about 67 percent. (A 900-kilobyte file became 300K.) Otherwise, storage would have become an issue again. The quality of the originals was already limited, so this step was not a major sacrifice. In almost all cases, the scanned and edited images looked better on the VGA screen than the original photos did on paper. Ultimately I wanted to transfer all the images and books onto a CD-ROM.

Then I thought of producing a video as a byproduct of this effort, leaving the CD-ROM works to 1997, after I finished writing the diary. The arrangement of 2750 slides in chronological order was a major effort. I did not want to produce video in which, for example, Mother at age 35 appeared before Mother at age 18. First I sorted the slides by album: Anne, Baba, Classic, Samsun Years, USA (1958-1981), Turkey, USA (1982 to the Present), Tuzla, Sirman, Femsi, and Gülhis. This meant 2750 appropriate and chronologically correct file names. Since I had already anticipated this problem when I began, I sorted the images after each editing session.

The technical hurdles of producing a video from a slide show on the computer presented several challenges. First, I screened the 2750 images one-by-one and selected 1191 of the most meaningful slides to produce a 2-hour video, at about 5 to 6 seconds per frame at high-quality "SP" tape speed. This step alone took from Dec. 22, 1994 to Jan. 10, 1995. VGA images from a computer transfer to a VCR efficiently through a Super-Video (SVHS) connection. (The RCA "Video In/Out" connection blurs the converted image and introduces flicker and diagonal lines.) I talked to several video engineers and decided on a reasonably priced ($235) digital-to-analog signal converter, Grand Vision Pro, after experimenting with others. There were three problems from the outset.

1. This required a relatively expensive SVHS VCR and an SVHS TV to monitor the conversion. I got them, both Panasonic units, on sale for $1,200. (JVC, RCA, and others also make SVHS VCRs.)

2. SVHS signals cannot be read by regular VHS VCRs people use at home. This meant conversion from SVHS to NTSC signal for American use and to PAL system for European use, for family and friends in Turkey. Since these types of conversions require professional equipment, I had to find such a place. And although the signal intensity on the converted tapes would be two or three levels below the quality of the master SVHS tape, the conversions had to be made.

3. SVHS accepts only about 420 of the 480 vertical and about 525 of the 640 horizontal pixels--of which a computer image consists. There was no feasible way then of overcoming this incongruence between the interlaced and analog TV signal and the noninterlaced and digital VGA signal. The incongruence could be only "cheated" but not resolved. (I was told that Toshiba and SONY are working on digital systems that would standardize the two signals in the near future.) With the signal converter I used, this incongruence did not dilute the vertical resolution: parts from the top and bottom of the VGA image were chopped off on the corresponding video image. So some of the descriptive text embedded on the images was lost on the video. In turn, the horizontal adjustment removed vertical lines of pixels at periodic intervals to fit the 525-pixel limitation. This adjustment distorted the image, giving it a slightly "squeezed" or vertically elongated appearance.

I decided to introduce background music unexpectedly and at random intervals, so that it did not compete with the slides. So instead of using a direct RCA Audio In/Out connection between the VCR and the cassette player, I decided to play the music in front of a "mono" microphone and transfer the subdued sound to the tape. After making the connections, I spent an entire day reviewing my tapes, about 100 cassettes of all types of music from every era. I dismissed many of my favorite pieces on the grounds that they did not transfer well over the microphone. Surrounded by all sorts of equipment, endless cables, and three dozen cassette tapes, I began the slide show on the computer and simultaneously transferred it to the video, starting with Mother's slides accompanied by Albinoni's "G Major."

After selecting the appropriate musical pieces for the different segments of the slide show, and timing them by a stop watch before the actual taping, to make sure that the music and slides synchronized, I started the works. The 2-hour SVHS tape was done 36 hours later; the project that I had initiated on Jan. 1, 1994, was finished at 1:00 p.m. on Jan. 13, 1995. I mailed a dozen copies to family and friends in America and Canada, more copies to family and friends in Turkey, Germany, and Jordan. And I uploaded, as part of my software, about 50 of the best slides to CompuServe and onto selected bulletin boards around the world, also to mine.

For the final step before the CD-ROM production, scanning the photos after 1994, I used a UMAX S12 single-pass scanner--the best!--and finished the works in Miami Beach at 10:40am on Mar. 16, 1997. In June 1997, I began "burning" the master CR-ROM on a Philips 2600 CD-R, connected to my new (12/20/96) 200mh Toshiba Infinia 7200 computer, using the Corel CD-Creator 2.01 software, and had a hardcover made to this book.

Ottoman History. The history of the Ottoman Empire dates back to 1290, when sultans, who were equivalent to kings in Europe, began to rule the empire. The name "Ottoman" is derived from Osman, the first Ottoman ("Osmanlı" in Turkish) sultan.

The power of the Ottoman Empire reached its peak under Mehmet II who conquered Constantinople and ended the Eastern Roman Empire in 1453, and under the governance of Sultan Suleiman I, "Suleiman the Magnificent" (1494?-1566), who ruled from 1520 to 1566. A myriad of interdependent factors led to the decline of the Ottoman Empire beginning late in the 16th century. The most important causes were the triumph of the devshirme class (special interest groups), the flight of the Turko-Islamic aristocracy, and degeneration in the ability and honesty both of the sultans and the ruling class. The devshirme divided into many political parties that fought for power, manipulated sultans, and used the government for their own benefit. Corruption, nepotism, inefficiency, and misrule spread. However, the empire survived for 3 centuries because Europe was unaware of the extent of its weakness.

Starting in the 17th century, a few members of the ruling class temporarily remedied the abuses by forcefully restoring Ottoman institutions and practices to the pattern in which they had operated successfully in previous centuries. In the process they ruthlessly executed the incompetent and the corrupt officials and confiscated their properties. Chief among these traditionalist reformers were Sultan Murad IV (1623-40) and the Köprülü family of grand viziers (chief executive officers), who dominated the administration from 1656 to 1702.

The empire experienced its first major defeat by Europeans in the Battle of Lepanto (1571), when its fleet was destroyed by a Christian coalition. Nonetheless, it recovered dominance of the eastern Mediterranean, capturing Crete from the Venetians in 1669. Moreover, in the east, Murad IV again conquered (1638) part of Persia, which had asserted its independence under Shah Abbas I. This apparent military revival encouraged Grand Vizier Kara Mustafa Pasha to attempt an invasion of central Europe. However, following its failure to take Vienna (1683), the Ottoman army collapsed. Major territories were lost to its European enemies in the ensuing war, which culminated in the Treaty of Karlowitz (1699). During the 18th century, a series of wars with Russia and Austria accelerated the decline and loss of territory. At the same time, large sections of the provinces remaining under Ottoman control fell under the sway of provincial notables, whose connection with the sultans was nominal.

Sultan Selim III (1789-1807) attempted to reform the Ottoman system by destroying the Janissary corps and replacing it with the nizam-i jedid (new order) army modeled after the new military institutions being developed in the West. This attempt so angered the Janissaries and others with a vested interest in the old ways that they overthrew him and massacred most of the reform leaders. However, defeats at the hands of Russia and Austria, the success of national revolutions in Serbia and Greece, and the rise of the powerful independent Ottoman governor of Egypt, Muhammad Ali, so discredited the Janissaries that Sultan Mahmud II was able to massacre and destroy them in 1826.

Mahmud then inaugurated a new series of modernistic reforms, which involved the destruction of the traditional institutions and their replacement with new ones imported from the West, in all areas of Ottoman life, not just the military. These reforms were continued and brought to their culmination during the Tanzimat reform era (1839-76) and the reign (1876-1909) of Abd Al-Hamid II (Abdulhamit in Turkish). The scope of government was extended and centralized as reforms were made in administration, finance, education, justice, the economy, communications, and the army.

Pre-WWI Years. A review of the European and Turkish history during the years leading to World War I is pertinent to the circumstances surrounding Zekiye's parents from 1913 to 1918. Together with financial mismanagement and incompetence there were national revolts in the Balkans and eastern Anatolia. The French occupation of Algeria and Tunisia and the takeover by the British in Egypt and the Italians in Libya threatened to end the very existence of the empire, let alone its reforms. By this time the Ottoman sultanate was known as the "Sick Man of Europe," and European diplomacy focused on the so-called Eastern Question: how to dispose of the Sick Man's territories without upsetting the European balance of power.

However, Abd al-Hamid II rescued the empire, at least temporarily, by reforming the Ottoman financial system. He also manipulated the rivalries of the European powers, and developed the pan-Islamic and pan-Turkic movements to undermine his enemies. The sultan granted a constitution and parliament in 1876, but he soon abandoned them and ruled autocratically so as to achieve his objectives as rapidly and efficiently as possible. He became so despotic that liberal opposition arose under the leadership of the Young Turks, many of whom were forced to flee to Europe to escape his police.

Meanwhile, the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71 had left Germany the most powerful nation of Continental Europe. France, forced to cede the province of Alsace and part of Lorraine and to pay a large indemnity to Germany, had nonetheless recovered quickly and by 1914 was second only to Germany among the Continental powers. During the late 19th and early 20th centuries the crumbling Austro-Hungarian Empire was plagued with continuing internal unrest among its many nationalities. The desire of many of the Slavs in the southern provinces to join neighboring Serbia had intensified friction among the empire's Germanic, Magyar, and Slavic peoples.

Nevertheless, the Austrians hoped to increase their strength and territory in the Balkans at the expense of the disintegrating Ottoman Empire. So they antagonized Russia, which also hoped to absorb much of the Ottoman territory. Russia, although the largest nation in Europe, was in some respects even weaker than Austria-Hungary. In addition to its staggering defeat in the Russo-Japanese War (1904-05), tsarist Russia was also plagued by revolutionary unrest and industrial backwardness.

These conflicting national interests led to the creation of two rival alliance systems. In 1879, Germany's chancellor, Otto von Bismarck, concluded a defensive accord with Austria-Hungary against Russia. Within three years Italy, a rival of France in the Mediterranean, had joined Germany and Austria-Hungary to create the Triple Alliance. Germany and Austria agreed to support Italy in the event of an attack by France, in exchange for Italian agreement to remain neutral in case of war between Austria-Hungary and Russia. Bismarck, who feared the possibility of an alliance between France and Russia against Germany, sought to prevent it by concluding (1887) a Reinsurance Treaty with Russia. He also attempted to maintain friendly relations with Great Britain. However, in 1890, Emperor William II dismissed Bismarck from the chancellorship. He allowed the Reinsurance Treaty to lapse, and in 1894, Bismarck's fear became a reality with the formation of a Franco-Russian alliance. William, moreover, soon aroused British suspicions by his imperialistic policies and by his intensified effort to build up the German fleet, threatening Britain's position as the dominant European naval power.

This situation led to the formation of the Anglo-French Entente in 1904. By supporting Austrian ambitions in the Balkans, William also further embittered Russia, which in 1907 concluded an entente with Britain. Thus Britain, France, and Russia, previously fierce rivals in colonial expansion, came together in the Triple Entente. Several smaller countries became indirectly involved in the alliances, dividing Europe into two armed camps. In order to prevent further Austrian expansion into the Balkans, and out of sympathy with what was regarded as a "little Slavic sister," Russia pledged to aid Serbia in case of war with Austria-Hungary. Belgium was in an anomalous position because its neutrality had been guaranteed (1839) by Britain, France, Russia, Prussia (Germany), and Austria.

While these events were taking place in Europe, in 1908 a revolution led by the Young Turks forced Abd al-Hamid to restore the parliament and constitution. However, after a few months of constitutional rule, a counterrevolutionary effort to restore the sultan's autocracy led the Young Turks to dethrone Abd al-Hamid completely in 1909. He was replaced by Mehmed V Rashid (1909-18), who was only a puppet of those controlling the government. Rapid modernization continued during the Young Turk era (1908-18), with particular attention given to modernizing the cities, agriculture and industry, and communications and also to the secularization of the state and the emancipation of women.

However, the Young Turk leader Enver Pasha (1881-1922), who was a virtual dictator from 1913, involved the empire on the side of Germany and Austria-Hungary in World War I. The assassination of the Austrian archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo in 1914 proved to be the spark that ignited World War I (1914-18). It quickly involved all the great powers of Europe and eventually most countries of the world, and cost the lives of more than 8 million soldiers.

Lâz People. The region of southeast European U.S.S.R. between the Black and Caspian seas, bordering the Caucasus mountains on the north, was inhabited before 2000 B.C. and was the scene of many invasions over the millenniums. This ancient region and kingdom, coinciding with the present-day republic of Georgia, developed as a kingdom in 4th century B.C. and reached the height of its prosperity and cultural flowering in the 12th and 13th centuries.

The population of this area included peoples indigenous to Europe, northern Africa, western Asia, and India. "Caucasian" became a scientific designation that described the general characteristics of these people. ("Caucasian," as a scientific designation, is no longer in use.) Ruled by both Turkey and Persia at various times, Georgia was acquired by Russia between 1801 and 1829. The region was briefly independent during the period 1918-1921. Invaded by the Red Army in 1921, this land was proclaimed a Soviet republic in 1922. It became a separate republic in 1936 with the capital in Tbilisi (Tiflis).

South of Georgia, along the coastal waters of the eastern Black Sea and Turkey, is the land of the Lâz people. They are distributed in the towns and villages along the eastern Black Sea. One area of concentration is the village of Arhavi that is "home" to our clan. The village is about half-an-hour driving distance from the border with Russian Georgia. The Lâz people are a distinct ethnic group in Turkey, like the Cajun people in Louisiana. They speak their own language, which is spoken but not written. Apparently it is a language that is related to Greek and Latin. However, the origin of the Lâz people is not known, neither to scholars nor to the people in Arhavi. Unlike many native Turks, who have usually dark hair and olive skin, the Lâz people may have fair complexion, blond hair, and blue or green eyes, like my sister Femsi. (See Appendix-D about the Lâz people and language.)

Celâyirs. The clan did not adopt the last name "Celâyir" until 1934, when by law all Turkish citizens had to have a last name. Until then, people were known by their place of birth, shape of their noses, color of their eyes, and other characteristics. The Celâyir name goes back to the Middle Age and refers to a dynasty that emerged in Anatolia during the early years of the Ottoman Empire. Father's oldest brother, Uncle Bahri, a medical doctor and scholar, decided on the name. He had a phenomenal memory for dates, events, people, and names, and somehow traced our clan back, and the Celâyir tribe forward, until he found a connection between the two--which I dispute. (The derivation is explained later in this section.)

Before the law, our family was known as "Lotoszade," which translates to something like "offsprings of (someone with) big eyes." The official name gradually transformed to "Lotosoğlu," where the extension "oğlu," literally "son," replaced the Ottoman Turkish equivalent "zade." To complicate things even further, in Arhavi, our family was known by a colloquial name: "Çolağişi." This name is derived from Turkish "çolak" (a person with a crippled or amputated arm). Rumor has it that four Lotoszade brothers once got into a turf war with another clan. Three brothers were killed and the one surviving brother's right arm was damaged and later amputated. So the name Çolağişi originated. (The "ğişi" extension is not Turkish but Lâz and stands for "of" or "belonging to.") Several members of the Çolağişi family are called "Çolağepe," the "ğepe" representing the common plural extension in Laz.

So the "Lotoszade" family, known as the Çolağişi in Arhavi, officially became Celâyir in 1934. (For the details of our extended clan, refer to the section "Anatomy of a Clan" at the beginning of Volume.1, and to Appendix-E for the family trees.) There are three other clans in Arhavi that are connected to Celayirs by adoption: the Şevkişi, presumably named after Şevki, the person who was adopted by someone in our clan, the Hocaşi and the Puskulaşi. (For example, uncle Cevat's wife Meliha is a Puskulaşi Celâyir.)

Grandmother Safiye. We begin with Mother's origins from the history of her parents. Her mother Safiye, a Celâyir, was about 8 years older than Father's oldest brother Bahri, who, in turn, was 19 years older than Father. (Although the name "Celâyir" was not yet adopted by the clan, I will call them Celâyir to avoid confusion.) Safiye was the daughter of Mahmut Celâyir, a rich merchant who with his sons (Vasıf, Rıza, and Hasan) operated stores in Arhavi and Batum (Batumi, now in Georgia). They owned a fleet of commercial ships which periodically brought merchandise to and from İstanbul. The brothers traveled to İstanbul on these trips. Mother believes this is how her mother Safiye in Arhavi and her father Haşim in İstanbul eventually came together, since the two families did not know of each other. As it was custom in those days, Haşim and Safiye surely did not see each other before the marriage. The wedding must have been arranged by the two fathers, İbrahim and Mahmut. But how did Safiye's father Mahmut from Arhavi meet Haşim's father İbrahim in İstanbul? Mother suggests two plausible explanations as to how this may have happened.

Great-grandmother Ayşe. Mahmut's wife (Grandmother Safiye's mother) Ayşe was of the Hacıömer clan from the village of Abu İslah near Arhavi. ("Abu İslah" is Arabic for "good--healthy--water.") At age 13, Ayşe had first married Mahmut's older brother Ali. She had been such a fine wife to him that when Ali died prematurely the family did not wish to lose such an exceptional woman. So she became Mahmut's wife. (This is quite unusual in Turkey even today. Women in villages are generally virgins when they marry. Indeed, Ayşe must have been a very fine woman.)

Mother's grandmother Ayşe had a brother by the name of Hasan Şevket. (To separate this Hasan from other Hasans in the family, Ayşe had a son whose name was Hasan too; Father's mother Femsi Çeleşi's had a brother named Hasan, and Safiye's youngest brother was also named Hasan.) Mother believes that Hasan Şevket had a hand in bringing together in İstanbul his sister's husband Mahmut and Dr. Haşim's father İbrahim Attour. For when the two families met, Hasan Şevket had an important position at the Ottoman court in İstanbul. Around 1855, Hasan had participated in the Crimean War with Russia and captured many Russian soldiers in Batum. Subsequently, Sultan Abdulmecit (Abd al-Mejid) rewarded him with 50 gold pieces and Hasan eventually reached a high position in the Government. However, due to some sort of misunderstanding, he was later exiled to his home in Abu İslah.

Mother suggests another possibility. Grandmother Safiye's mother had another male relative, Hüseyin, who met and married the daughter, Makbule, of Grandfather Haşim's aunt on mother's side. (The "aunt" may have been a cousin instead.) In other words, Grandfather Haşim's family on his mother's side (in Bulgaria) and Mahmut Celâyir's wife Ayşe's family (in Abu İslah) were already connected. Mother suggests that when Hüseyin heard that Grandfather Haşim's parents were looking for a wife for their doctor son, he mentioned to them Mahmut Celâyir and his daughter Safiye. Mahmut Celâyir had been very careful about selecting a husband for his daughter, so much so that some people in Arhavi considered Safiye already a spinster, though she was only about 20 then.

Mother's Lost Connections. When Mother was a child, she accompanied her mother Safiye to Arhavi, visiting relatives there. They also visited Safiye's mother's family in Abu İslah where Ayşe had several brothers and sisters. This is how Mother came to know Fatma, the daughter of one of Ayşe's sisters. (Mother called her Fatma "teyze.") Fatma married a Hacıali Paşa and had two sons by him. (Paşa is the old Turkish equivalent of the modern rank of "General" in the army, "G" pronounced as the "g" in "gun.") The sons moved to İstanbul. Mother met them in her childhood, but eventually lost touch with them. She remembers also a woman whom she used to call Ayşe dadı. This Ayşe was the daughter of her grandmother Ayşe's brother Ömer. Mother lost touch also with that branch of her family.

Mother remembers meeting in İstanbul two "muhterem" brothers, Hüsnü bey and Ahmet bey, who were known as the sons of a Karahasan. (The old-Turkish adjective "muhterem" describes a warm and gracious older person.) She believes these men were the sons of Hasan Şevket, that Hasan may have been known locally also as "Karahasan." ("Kara" is the Turkish word for "dark" or "black." The label may have been given to Hasan because of his dark complexion, jet-black hair, and/or dark eyes.) The brothers were living in Yüksek Kaldırım then, a subsection of Karaköy, which dates from the Eastern-Roman Empire. The old Galata Tower and Bridge, which were built by the Romans, are located here, where Femsi and I attended the Sankt George Austrian Lyceum from 1953 to 1958. (Turkish "lise," secondary school, is borrowed from French lycée and is equivalent to American high school and German gymnasium.)

To illustrate the complexity of Turkish family connections, Hüsnü bey was married to a Zekiye hanım. They had several children, including a daughter by the name of Rezan. Zekiye hanım had five or six sisters. Mother remembers that one of these sisters lived in Arhavi; she met another in Bafra, a small town near the Black Sea, to the west of Samsun. Zekiye hanım was also a "hala" (aunt) to Gönül, whom our cousin Orhan--the older son of Grandmother Safiye's brother Rıza--married in the 1950s. (Their two daughters, Zerrin and Sibel, and son Suat, who is studying in Canada, visited Parents and me in Miami Beach in 1996.) From 1925 to 1937, when Mother was living in Giresun, she met Mesude, the granddaughter of one of Mother's grandmother Ayşe's sisters. After Grandparents left Giresun in 1937, Mother lost contact with Mesude. In 1984, when Mother was at home in Tuzla, Bilgin came for a visit. (Bilgin is the daughter of Grandmother Safiye's oldest brother Vasıf's son Cemil.) There was a woman with Bilgin. This woman turned out to be Mesude whom Mother had last seen in Giresun almost 50 years ago. In 1944, when we were in Bafra, Mother met another sister of Zekiye hanım. This woman had a daughter and three sons. To complete the circle, one of these sons later married Rezan, Zekiye hanım's daughter.

"Hacı" The "Hacı" in Hacıömer, Mother's grandmother Ayşe's family, is a title reserved for people who make at least one trip to the holy city of Mecca in Saudi Arabia. (Only Muslims are allowed to enter Mecca.) However, to qualify for "Hac," this trip must be made during a particular time of the year. Otherwise, the visit is considered as less significant and is designated as "Umrah." Upon completion of the "Hac," which some people do several times, the "Hacı" label is introduced to the person's name. (Very few modern Turks go to hac.) Thus, Ayşe's father, grandfather, or great-grandfather Ömer had made a Hac trip to Mecca and from then on he and his offsprings were known by the name Hacıömer. Since Turkey did not adopt last names until 1934, this was a way of distinguishing this Ömer from other Ömers in the village who presumably had not gone to Hac.

In 1977, when I was in Riyadh, a Syrian friend (Ali) and I made an Umrah to Mecca. (I came to visit and to observe.) The dress code requires a very clean white towel-like material wrapped around the waist to cover the lower part of the naked body (but for shorts) and a similar cloth wrapped around the shoulders. The head, lower arms and feet remain visible. Most orthodox Muslims also cover their hair symbolically by a white skullcap, similar--but larger--to the yarmulke worn by orthodox Jews. Women are also dressed in white, but they appear as if they are covered by a white cocoon. Only their faces and hands remain visible. Bare feet only are allowed in holy places.

I saw masses of people walking in circles around the Kaaba, supposedly seven times as the ritual requires. I noticed that some people circled it continuously, on the hope that if seven times promised a spot in heavens, 100 times would surely confirm their seat. They reminded me of the orthodox Jews at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem and the orthodox Christians in America who practiced faith healing, etc. While I observed, I contemplated why people equated such rituals to religion, what connection these rituals could have to God/Allah, except to make God as mediocre as people.

Haşim Yanbolu, Mother's Father. Grandfather's (Mother's father) father was İbrahim Attour, an Arab who was originally from the city of Latakia in Syria. His mother (Mother's grandmother on her father's side) was from the town of Filibe in Bulgaria.

l In Russia. Great-grandfather İbrahim Attour from Latakia participated in one of the last wars between the Ottoman Empire and Russia. He served as a "cerrah" (a paramedic at that time, now a surgeon), before he was captured by the Russians and became a prisoner-of-war. After his release, İbrahim remained in Russia and lived there for 17 years, including the time he spent in prison. He married a local woman and they had several children together. We have no information about this branch.

l In Jordan. İbrahim eventually left Russia without his family and came to Bulgaria, which was then under the Ottoman Turks. There, in Filibe, he met a woman and married her. The marriage may have taken place sometime around 1878. They left together for Latakia, Syria. Later they returned to Bulgaria and their son Haşim (Grandfather) was born there in 1881, in the town of Yanbolu. In those days, people did not yet use family names; they were known by their place of birth and other personal characteristics. Thus, for several decades to follow, Haşim was known as "Yanbolulu Haşim" (Haşim from Yanbolu). There were two additional children: an older sister, Badriye and a younger brother, Süleyman, who was born in 1889. Badriye ("Bedriye" in Turkish) and her two older daughters, Şaziye and Fethiye, visited Mother and her parents in Giresun in 1931. We were told by Mother's cousin İbrahim (in Jordan) that his aunt Badriyeh and all of the offsprings moved to Syria. Suleiman visited us in Samsun in 1954; he died in 1976. His offsprings, Mother's cousins, live in Amman, Jordan. In Jan. 2001, I, with the help of Ibrahim's daughter Rawan, got in touch with the families of both Badriyeh and Suleiman and added their web page and family history to the Internet.

l In Syria. Great-grandfather İbrahim married a third time and had another set of children: Suad, Kawkab, Salah, Mustafa, and Durriyeh.

The Wedding. Mother is not sure where, in Syria or Bulgaria, her father's parents lived during the years when her father was growing up, but Haşim eventually reached the age when he was ready to attend the medical school in İstanbul. His parents must have accompanied him, for this is where the two fathers arranged the wedding of their offsprings soon after Haşim graduated from the medical school.

In those days, parents exercised considerable power over the destinies of their children. The reputation and the family name of the prospective partners were of utmost importance. Although mothers and older sisters had significant say in marriages, they did so privately. The men usually negotiated and decided the details, though the bride or the groom could decline the selected mate. (Arranged marriages have become rare in large cities. Now fathers only concur, or not, with the choice of the partner at the outset; the women usually handle the details and negotiations.)

So when Mahmut Celâyir was in İstanbul on one his business trips, he met Dr. Haşim's parents. They arranged the marriage of their children. Mahmut returned to Arhavi with a picture of Dr. Haşim and discussed the arrangement with his daughter Safiye. She accepted Dr. Haşim from his photo and in the company of her parents arrived in İstanbul for the wedding. Dr. Haşim did not see Safiye before the marriage. Mother remembers being told by her mother that her father was 24 when he graduated from the medical school in the Muslim Year of 1322, which translates to 1905. Therefore, Mother and I estimated that her parents were married in 1905, perhaps 1906. And since military service was mandatory, Dr. Haşim was already a military doctor then.

Mother also arranged several marriages in the family and outside. She knew instinctively who would fit with whom and has maintained a perfect track record, in that the couples she arranged have remained together. However, after we left Turkey, she did not again participate in such decisions, consciously not involving herself in the choices my sisters and I made for our mates. As for Father, he would have preferred Turkish mates for us.

Grandparents. Soon after his wedding, Dr. Haşim was assigned for military duty in Yemen, at the southern tip of the Arabian peninsula. The empire occupied lands far away from Turkey and this was a harsh assignment. Karahasan Paşa, Mother's uncle Hasan Şevket, twisted a few arms and bribed a few people and had the assignment changed to an equally inhospitable but closer location: Dersim in Iraq. But the reassignment was academic. Unrest broke out on the Arabian peninsula. The British were instigating the Arabs against the Ottoman rule. Dr. Haşim left for the Yemen outpost. (Mother is not sure if her father went to Iraq first and then to Yemen, or to Yemen directly.) Yemen was a harsh military post and obviously women did not belong there. So Dr. Haşim's new bride remained with his parents in İstanbul.

Duty and honor meant a lot in those days. Before Mahmut Celâyir left İstanbul, he told his daughter: "buraya canlı geldin, artık bir daha ölün çıkar" ("now that you are here, only your dead body can come back"). Families obviously loved their daughters and cared meticulously for them. But once a daughter married, she "belonged" to her husband's family. So Mahmut was telling his daughter that marriage was a total commitment, that regardless of the conditions she had to endure, it could not be broken; women were obligated to make their marriage work.

In turn, before Dr. Haşim departed for Yemen, he asked Safiye to join him at the window. He pointed to a direction and asked her, "do you see the large fire there?" Safiye responded "no, there is no fire." Dr. Haşim said, "true, but after I leave, if my mother tells you there is a fire outside, you will concur, regardless." He was telling her that she had to get along with his mother. (Mother heard this from her mother.) Similar rules must have been observed once also in America and other countries. Imagine the faith and courage of a 16-year old pioneer girl leaving her family and farm in Pennsylvania to accompany her new husband on a wagon train to Oregon.

İmam Yahya and Yemen. A few months after Dr. Haşim's departure, Safiye had a baby boy. She named him Vijdan (Conscience, Mercy). Safiye wrote to her husband in Yemen, informing him about the boy. In 1911, she received a letter from her husband in which he said: "Aferin Safiye"--Well done, Safiye. (Mother still has this letter; I scanned it and included it in Mother's digital album.) Vijdan lived only two years and died of diphtheria. Dr. Haşim's parents did not immediately appreciate the severity of the boy's illness and delayed calling for help. After the boy died, Dr. Haşim's mother asked Safiye not to mention the delay to her son when he returned from Yemen. Safiye never did. Dr. Haşim did not know about the death of the boy. He had other problems on his hands in Yemen.

It so happened that İmam Yahya, the leader of Yemen Arabs, became severely ill. There were no modern doctors available to him. The Arabs contacted the Turkish military post and asked for a Turkish doctor who could speak Arabic. Dr. Haşim arrived. Since the Yemenis were not sure that they could trust a Turkish doctor, Dr. Haşim performed his services under Yemeni guns. This was happening at a time when the Yemeni Arabs were contemplating if they should join other Arab tribes in their rebellion against the Turks. İmam Yahya recovered and in gratitude refused to join the other Arab tribes against the Turks. The news reached Turkey and the newspapers wrote about the appeasement with Yemen, as a result of services performed on İmam Yahya by a Dr. Haşim.

Yemen, İstanbul, Çanakkale (Dardanelles). After spending four years and eight months in Yemen, Dr. Haşim returned to his parents and wife in İstanbul. He had experienced an inner transformation during the years he was in Yemen. Having seen the Arabs join forces with the British, now he regarded his own people as "iki yüzlü" (two-faced) and "arkadan bıçaklayan" (back-knifing) people. He, an Arab, became anti-Arab." This transformation happened in 1911 or 1912. Dr. Haşim and his wife were living with his parents in an old section of İstanbul called "Kocamustafa Paşa" then. A few months after his arrival from Yemen, he was assigned to Çanakkale, the town of "Dardanelles," named after the water passage between the Marmara and Aegean seas.

Before Dr. Haşim left for his new post, Safiye approached him with a request. She had already spent almost five years without her husband and now faced another separation. She knew her mother-in-law would ask her if she wanted to accompany her husband to his post, or stay with them as before. Safiye wanted to be with her husband, but she had to convey this to her in-laws agreeably, without seeming to complain. So she proposed to her husband the following appeasement: "your mother will ask me, probably in your presence, if I want to go with you or stay with them. I will say that I want to stay with them, but then you interject and tell them that you want me to accompany you." (Mother heard this from her mother.) He agreed and this time they departed together.

On the day of their departure, Dr. Haşim's mother told him "oğlum, benim gelinim gibi gelin dünyada yoktur; eğer onun kalbini kırarsan, sana sütümü haram ederim." This translates to something like: "Son, there is no bride like yours in the entire world. If you ever break her heart, I will curse my milk to you." ("Gelinim" actually means "my bride," the way parents can refer to their daughter-in-law.) Dr. Haşim and his wife left for Çanakkale and his parents decided to leave İstanbul and return to Latakia.

Latakia, Syria. Mother does not know how long her parents stayed in Çanakkale. Dr. Haşim was assigned next to a post in Syria. This was his homecoming and he was bringing his wife with him. When they arrived in Latakia, they were greeted by village women who produced a monotonous wailing sound by rapidly fluttering their tongues. Safiye did not understand that her arrival was being celebrated and she was taken aback at first. (I witnessed the same sounds among Bedouin women in Saudi Arabia in 1976.)

In 1913, the situation between the Arabs and Turks was precarious. Dr. Haşim had to travel to different posts, including the towns of Al Mawsil (Mosul) and Kirkuk in Iraq. At the beginning of World War I (1914), these towns were centers of revolt against the Turks. By 1916, the Ottomans were losing control in Iraq and Syria. The Iraqi forces under army commander Faisal (later King Faisal I), assisted by Colonel T. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia), were raiding the Damascus-Medina railroad and overrunning Ottoman strongpoints.

Dr. Haşim had to be at several places almost simultaneously. Meanwhile, Safiye stayed at home in Latakia. Once, when loneliness was especially hard, she decided to take a walk to the sea shore. Since women did not take walks alone in those days, a boy from the family accompanied her. She came to the water's edge and heard a fisherman mutter to himself "Hey Anasini" ("Ah mother," but also "Oh damn") while doing something with his boat and nets. She recognized the Lâz accent in these Turkish words and her heart leaped. It was not proper for her to talk to a strange man, so she returned, but much happier. Sometimes Safiye could join her husband at a post. On these occasions, she traveled with camel and donkey caravans heading in his direction.

Sometime between 1913 and 1917, when Dr. Haşim and Safiye were in Syria, she gave birth to a baby girl. Safiye had been very close to her cousin and friend Hamide in Arhavi. So she named her baby after Hamide's daughter Zekiye. Unfortunately, like Vijdan, the baby boy Safiye had lost a few years earlier, this baby was also not healthy. She died soon after birth.

Hoş geldiniz Zekiye hanım: Mother's Birth, WWI Ends. World War I was practically over and the Ottoman Empire was on the losing side. Dr. Haşim and Safiye were stationed in Aleppo, Syria then. The Turkish military forces were withdrawing from Aleppo. Safiye was pregnant and expected her baby any time. Dr. Haşim was under orders to march with the soldiers. He went to his commanding officer, General Cemal, and said "General, my wife is about to deliver a baby. She has had two babies and both of them died before I could see them. Is there a way you can grant me a leave for a few days so that I can be present at this baby's birth?" The General gave him until the next morning. If the baby was born by then, Dr. Haşim would be there. Otherwise, he had to return and be ready to withdraw with the troops. The baby arrived at about 4:30 a.m. on Mar.1,1918 and was delivered by her father. When she appeared, Dr. Haşim uttered "hoş geldiniz Zekiye hanım" (welcome, Miss. Zekiye). This told Safiye that her baby was a girl and her name would be Zekiye. Dr. Haşim returned to duty as ordered.

In Oct. 1918, seven months after Zekiye's birth, the Arabs took Damascus, again assisted by Lawrence of Arabia. Iraq and Syria had been under the Ottoman rule since the 16th century. Since Turkey lost the war, these two countries became independent from the Ottoman Empire. In 1920, Syria became a French territory, until 1944; Iraq became independent in 1921. The defeat of Central Powers (Germany, et al.) led to the breakup and foreign occupation of the Ottoman Empire. The victorious Allies wanted to control the Anatolian territory and turn parts of it, as well as eastern Thrace, the region of the southeast Balkan Peninsula north of the Aegean Sea, over to other powers. World War I had ended but the Turkish war for independence (İstiklâl Harbi, 1918-23) was only beginning.

Although Safiye had lost two babies previously, she did not spoil her daughter. She was an old-fashioned religious woman, whereas her daughter was a vivacious, mischievous, and talkative child. When Zekiye was growing up, there were many occasions when Safiye mumbled in Lâz "Nana, mis mebo zi(ts)i dortun" ("Dear mother, whose misfortune did I laugh at that fate brought me the same." It is used as a mild rebuke, but also humorously as "what I have to put up with.") Mother says her Mother spanked her liberally when she did not behave, to her early teens. In retrospect, Mother must have enjoyed her upbringing, for she bestowed the same on us when we misbehaved, a lot in my case.

Cavit (to Age 5), 1913 to 1918. The fertile land and humid climate in Arhavi were especially favorable for raising tobacco, tea, and hazel nuts. Several well-to-do merchant families in the village, including a few in our clan, were land owners who raised these commodities and exported them to İstanbul and other cities. The rest of the community eked a subsistence living from fishing and farming. Families raised their own crops. (Except for the absence of large merchants, the conditions are similar today; the big merchants have moved to cities, primarily to İstanbul.)

Cavit was born in Arhavi circa July 11, 1913. His parents, Mehmet Zeki and his wife Femsi from the Çeleşi clan, were among the very poor in Arhavi. Cavit was their sixth child. The oldest son, Bahri, was already 19 years old and away at a military school. Their other children included daughters Ayşe, Naciye, and Leman, who were of ages 14, 12, and 3 respectively. The other son, Sabri, was 10. Leman was blind and her left side was paralyzed. Mehmet Zeki was an officer, perhaps a lieutenant, who had risen through the ranks. In 1913, World War I was imminent and when Cavit was born his father was away on a military post.

World War I. Gallipoli, 1915-1916. While Dr. Haşim and Safiye were occupied on the Arab front, a bloody battle was raging at a place called Gelibolu (Gallipoli). Cavit's father Mehmet Zeki and his oldest brother Dr. Bahri both participated. (And this is where Father was stationed as a military doctor in 1940, when World War II was raging in Europe and around Turkey.)

The Gallipoli campaign of 1915 was an Allied attempt to knock Ottoman Turkey out of World War I and reopen a supply route to Russia. The initial plan, proposed by British First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill, called for an Allied fleet, mostly British, to force the Dardanelles Strait and then to steam to Constantinople to dictate peace terms. On Feb. 19, 1915, a Franco-British fleet under British Vice Admiral Sackville Carden began systematic reduction of the fortifications lining the Dardanelles. The main fortifications were attacked on Mar. 18. Sixteen battleships, including the powerful Queen Elizabeth, provided the main firepower. However, just as the bombardment had silenced the Turkish batteries, three battleships were sunk in an undetected minefield, and three others were disabled. The Turks had nearly expended their ammunition, many of their batteries had been destroyed, and their fire-control communications were out of action. The Allies, however, did not know this. Rear Admiral John de Robeck, who had taken command when Carden fell ill, called off the attack and withdrew his ships from the strait.

In the meantime, the Allies had hastily assembled a force of 78,000 men and dispatched it from England and Egypt to Gallipoli. However, as his flotilla gathered near the peninsula, the commanding general, Ian Hamilton, discovered that guns and ammunition had been loaded on separate ships. The transports had to sail to Egypt to be properly loaded for combat. Alerted to the Allied plan, the Turks used the resulting month's delay to improve their defenses. Some 60,000 Turkish troops, under the German general Otto Liman von Sanders, awaited the Allies.

On Apr. 25, British and Anzac (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps) troops landed at several points near the tip of the peninsula. Simultaneously, on the Asiatic side of the strait, the one French division made a diversionary landing, and off Bulair ("Bolayır"), on the neck of the peninsula, a naval force attempted to distract the Turks. The Allied troops were soon pinned down in several unconnected beachheads, stopped by a combination of Turkish defenses and British mismanagement. Losses were high. The Turks ringed the tiny beachheads with entrenchments, and the British and Anzac troops soon found themselves involved in trench warfare. After three months of bitter fighting, Hamilton attempted a second assault on the western side of the peninsula. Because this assault lacked adequate naval gunfire support, it failed to take any of its major objectives and resulted in heavy casualties.

Hamilton was relieved on Oct. 15, and by December 10 his replacement, Gen. Charles Monro, had evacuated the bulk of the troops and supplies. The remaining 35,000 men were withdrawn without the Turks realizing it on Jan. 8-9, 1916. By contrast with the operation as a whole, the withdrawal was a masterpiece of planning and organization, with no loss of life. Estimates of Allied casualties for the entire campaign are about 252,000, with the Turks suffering almost as many. The British First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, had to resign because of this humiliating defeat in the hands of the Turks.

The Turkish people have mixed emotions about England. They hold the British culture and civilization in high esteem. However, the average Turk also views the English people as snobbish, England a habitual "pot stirrer" nation. With a population that is about 40 percent of British heritage, America may deem it expedient to let bygones be bygones and be proud of its "English connection." Many other peoples around the world may not be as forgiving about their experiences with the British. Even without encouragement from England, the Arab uprising against the Ottoman rule was predictable. Turkey suffered heavy losses at Arab hands, at a time when the country was also confronted by major powers on many fronts. In exchange, Arabs lost religious control over a very important Muslim country. And the British suffered significant casualties in Gelibolu (Gallipoli) where they were defeated. WWI taught humility to all sides.

Arhavi Evacuated, 1917. In 1917, when Cavit was 4, the Russian army began to bombard Arhavi and the surrounding areas. The residents sought protection from the shells by hiding in the ditches that marked their property lines. However, the bombardment intensified and people began to evacuate by whatever means they could. Cavit's oldest brother Bahri, who was about 23 then, was already a military doctor and stationed at an inland post. So, like his father, he was away from Arhavi when the evacuation began. Cavit, his mother Femsi, three older sisters, and his brother Sabri embarked on a tiny ramshackle sailboat owned by a relative (or family friend) and headed toward İstanbul. This was a distance of several weeks, especially since they could sail only at night. They exited the boat in Bartın, a quaint village between the cities of Sinop and Zonguldak on the Black sea. There they awaited the end of the war. (At about this time, Zekiye (Mother) was about to be born in Aleppo.)

A year later (1918), the bombardment of Arhavi and other Lâz villages stopped. Turkey had lost the war and foreign powers occupied the land. Families began to return to their homes. Cavit and his family boarded the boat of a relative and within a few days arrived in Ordu, a coastal town about halfway between the cities of Samsun and Trabzon. (Ordu also translates to the "Army.") They stayed there about a month. Cavit (5) saw his father Mehmet Zeki the first time, when the latter arrived on a short leave.

As Father recalls this first meeting, he and his brother Sabri were attending a neighbor's horse at a water hole in town when their father came looking for them. Cavit did not recognize his father, but Sabri did. He ran to this man, leaving Cavit on the horse. In the commotion, Cavit fell off the horse, but luckily he did not injure himself. Then, he too ran to this older man. Mehmet Zeki left for his post a couple of days later.

Father's recollection from these days includes a transgression for which he received a good beating from his mother. Cavit was hungry one day and he found a gold piece in a drawer in the house. He took it to a street peddler who sold boiled eggs. He purchased an egg and paid for it with this gold piece. Cavit then returned home. The peddler was an honest person. He followed Cavit to his home and returned the gold piece to his mother.

Batumi (USSR), 1918. On their way back to Arhavi, the family reached the town of Trabzon. Cavit's brother Sabri (15) negotiated with a boat captain their passage to Arhavi. They were the family of a soldier and people helped. However, the captain was heading to Batum, which is about an hour from Arhavi by boat. Sabri was apparently happy that he had found someone who would take them near their home and that he had negotiated their passage, for Cavit saw him running enthusiastically toward them, his jacket fluttering behind him.

Since Batum had been part of the Ottoman Empire until then, several Lâz families had businesses and shops there, including Zekiye's Rıza dayı (Safiye's brother). Rıza was also Cavit's first cousin, though he was much older. When they arrived in Batum, they checked into an inn. Mehmet Çeleşi, Cavit's cousin (Cavit's mother Femsi's brother Hasan's son), heard that his aunt was in Batum and arrived with a pot of "hamsili pilav" (pilaf cooked with "hamsi," an anchovies-size fish the Lâz use in many dishes, especially mixed in corn bread.)

One day, Mehmet brought little Cavit to Rıza's store and dressed him in a sailor's outfit. Mehmet told Rıza "babası sonra parasını verir" (his father will pay for it--when he returns). Rıza rejected the offer and told Cavit to take off the outfit. Father has not forgotten this incident. Years later, after Father worked himself out of poverty, both he and Mother have been generous to people less fortunate than they, including Rıza dayı. In 1943, after Mother buried her mother in İstanbul and joined Father in Ünye, Rıza came from Arhavi to stay with them for a few days, to offer Mother his condolences over the death of her mother, his sister. He had lost his business then. Mother told Father that they should give him some money. Father gave Mother ten 10TL bills, a considerable sum in those days, especially since Parents had very little themselves.

Cavit (Age 5) Returns to Arhavi, 1918. After staying a month in Batum, Cavit and his family boarded a boat heading for Arhavi and returned home. Cavit's sisters and brother ran to their home. Cavit's father had built the house of brick and concrete. It was still standing, but there was large shell hole in front of the house, at the second story level. Cavit had to walk slowly, holding his mother's hand, for he had injured his foot. While walking on the beach in Batum, he had stepped on a board with nails. His foot was badly infected. There were no doctors or pharmacists in small villages in those days, and the infection persisted. He saw his brother and sisters looking out from various windows, waiting for him and their mother to reach the house. Soon after they settled down, Cavit's Father came on a short leave. He cleaned and bandaged Cavit's foot and left for his post a few days later.

In those days, there were no schools in small villages. All children over the age of 6 attended a "mahalle mektebi" (neighborhood school), which consisted of a room or two in the village mosque, where a Muslim minister ("hoca") taught them to read the Koran in Arabic--which is unrelated to Turkish, except for some borrowed words. The mosque served also as an infirmary of sorts. Since there were no doctors, paramedics, or pharmacists in the village, sick people were brought there and the hoca had the boys read the Koran for them.

The children were also taught strict manners. For example, they were told to come and go to school with their hands folded over their waist, so that they were not tempted to pick fruit from trees on other people's fields. Once when Cavit and a few boys were walking to school, Cavit slipped and unfolded his hands. His classmate Rafet told the hoca that Cavit had unclasped his hands. The hoca did not question Cavit. He had at his disposal several wooden rods of different lengths, depending on whom he wanted to reach from his sitting position. Cavit received punishment for unfolding his hands.

After attending the mahalle school in Arhavi for a year, Cavit began the first grade in a larger mosque. A year later, the hoca there lined up the children and, based on their height, decided who would graduate to second grade and who would repeat the first grade. Since Cavit was not tall--about 5-feet-5 as an adult--he repeated the first grade.

Zekiye (6 to 7), in Fatih (1924-1925). In 1924, Zekiye and her parents were living in Fatih. A year later, Dr. Haşim decided to retire from the military. Safiye, who had lived the life of a military spouse for so many years, was heartbroken. She was proud of the military and her husband's achievements. (Mother says her mother cried a great deal about this decision and preserved his military uniforms for years.) Ironically, soon after his retirement, the colonels in Dr. Haşim's group were all promoted to the rank of "Paşa," the old Turkish word for General. (Grandfather's decision to retire early from the military was not a minor miscalculation. The military has always enjoyed a special place in the hearts and minds of the Turkish people. A veteran "Paşa" from the İstiklâl War, especially one who was also granted the İstiklâl Medal, would have enjoyed considerable prestige and retirement benefits.)

Mother recalls a humorous story from their time in Fatih. One day, there was a big fire in the vicinity and Zekiye's parents considered evacuating their home. Safiye's brother Vasıf was visiting them and he was asleep in a room. Safiye entered his room to awaken him, but for reasons only she knew she began to chuckle. Vasıf dayı was a religious and no-nonsense man. He woke up and stared at his sister. With an annoyed tone he asked her why she was laughing. Between chuckles she gave him the news. He mumbled "what is there to laugh about a fire?" This story is meaningful in that Mother can also burst into laughter and infect everyone around her. Years later, this apparently inherited characteristic helped her maintain her childlike sense of humor and allowed her to survive ordeals that may have defeated many a sober person.

In Giresun (Age 7). Harbiye, Asuman (1925-1927). In 1925, Zekiye's parents decided to move to Giresun, a picturesque town on the Black sea. The decision was not reached arbitrarily. Dr. Haşim wanted to start a medical practice. He was considering opportune locations away from İstanbul. Safiye's brothers Vasıf, Rıza, and Hasan had a business establishment in Giresun. They told Dr. Haşim that Giresun was an attractive town and in need of an eye, nose, and throat specialist. Giresun it was.

The family moved into a rental home. Dr. Haşim worked for the Department of Health and he had his own practice. Zekiye was enrolled at the Gazi Paşa Grade School, named after Gazi Mustafa Kemal, or Atatürk. (The label "Gazi" designates a surviving veteran of the İstiklâl War.) She registered in school officially as Zekiye Haşim, using her father's first name as her last name. It was in Giresun that Zekiye (7) and her first cousin Harbiye (8) planted the seeds for a lifelong friendship. They knew each other from Arhavi, when Zekiye and her mother came there in the summer, staying at the home of Rıza dayı, Harbiye's father and Safiye's brother. Giresun provided the girls with spontaneity and continuity. The remarkable feature of this emerging friendship was that although the two lived their lives on entirely different paths later, they maintained their affection for each other. (It remains so in 1997.) In school, Zekiye met another lifelong friend, Asuman.

Asuman was from a well-to-do family. Her parents, Dr. Veysi Kıpçak and his wife, lived in the house next to the Gazi Paşa School. Asuman's mother was from Kadıköy, a soigné section of İstanbul, and her parents were more sophisticated than Zekiye's. Therefore, although the respective parents knew of each other and met occasionally, they did not socialize together. The budding friendship between Zekiye and Asuman continued through the second grade. In 1927, the Department of Health transferred Dr. Kıpçak to Ordu, a coastal town that is a short distance west of Giresun. So after two years of friendship the girls were separated. They were too young to form a meaningful friendship at this early age. However, the two would meet again, in Merzifon in 1930.

Zekiye's Health Problems, 1926. At age 8, Zekiye became ill from tubercular adenitis. Her parents believed that their daughter became infected in Arhavi, where she and her mother spent part of every summer. Although they usually stayed with Rıza dayı, in 1926 they had spent part of their vacation also in the summer home of Zekiye's Cici Anne, Hamide hanım. There, Zekiye played with several children, among them a pretty girl named Emine. The girls frequently swam in a small creek nearby. Zekiye's parents suspected that this is where Zekiye contacted tuberculosis.

Actually the adenitis may have saved Zekiye's life, for instead of infecting her lungs, which would have been fatal then, the bacteria infected her lymph glands. However, this was still a serious condition in those days. The lymph node below her left ear swelled. It became larger than an egg and eventually burst open, secreting pus, which they drained continuously with needles. Then the wound became infected. Zekiye's mother took her for treatment to İstanbul. They stayed with Hamide hanım in Fatih. Zekiye was attended at the Gülhane Military Hospital for two or three months. The wound was operated upon by Dr. M. Kemal, then the most famous surgeon in Turkey. However, the infection had spread to other nodes. The doctors recommended x-ray treatment. This was done at the offices of a Dr. Kilaiditis in Tepebaşı--a section of İstanbul. Zekiye and her mother returned to Giresun. The x-ray treatment blackened the scar left over from the operation. This part was operated on again. Zekiye's problems with adenitis continued for three years.

Emine and her daughter Ümit. Zekiye's friend Emine, whom she met at Hamide hanım's summer home in Arhavi, was Hamide hanım's niece. She had been initially named Harbiye, but then the family had decided that Emine was a prettier name. She was a beautiful girl and a few years older than Zekiye. Emine married and had four daughters and two sons. One daughter, Ümit--who is about my age--married Uncle Sabri's second son Kerami. Their older daughter Femsi is also attractive. (She is 4 years younger than my daughter Belinda.) Kerami and Ümit had also twin babies in 1973, whom I met in 1992. Arda and his sister Ayda are quite handsome and have all-American looks. The "pretty" genes must have passed on from Ümit's side.

Muhittin Bey and his Family. When Dr. Haşim was assigned to Iraq early in his military career, he had a military aid by the name of Muhittin. The aid had married recently and brought his wife Nazmiye hanım with him to Syria where the military families were housed. Muhittin bey was concerned that his wife would be left alone as he moved from post to post, accompanying Dr. Haşim. He asked Dr. Haşim if it would be possible for his wife Safiye to check on his wife from time to time. Dr. Haşim mentioned Muhittin bey's concern to his wife. Safiye told him that Nazmiye hanım should move in with her. Nazmiye hanım was several years younger than Safiye and (unlike Safiye) she was a liberated young woman. She insisted on having her way until finally an exasperated Safiye slapped her face. Despite this incident, when the families returned to Turkey, Muhittin bey was grateful to Dr. Haşim.

In 1926, when Zekiye fell ill with adenitis, Muhittin bey and his wife were living in Yıldız--a section of İstanbul. Since Safiye was not a worldly person, Dr. Haşim thought his wife might need assistance. He wrote to his friend and asked him to help his wife and daughter at the Gülhane Hospital in Topkapı (also the location of the famous Topkapı Museum), where Zekiye would be treated. Despite the considerable distance between Yıldız and Topkapı, Muhittin bey came at 8 o'clock every morning and waited for them at the gate of the hospital. He stood by their side every day for two months. Their friendship grew even closer and sometimes Zekiye and her mother stayed at their home.

Zekiye's emerging Generosity. Muhittin bey and his wife gave Zekiye a bracelet of large oval stones of a black mineral set in gold base. The stones were connected by a chain and each stone was attached to the base by a gold pin through the stone. Years later (1942), when Zekiye and her mother were staying in Lâleli--a neighborhood in Aksaray, İstanbul--they met Muhittin bey's children who lived nearby. Muhittin bey had died and his widow Nazmiye hanım and her three daughters, Semahat, Melike, and Saadet, the latter a medical student, and a son lived together. Once when Saadet was going to a party at the medical school, Mother lent to her several pieces from her jewelry, which Saadet returned after the party.

In 1943, when Parents were living in Ünye, Mother gave the bracelet she had received from Muhittin bey and his wife to Necmiye, aunt Naciye's oldest daughter. (Ünye is a quaint town on the Black Sea, about two hours of driving distance to the east of Samsun.) Necmiye was about 15 then. She was the oldest girl in the immediate clan and her parents did not have the means to put aside a dowry for her. So the bracelet was intended as part of a dowry. Mother gave Necmiye another bracelet a few years later and heard that Necmiye took the bracelet for an appraisal to a "kuyumcu" (jeweler), claiming that her "yenge" would not have given it to her if it had been a valuable piece. Over the following years, Necmiye's truculence became a source of friction and unhappiness to Mother. She was with us in Samsun in early 1950s. After several incidents, Necmiye was asked to leave our home. Her sister Necla was like an older sister to us and stayed with us from 1948 until her marriage in 1953.

Mother was also generous with the jewelry she inherited from her mother. When Father finally recovered from his bout with typhus in Erzurum in Jan. 1944, Mother showed her gratitude by giving two pieces of her mother's jewelry to the nurses, when she was in dire circumstances herself. (Since healthcare is free in Turkey, these presents were not necessary.) Mother's "lavish" generosity continues to this day. She has bought gifts, gave money, to the nurses who took care of Father when he was ill from various ailments in America in the 1990s. Her generosity to the needy, the family, especially to her children, through the years is legendary.

Mevlût. Mother's generosity may have been motivated also by religion and superstition. Originally, the word mevlût described a religious poem; eventually it evolved into a religious ritual. During Ramadan, mevlûts are read in mosques for the well-being of the country. A mevlût may be arranged also privately by a family on special occasions, to express gratitude or as an appeal, like the "Thanksgiving" by Christians. However, a mevlût may be read any time, for any cause or occasion that the family deems as important. Many old-fashioned Turks sacrifice a sheep as an appeal to Allah, for example, to help with the recovery of a child from a serious illness. These occasions are also supplemented with at least one private session of mevlût. Some people perform the ritual on their own, for example after a bath, by reading from the Koran. These private readings are sometimes offered also as a substitute for the five daily prayers, which are too cumbersome and time-consuming to perform. Mother used to read from the Koran, until she realized that Allah sometimes responded and sometimes did not, appeal or no appeal. It dawned on her that she might be exercising superstition. So she quit the practice but not her generosity.

Kulakkaya, 1927-1936. Zekiye and the Summer Months. There were only minor changes in Zekiye's life in 1927 and 1928. In 1927, her parents rented the (larger) house next to their existing home. Meanwhile, the town needed a home for the new mayor. Since the Gazi Paşa School was an attractive building, the school was converted to mayor's residence. The same year, at age nine, Zekiye began the third grade at İsmet Paşa Grade School. (The school was named after İsmet İnönü who was Atatürk's second-in-command during the İstiklâl War and also a war hero, who became the president after Atatürk's death.) The year 1927 also marked the occasion when electric service was turned on in Giresun for the first time. (Mother recalls the evening when suddenly their home and the whole town lit up brightly.)

In 1929, when Zekiye was 11, she had her first period. These monthly cycles were exceptionally severe and Zekiye lost excessive quantities of blood. She became anemic, which exacerbated her weakness from adenitis. Her parents treated her condition according to the remedies known then. They supplemented her diet with fish oil, twice-ground raw liver mixed with cheese, and other special nourishments. In the summer months, Zekiye was taken to the mountain resort of "Kulakkaya" to improve her condition. There, her diet was further supplemented by butter, milk, and cream purchased from an Ayşe "bacı" who lived in a village nearby. ("Bacı" is an old Turkish word for sister and is still used in villages.) However, Zekiye health remained a major concern.

Kulakkaya was about three hours of driving distance south from Giresun. The ride by taxi cost 15 TL and, until Zekiye's parents purchased a car, a Studebaker limousine, and hired a chauffeur, this is how they traveled to Kulakkaya. Well-to-do families in Giresun spent the hot summer months there, for in those days families did not go to the beach. Women could not appear half-naked in public; men did, but not in front of women and families. The mountains provided natural air conditioning and Kulakkaya became a popular place in the summer. (It was much larger then than it is today.) Zekiye's parents rented a house the first summer they spent in Kulakkaya. A year later, they built their own home, using wood for the exterior and plywood for the interior. The house was situated in a section called "Dilsiz Suyu," the first house on the right entering Kulakkaya.

Dress Code. Muslim religion, as interpreted by men, is responsible for the dress code in Muslim countries. In 1977, after a season of unusually heavy rains in Riyadh, I saw Bedouin women waist-deep in water, refreshing themselves in isolated ponds in the desert. Despite the oven-hot heat at ground level, they were fully dressed while in water, except for their headdresses and, I presume, shoes. The dress code prevails in Turkey to this day, but only among orthodox Muslims. After we arrived in Samsun in 1949, we went to the beach every weekend in the summer. The women dressed in one-piece swimming suits that were no different from the decorous bathing suits worn today. However, little girls only wore bikini-like outfits.

Kulakkaya Revisited, 1984. In the summer of 1984, I came home to Tuzla on a month-long visit. Parents and I decided to drive to Arhavi, a trip of at least two full days. The first night, we stayed at the Samsun Oteli, the best in the city. This was the first time I was seeing Samsun, my childhood hometown, since 1958. We drove to the cemetery to visit the graves of Uncle Bahri and his wife Zehra yenge. Father had tears in his eyes, while Mother and I looked on, contemplating the past. Uncle Bahri had been a legend in the family. He had been helpful to Father, later to us, in dire times, but he had also caused many difficulties in Samsun. Father had lost a year in school because of the volatile conditions he had endured in Sivas while living with his brother. Still, apparently Father forgave his brother, perhaps because he understood his brother's temper and energy better. And uncle Bahri had not singled out Father. After the visit to the cemetery, we came to the building where we had lived from 1949 to 1958. I remembered a large building at a central location. It looked small and old now, and on a crowded and narrow street. Samsun was no longer quaint. We carried in us many wonderful memories from Samsun, but they were from another incarnation . . .

We departed and headed for Trabzon. On the way, we stopped in Ünye and tried to locate the house on the shore in which Parents and I had lived briefly in 1943. Now the area was a park. We continued east to Giresun where Mother had grown up. Instead of stopping there, we decided to drive to Kulakkaya. The road Mother had used fifty years ago was closed now; we had to take another route. It was an arduous but scenic climb for more than three hours. Mother mentioned that the road she remembered from her childhood had been better. She was probably right, for there were not many travelers to Kulakkaya now.

When we arrived, Mother jumped out of the car and, walking briskly along the main street, pointed out this and that in her ebullient voice. The summer home from her childhood was gone. Soon we were surrounded by the population, including the gendarme and village aldermen. Mother was talking of things from almost 60 years ago, reciting the local history of who lived where, their neighbors, who was related to whom, who had married whom, their children's names, which trees had looked how big then, and everything else that popped from her phenomenal memory. The residents were captivated. They looked at her in awe and amazement, wondering how she could remember their long-forgotten relatives and past so well. Mother was at her best.

The rest of the trip was less nostalgic. While the countryside still enticed us, the towns and villages had grown haphazardly big. They did not look as quaint as I remembered them. Because of our excursion to Kulakkaya, we were delayed. After we checked in a hotel in Trabzon, we decided to take a walk to a restaurant to try a few local meat dishes that normally taste very good. The meat they served us had an unpleasant odor, so we paid and left. The room at the hotel was hot and we had trouble falling asleep. At 4:30 a.m., we were awakened by a loud groan, as if a cow were in labor. We jumped up in bed and looked at each other, in a quasi-awake state, seeking confirmation this was no private dream. It was prayer time and we were hearing the "ezan," the Muslim call to prayer that a "hoca" normally vocalizes melodiously in Arabic from the minaret of a mosque. Now they were using loud speakers throughout the city, one next to our window. When I was growing up in Turkey, these ezans were performed live and had a pleasant sound to them. Now, we were probably listening to a tape; these were modern times after all . . .

Having lost our sleep, we left for Arhavi. After we passed Pazar and entered the Lâz country, I began to see on the side of the road women dressed in traditional clothes, carrying large bundles of tea leaves on their backs. (Pazar is a coastal village that is a few hours of driving distance to the west of Arhavi.) The anticipation and excitement of Arhavi diminished. These scenes had not disturbed me as a child, but they did now. The men were probably having a good time in the inns, playing backgammon, chatting with friends, being manly, while women worked. I knew life was difficult in this country of steep hills. People did not have the money to pay for jeeps and all-terrain vehicles, or even donkeys and mules. Women were doing this work.

I stayed one night in Uncle Cevat's home and returned to Trabzon, to take a flight to Ankara. Parents stayed a few days and returned to İstanbul by a ferry. The trips on these ships used to be wonderful in the 1950s. Mother told me that their trip had been tiring and cumbersome. Undeniably, Turkey was more modern, but the elegance and quaintness of yesteryears were gone.

Cavit (13 to 15) in İstanbul, 1926-1928. The year 1926 witnessed major changes in Cavit's family situation. His father became a traveling salesman of sorts and spent part of his time in İstanbul. Sister Naciye married Mehmet Şevkişi, who had accompanied Cavit to Bahri's home in Kars in 1923. She and her husband moved to Posof, a town near the Russian border. Cavit's oldest brother Bahri had moved, or was about to move, from Kars to Sivas, about 300 miles southeast of Samsun. Bahri helped his brother Sabri to start a merchandising store in Sarıkamış, a town near the borders with Russia and Iran.

After finishing grade school in Arhavi in 1926, Cavit arrived in İstanbul to stay with his sister Ayşe and her husband Servet bey at their home in Bebek. (Bebek, "Baby," is a modern and desirable section of İstanbul on the Bosporus.) The home was a large and beautiful villa (called "konak" in Turkish) adorned with two lion statues at the gate. It belonged to Servet bey's brother Dr. Sıtkı's wife Mürvet hanım, a wealthy member of the royal family in Egypt. Dr. Sıtkı had been intended initially as a husband for Mürvet's sister. However, the sister had rejected him and Mürvet had volunteered instead. So while Dr. Sıtkı and Mürvet hanım lived in Ordu, where he had his practice, they allowed Servet bey and his wife the use of their home in İstanbul.

Mother says that Dr. Sıtkı and his wife visited us frequently when we lived in Samsun in the 1950s. Both were known to be miserly. For example, it is a custom in Turkey to bring a box of chocolates, "lokum" (locum or "Turkish delight"), or other sweets on formal visits. (The word "lokum" is a derivative of "lokma," for morsel, bit, mouthful.) Dr. Sıtkı never did, although Parents took them out frequently. Once, Dr. Sıtkı stopped by at Uncle Bahri's office in Samsun. He left after a brief chat, leaving behind a gift-wrapped box. Uncle Bahri could not believe it. Just as he was about to open the box, Dr. Sıtkı returned and said, "I came back for the box." Uncle Bahri mumbled a few choice words to himself. Years later, when Dr. Sıtkı and his family moved to İstanbul, he purchased an old hearse and used it as his private automobile. He and his wife had a daughter named İnayet. She married a Lâz accountant and together they lavishly spent the money her parents left her.

Since Cavit was practically an orphan, his sister thought he should enroll in a military school, where his needs, upbringing, and education would be taken care of. So Cavit registered at the Kuleli Military School. However, the school director told them that Cavit's application would take two months or so to process, that they would have wait until then to be sure that Cavit was accepted. The school year was about to begin and Ayşe did not wish to take a chance. Instead, she registered Cavit in sixth grade at the Şark İdade Mektebi (East Junior High). That year, Cavit earned 56 commendations for being an excellent student.

After finishing the sixth grade in İstanbul, Cavit met with his father before he (Cavit) left for Arhavi for the summer. His father told him to bring back an antique piece they kept at home. Cavit arrived in Arhavi, but he did not get along with his step mother Nuriye dadı. Once, while passing through a corn field, he felt hungry and reached for a corn husk. His step mother told him not to eat it, for, she said, it was not ripe yet. Cavit knew better. His step mother used these occasions to gain control over him. He decided to return to İstanbul, carrying with him the antique piece his father wanted. Cavit's father was living in a room at the Kundakçıhan then and Cavit moved in with him.

Soon it was time for school. Cavit and a boy from Arhavi came to the Vefa School in İstanbul, to take the entrance examination. The examiner asked them the name of Turkey's capital. "İstanbul," said the other boy without thinking. The examiner mumbled something about "ignorant Lâz" and dismissed both of them. Next, Cavit tried Gazi Osman Paşa School in Beşiktaş, a section of İstanbul. The school director there turned out to be a friend of Cavit's father from their days in the military. Cavit was readily accepted there in 7th grade in the fall of 1927.

Cavit's Father Dies (1927), the "antique piece." Cavit's father was in a desperate situation: his business, if it could be called such, was going anywhere and he had no money. His children were either unconcerned or unaware of his condition. Or the father was too proud to ask them for help, for surely Bahri, Sabri, or even Ayşe could have chipped in. Turkey had just emerged from a decade-long all-out war. People were busy with their own lives and establishing a foundation for themselves. In this climate of disarray, dreams, and hope, perhaps the difficulties facing a single individual did not stand out. Moreover, Cavit's father was probably out of his element in İstanbul. And at 14, Cavit, who had not known anything better himself until then, apparently was not old enough to perceive something different about his father's condition, for otherwise he might have brought their situation to the attention of his brothers and sisters.

Left to his own resources, Cavit's father thought he could sell the antique piece to make ends meet. But he did not know its value. It was made of heavy metal and had an egg-like shape. Its larger axis was about a foot long, the other about six inches. Ornamental designs covered its surface and there was a hole toward one end. The piece was obviously from a foreign land and had been a family heirloom for as long as Cavit remembered. Cavit's father gave this piece to his brother Esat's son Mustafa, to have the piece appraised at the "Kapalı Çarşı" ("Covered Bazaar") in İstanbul. Mustafa was a merchant but his business was going through a hard time, which Cavit's father did not know then. Meanwhile, Cavit's brother Sabri had sent Mustafa 2,000 TL and had asked him to send to him some merchandise to Sarıkamış. Mustafa sent back goods worth about 800 TL, keeping the rest of the money. Sabri wrote to his father to ask Mustafa about the rest of the order. Mustafa's situation was clear by then. His father wrote back and informed Sabri that Mustafa had declared bankruptcy, that it was unlikely for him (Sabri) to recover the money or the goods. Mustafa also kept the antique piece.

Two months later, Cavit's father fell seriously ill one evening and was taken to the "Gureba" hospital. (The Gureba hospital in İstanbul caters to patients who cannot pay for the services.) He did not survive the night. Cavit's sister Ayşe arrived and brought Cavit to her home in Bebek. She had their father buried at the Karaca Ahmet cemetery in İstanbul. (Years later, Father came to the cemetery but could not find his father's grave.)

The antique piece was forgotten until 1953, when Mustafa dayı died in Samsun. He had been living with his two chidden, Emine and Münir. The clan convened at their home for "baş sağlığı." (This term, "health of/for the head," means "condolences.") There, Father saw the antique piece he remembered from his childhood. He did not belabor the issue then but talked to his cousin Sadettin, Mustafa's brother Osman's son, who questioned Emine. Emine, who has a high level of survival intelligence, responded that Grandfather Mehmet Zeki had given the piece to her father to pay off a loan. Father, Uncle Bahri, and the sisters did not believe this explanation, but they were not sure. Later, Father related Emine's response to his brother Sabri, who contradicted Emine and mentioned the 2,000 TL he had sent to Mustafa for merchandise. Father did not pursue the subject further. By then, our branch was well-off, while Emine and Münir were not. (I told this story only to convey the poverty surrounding Father and his father in 1927.)

Zekiye (10 to 12). Home in Giresun, 1928-1930. Hatçe, Vacit, Nazire. In 1928, Dr. Haşim purchased a five-story home at 235 "Yeni Yol" (New Way/Road) in "Çınarlar" (Spruce) neighborhood. The house had been constructed by a wealthy Armenian family and was one of the most attractive properties in Giresun then. Zekiye and her family lived there until 1937. Safiye kept the house and their garden meticulously, where even the various fruit trees had their own ladders leaning against them. These nine years, especially the period from 1928 to 1934, were the happiest times for Zekiye, who grew from age 10 to 19 in this home. (The house is described in Appendix-C.) Her parents catered to her; things were wonderful. This was also the most stable period in her life, which would experience upheavals, despair, loneliness, also much elation, later. During these hard times, she would lean on her memories of her home in Giresun and find consolation and strength in them . . .

The well-to-do but also many middle-class families in Turkey rely on the services of a live-in servant, hired help, or a "foster child" to take care of the monotonous household chores. These aids cook, which in itself is a full-time activity in Turkey, wash the dishes, sweep the house, attend to the wash and ironing, buy groceries, feed and take care of babies, etc. If the family is wealthy, they hire several full-time specialized help, some of them live-in, who attend to specific chores. This allows the lady of the house more time to socialize and to visit and chat with friends, a favorite daily pastime in Turkey. However, all Turkish women also participate in these duties, especially the cooking.

The help is often the daughter (sometimes a son) of a less-fortunate relative who is "lent" to the home of the family who is better off financially. This has several advantages for the girl and her family. With one less person to feed and take care of, the girl's parents can improve their situation, perhaps concentrating their resources on the offspring who is a good student and has a promising future. Or the family may start a business. Although weddings are paid for by the groom's family in Turkey, the girl's family must prepare a dowry for the girl, perhaps purchase the bedroom set. This is not so much a requirement as in India; rather, it is a face-saving gesture that maintains the family honor and discourages gossip. Since a girl who moves in with another family also becomes the responsibility of this family, including her marriage, her family also saves from her dowry. For the girl, the change, perhaps to a city, usually means a more sophisticated environment. Her chances of finding a husband of a higher caliber--making a "good izdivaç"--are improved. The husband may be even one of the sons in the immediate clan. (There are several instances of such marriages in our family.) These "foster" children are rarely abused or mistreated. However, they are generally regarded as "second tier" children, compared to the offsprings of the family. They are not brought up as good as adopted children in America. However, it is also true that "child abuse" is almost nonexistent in Turkey.

When Turkey won its independence on Aug. 30, 1923, the numbers of young boys and girls available for adoption and foster care increased enormously. So much so that even middle-class families could afford them, to help themselves and the children. Moreover, the disintegration of the Ottoman Empire and the war years had displaced thousands of families from many parts of the empire, including some from eastern European countries. There were thousands of refugees and orphan children also from this source. The Turkish Government tried to deal with the huge influx by distributing the refugees to all regions of Turkey, thus avoiding a concentration of them in any one city. Ships that operated on the Black sea brought many of them to various ports along the coast. Local residents and store owners provided the adult refugees with subsistence level jobs. The children were generally fostered by well-to-do families. There were no adoption laws, no documents to be signed. Parents usually brought their children to stately homes and asked the families if they could use a young person. It was an optimum solution for everyone.

Vacit dayı. On one such occasion in 1925 or 1926, a ship had discharged a group of refugees to Giresun. Zekiye's mother was watching the ship from a window. She saw a seemingly blind man walking between two young boys, holding on to their hands. One of these boys, Vacit, was taken at first by a family whose daughter, Mesrure, was Zekiye's friend. Some time later, this man, who was temporarily blind, walked into Dr. Haşim's office and sought treatment for his eyes. Dr. Haşim operated on him and improved his condition. The man was very grateful but did not have any money. Instead, he placed his son Vacit at his disposal, because Mesrure's family was not sure if and how they could use him; so they did not mind that Vacit had another chance. This is how Vacit, who was about 12 then, joined Zekiye's family became our "Vacit dayı" later.

Dr. Haşim talked to the mayor and persuaded him to find a place for the rest of Vacit's family, including several brothers and sisters. First, they were given a place to stay in a village of Giresun; later they moved to a better habitat in Giresun. Vacit stayed with Zekiye's family for about 12 years, serving as a handy man and sometimes as a security guard in Dr. Haşim's office. However, as he grew older, the money he earned at the office was not sufficient for him to become independent. Dr. Haşim got him a position at the local health department, but this job too had no future. So Dr. Haşim had Vacit enrolled as a machinist at a repair shop, so that Vacit could learn a trade, make a living, and build a future for himself.

When Zekiye's family moved from Giresun to Trabzon in 1937, Vacit was already independent. They did not hear from him for several years. During these "lost" years, Vacit married a woman from a village and had two children by her. Later, he divorced the woman and enlisted in the military, for the mandatory two years of service. Zekiye saw Vacit again in 1941, when her father purchased the Sirman Apartment in Lâleli, İstanbul. Vacit was still in the military, working as a machinist and maintaining military vehicles. Mother met Vacit again after my birth in 1942, and again lost contact with him.

Hatçe and Nazire teyze. Hatçe, an orphan girl, was with Grandparents even before Zekiye's birth. She was about 10 when Zekiye was born. Originally the daughter of a wealthy landowner in the Balkans, her parents had been killed and she and her sister Emine had been taken care of by an uncle. Before WWI, the uncle had moved to southern Turkey where he was no longer able to feed two additional mouths. He had given away Emine to a family, Hatçe to Dr. Haşim and Safiye when they were in Syria.

After Zekiye's parents moved to their second rental home in Giresun in 1926, they adopted another girl: Nazire. (Mother believes that Vacit's family brought Nazire to her parents' attention.) Nazire came to the family at age 6 or so, about 2 years younger than Zekiye. She was an only child and an orphan then, though she had relatives who also settled down in Giresun.

Hatçe and Nazire stayed with Zekiye, also after Zekiye's mother died in 1943. Dr. Haşim was in Diyarbakır then, a city in eastern Anatolia, possibly living with another woman. (He did not enter our lives again until 1947.) When Cavit and Zekiye married in 1941, Hatçe and Nazire did not have a place to go. They remained attached to Mother and her mother. Hatçe was much older and soon after I was born in 1942, she found a husband and moved away. Nazire stayed with us much longer and raised me as much as Mother, also helping with Femsi and Gülhis. So we grew up closer to Nazire teyze than anyone in the clan. She had been with Mother since their joint childhood, when Grandmother died, and during Mother's darkest hours early in her marriage.

In 1947, when we were staying with Uncle Sabri in Üsküdar, Vacit, whom Mother had not seen since 1942, came for a visit. He was employed as a machinist at the Paşabahçe Glass Factory in İstanbul, the best in Turkey. Nazire was still with us and, of course, Vacit and Nazire knew each other since 1926. They decided to get married. When we left Üsküdar to join Father in Ankara, Nazire stayed with Vacit.

In 1954, Vacit's place of work was offering its employees a home-ownership plan. For a down payment of 1,500 TL they could invest in a one-story home, or for 3,000 TL in a two-story home. Vacit did not have the money and contacted Parents in Samsun, at a time when we were deeply in debt. Nevertheless, Parents sent him 3,000 TL, to the amazement of Vacit's friends. Vacit retired from this position at the factory in the 1970s. He and Nazire have lived in the same home, enjoying the wonderful view of the Bosporus and the company of their son Nafi, his wife Sabiha, and grandchildren Onur (son) and Ayşenur. (Early in 1997, Nafi sold this home and moved to a more modern place.)

I remember seeing Hatçe occasionally during my childhood; in 1986, I met her as an adult. Nafi and I visited her in İzmir (the third largest city in Turkey, located on the Aegean sea). This was a woman who knew us, and of us, even before Mother was born. She and her husband greeted us like two lost sons returning home. It was a warm and soul-enriching visit. Both of them died within a year after our visit. I met their daughter Leyla, an only child, now a mathematics teacher, only once. She and her son visited us in Tuzla in 1991, to stay with us for a few days. We talked like a brother and sister for most of the night.

Nazire looks wholesome in old photos depicting her as a young girl. However, years of hard toil and her nervous energy have taken their toll. In old age, she looked all of her years and then some, a tiny old woman in a skin-and-bones shell, but still very alert and on top of things. Nazire, Vacit, Nafi, and Sabiha have been our extended family. We can discuss any topic with them openly. They were with us on Sep. 2, 1992, when we left Turkey permanently. Nafi and Harbiye's son Tanju brought us to the airport; Father signed over his car to Nafi. We had helped them also on other occasions in the past and every summer we visited Turkey. Nazire had two strokes in July 1994. Nafi and Sabiha call us frequently; we do likewise. On Nov. 14, 1995, they called to let us know that Nazire had passed away, Vacit, now an invalid, hanging on.

Cavit (15 to 16) in İstanbul, Arhavi, Sivas; Escape to Çarşamba, 1928-1929. After Cavit (15) completed the seventh grade at the Gazi Osman Paşa School in Beşiktaş in 1928, he and his sister came to Arhavi. (Concurrently, Zekiye, age 10, had completed her third grade at İsmet Paşa Grade School in Giresun.) Cavit supposed he came to Arhavi for a visit. Indeed, his sister Ayşe, who had her hands full at home, intended to leave Cavit there. To add to Cavit's dismay, he saw that his stepmother Nuriye had cut all the fruit trees he and his father had planted two years earlier. (He disliked the woman since then.)

Meanwhile, there were additions to the family: Bahri's third son Nizami joined the family in 1928, as also Necmiye, Cavit's younger sister Naciye and her husband Mehmet's daughter, the same Necmiye who became an unhappy association for Zekiye later. They were still in Posof and Sabri in Sarıkamış, running his business. Bahri, a colonel in the military, had moved to Sivas. Cavit was to live with his older brother and continue his education in Sivas. (Father does not remember how he and his sister arrived in Sivas, whether they traveled together, or Bahri came to Arhavi and brought them with him to Sivas.) The trip to Sivas marked the beginning of a very trying period in Cavit's already difficult and rootless life.

Bahri's rowdy lifestyle in Kars continued unabated in Sivas. He still drank and gambled. Ayşe stayed in Sivas for a few weeks. Once, Bahri lost money gambling and asked his sister for her travel money. On another occasion, he and his wife had a fight, which occurred almost daily since their marriage began. In anger, Bahri asked his sister to take his wife Zehra back to her family, prompting Ayşe to talk to Zehra. But soon Bahri's anger passed and he faulted Ayşe for not helping him to improve his marriage. A policeman named Selahattin, who was originally from Arhavi, and another Lâz, "Rizeli" İsmail--from the city of Rize, to the east of Trabzon--were Bahri's two favorite friends. İsmail was adept in Lâz dances and they practiced together in the evenings. On these occasions, Bahri usually got drunk and urged his friends to do the same: take his wife to her brother Dr. İsmail Hakkı who had moved from Kars to Tokat, a town that is about three hours of driving distance south of Samsun. (Tokat also means a "slap" on the face.) Of course, his friends knew better than getting involved in Bahri's affairs.

These were the circumstances at home when Cavit began the 8th grade. He had to babysit the three children: Selami (4), Nesimi (2), and the baby Nizami. Bahri would give Cavit money for books and school supplies, gamble his money away, and then wake Cavit in the middle of the night, asking him to return the school money. Bahri had multiple personalities, each fighting the others for dominance. He could be a rough, card-playing, heavy-drinking, and chain-smoking terror. His phenomenal memory was a sponge for events, dates, names, and family connections; he knew almost everyone and almost everyone knew him. But his brilliant mind needed additional outlets, for he was also a scholarly person. Once, he attempted to memorize an entire encyclopedia and reached as far as the part starting with "T."

Bahri usually read to early morning hours, stretched on a mattress on the floor. Books and papers were scattered around the mattress, the room saturated in cigarette smoke. Being a chain smoker, often he ran out of cigarettes in the middle of the night. Then he would wake up Cavit and ask him to go to a local inn to buy cigarettes for him. The inns were closed at these late hours. Often Cavit had to knock on the door until the proprietor came. The only happy recollection Cavit had from this year in Sivas was that sometime during the year he saw his friend Sami from Kars, Feride hanım's son and a nephew of Zehra yenge. (They did not cross paths again. Sami became a naval officer and has long passed away.)

Violin Lessons in Sivas, 1928. Cavit's family had musical talent. Ayşe played the "ut," an instrument like the mandolin, and Naciye fiddled on the violin. However, the family was too poor to indulge in such an expensive pastime. Cavit must have had a premonition about his chances to play the violin, for he took the violin from his sister and brought it with him to Sivas. Indeed, there was a private music school in Sivas and the owners, Muzaffer Sarısözen and Hüseyin bey, were both consummate violinists. Cavit began taking lessons from them and continued for only about three months. After this brief introduction, he played classical records on his brother's record player and practiced the violin part. He continued to practice on the violin also in Erzurum, where he attended the lycée from 1932 to 1934. Indeed, Cavit and four friends who could also play the violin formed a group and offered recitals. He continued to practice at the medical school in İstanbul. In the 1950s, when we were living in Samsun, Father began to take lessons again and soon became so proficient that he could render a very good audition of Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen, a very difficult piece. After we moved to the United States in 1958, Father had neither the opportunity nor the inspiration to practice; so he stopped.

The musical genes of the family must have passed along to both Femsi and Gülhis. Femsi was proficient on the mandolin already in grade school. I took violin lessons, but like Mother who had endured piano lessons in her childhood, I possessed neither the coordination nor the self-discipline to continue. Femsi began to play the piano in Samsun, but stopped practicing after we moved to the United States. In 1960s, Gülhis started playing the guitar and became good at it. However, we had to wait until 1978 when the musical genius in the family was born: Gülhis' son Cavit Michael.

Cavit on Probation in 8th Grade, 1929. When the school year was over in 1929, Cavit was on probation for unsatisfactory performance in physics. This meant he had to prepare for and take a final examination in it. If he failed, he had to repeat the entire year, including the subjects he had passed. (This is still the policy in Turkey.) Having labored with his classes under untenable conditions, Cavit did not want to stay in Sivas. His sister Naciye and her family had moved from Posof to Çarşamba (a village on the Black sea, near the city of Samsun). Cavit had purchased a bicycle with the money his brother Sabri had sent to him from Sarıkamış. He took his bicycle and pedaled all the way to Samsun and then to Çarşamba.

The trip took him nine days. He slept in barns, inns, and fields along the road. People were generous and took care of him. (One can still find such hospitality in Turkish villages.) Cavit had assumed that he could prepare for the examination better in a calmer environment. However, by unfortunate coincidence, the Government had recently passed a law that required all probationary examinations to be taken at the schools where the probation occurred. Cavit could not return to Sivas. He lost the year and had to repeat the 8th grade.

Cavit and Zekiye Meet, 1929-1930, İstanbul, Giresun, Sivas. While Cavit contemplated his future at his sister's home in Çarşamba, by coincidence, his brother Sabri was on a ship bound for İstanbul. When the ship stopped in Samsun, he came for a visit. He learned about his brother's predicament and took Cavit with him to İstanbul, again to their sister. Ayşe and her husband had moved to a different home in Bebek, a villa that was known as "Kırmızıyalı" (literally "red villa," perhaps because of its red trimmings). Again, Ayşe took Cavit in. He enrolled at the school in Kabataş and repeated the 8th grade.

In 1930, Cavit (17) was ready for the lycée (grades 9 through 11). However, his problems were not over. Ayşe had her own life to live. At the end of the school year, she accompanied Cavit to Arhavi. From there, Cavit would continue alone to Sivas, again to live with brother Bahri. On the way to Arhavi, the ship stopped in Giresun and Cavit and his sister came to visit their cousin Safiye. Zekiye was 12 years old then and was at the window when the door bell rang. She looked down and saw Ayşe and Cavit at the door. (Mother remembers Father wearing a red cap.) Zekiye addressed him as Cavit abi then, out of respect for an older boy. This is how the two met the first time in the summer of 1930.

Turkey, Then and Now. The dissolution of the Ottoman Empire after WWI in 1918 and the Independence War that followed until 1923 had a similar impact on Turkey as the Civil War on the United States. Events that are part of the history of a nation generally go on a set evolutionary path where new layers build gradually over older established layers. This type of progress provides for continuity and stability. However, occasionally there occurs an event so significant that it forces a shift in this path. After the shift, the foundation is irrevocably altered and a "new" nation emerges, though many things remain apparently unchanged.

In less than 20 years, Turkey underwent three major operations to its identity: 1) 1914-1918: WWI and the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire, 2) 1918-1923: the Independence War and the birth of the Turkish Republic, and 3) 1924-1938: the "İnkilâp Seneleri" (Reformation Years). The changes that took place during the reformation years transformed Turkey to the modern country it is now. Kemal Atatürk became a dictator of sorts. Turkey stood at a critical juncture in its history. The circumstances that confronted the country were not merely a case of an emerging country choosing an identity. Had it been so, perhaps a group of farsighted and capable leaders could have drafted such an identity, like the Constitution in America.

The prospects Turkey faced in the years following 1923 were comparable much more to the difficulties confronting the Soviet Union in the 1990s, when that country gave up 70 years of communism for democracy and capitalism. However, unlike the Soviet Union, in 1923, Turkey had emerged from a devastating war that had lasted 9 years. It was a time when everything about Turkey had to start from scratch. Under these circumstances, a successful leader who emerges victorious from a major war has the type of mandate that the democratic process cannot provide. Atatürk was the man for the occasion, and he was the type of leader every country prays it can produce when it stands at such a crossroad. Bodies like the Executive Branch, the United States Congress, the Supreme Court, etc., which can guide a mature and stable America, would have been entirely ineffective in Turkey then. Kemal Atatürk alone represented all these branches. He alone enjoyed the full trust of the people and had an absolute mandate. So he took charge and began to draft his nation's future.

From 1923 to his death on Nov. 10, 1938, Kemal Ataturk served as the president of the Turkish Republic. He began by adopting the democratic system for the new nation, including a unicameral parliament (the Grand National Assembly), and establishing a responsible government. İsmet İnönü became the first Prime Minister. He was helped by a modern bureaucracy. Kemal Atatürk allowed only one party, his own Republican People's party, to assure rapid modernization and avoid destructive opposition by vested interests. Turkish nationalism was emphasized as a means of rallying popular support for the drastic and revolutionary measures needed to modernize the nation.

A populist program encouraged mass adult education and support for the republic through a nationwide system of Peoples' Houses. Secularism was promoted, with the disestablishment of Islam as the state religion, replacement of religious with secular institutions of education and justice, emancipation of women, adoption of modern Western clothing and Latin script, and enforcement of equality for all citizens regardless of religion. Already in 1935, there were 16 women members of the Turkish Parliament, serving during the 5th and 6th legislative periods from 1935 to 1942.

Initial attempts to develop the economy through private enterprise foundered because of inefficient management and the economic crisis of the 1930s. So Ataturk developed statism, by which the state controlled basic means of production through national banks. Through a series of alliances, friendly relations were maintained with Turkey's former subject peoples, now independent states or mandate territories. In the last years before his death, the rise of Italian Fascism and German Nazism led Atatürk into close relations with Britain and France.

Because of Atatürk, Turkey is a progressive developing country today. The military, well-to-do, urban populations, business people, and educated segments of the society are generally all-out "Atatürkçü" (adhering to reforms proposed by Atatürk). People who live inland in the villages and towns may appear orthodox Muslim in behavior and dress, but they are generally progressive politically. However, "Freedom of Religion" is also a basic right in Turkey. Part of the population still views the Muslim way of life as the direct route to heavens. The fanatics among them condemn the reforms initiated by Atatürk and regard these changes as blasphemous to Muslim beliefs.

Fanatics exist in every society. The orthodox Muslims who kiss the wall of the Kaaba are no more delirious than orthodox Jews who kiss the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. They are no more misguided than the deformed people on religious shows on American TV who are cured of their ailment immediately after an appeal to God. As in other countries, some politicians who cannot reach leadership positions through regular channels capitalize on religion, about which they can probably care less, to achieve their aim. The disruption caused by these groups in Turkey is similar to the agitation caused by the "Holier than Thou" Radical Right in American politics. However, the Turkish people are generally sensible enough not to enslave themselves to a minister or a fanatic.

On occasions when life in Turkey came to a standstill because of the arm-wrestling between the opposing political parties, the conflict often aggravated by the fundamentalists, the Turkish people have turned to the military as their impartial savior. The military moved in, restored order, facilitated new elections, and then it withdrew, leaving the country again in the hands of a democratically-elected government.

Zekiye (12 to 17). Merzifon American School, 1930-1935. There were many foreign schools in Turkey even before WWI, catering almost entirely to the ethnic populations. Some of these schools were located in major cities, like İstanbul and İzmir; others were scattered all over the country. After Turkey became a republic in 1923, the education system was modeled according to Western standards. The foreign schools became popular destinations also for the children of Turkish families who could afford them. However, since many of these schools were sponsored by churches, the Turkish Government dictated to them one concrete rule: "educate our children; do not brainwash them." These schools have always enjoyed high esteem in Turkey and they played a significant role in Turkey's education system. Over the years, many qualified Turkish students from poorer families have also attended these schools on scholarships.

These institutions have also contributed to a characteristic unique--in degree--to the Turkish culture: openness and tolerance, indeed a genuine affinity for other cultures and people. Unlike "private schools" in America and "finishing schools" in Europe where students study their subjects in their native languages, also learning foreign languages, Turkish students attending the "foreign" schools study all subjects in a chosen foreign language, primarily English, French, German, and Italian; Turkish is offered as a secondary language. That these schools have a church or chapel on location is irrelevant for the Turks who are secure of their identity.

Among these institutions there were several American missionary schools. One of these was the American Girls School in Merzifon, a town inland from Samsun, about two days from Zekiye's home in Giresun. The school had been founded about fifty years earlier, primarily to cater to Armenian and other Christian children. Because of this, the Government had it closed during the İstiklâl War. It was opened again after 1923. The school complex was at the outskirts of Merzifon, a tiny town then. The compound occupied a sizeable area but only a small portion of it was allocated to education. So when Zekiye graduated from İsmet Paşa Grade School in Giresun in 1930, her parents decided on Merzifon for their daughter. The tuition was 195 TL per year. Dr. Haşim, a specialist of eye, ear, nose, and throat diseases, charged 1 TL per examination then.

In 1930, the total student body in Merzifon was about 50, including the new students that year: Zekiye (Mother), Asuman, Fevziye, Hatice, Mahmure, and Melâhat (Tevfik). Three girls who were ahead by one year joined Zekiye's class for failing: Nadire, Nezihe, and Zübeyde. (The latter two and Asuman did not graduate; Melâhat died soon after graduation.) Another, Perihan, came to Zekiye's class the second year. By 1935, the year Zekiye graduated, the student population had dropped to 35. (Indeed, the school closed in 1937.) Among them, there were 3 Zekiyes, 3 Fevziyes, 3 Melâhats, 2 Nezihes, 2 Belkıs, and 2 Selmas. This caused some confusion about which Zekiye, etc.

The teachers who trained and educated the girls were all American missionaries. Zekiye grew very close to them and kept in touch with them years after her graduation. They were Miss. Jeannette Odell, Miss. Gladys Perry, Miss. Marjory Hochstetter, Miss. Nancy Colmeyer, Miss. Dorothy Blotter, Miss. Ward, and Mr. and Mrs. Blake. Miss. Odell, Zekiye's English teacher for four years, was the school principal. The teachers were firm yet gentle with the girls. Many of them were young women themselves, serving in a distant land. The girls respected them as their teachers, but also regarded them as friends, older sisters, and substitute parents. One teacher served as "class teacher" to the students in a particular grade. Miss. Odell, the English teacher, was in charge of the 8 girls in Zekiye's class. So she was also their big sister.

The environment was ideal for learning and forming lifelong friendships. Half the student body was boarding. The 8 boarding girls in Zekiye's class not only attended the same classes but they also slept in the same sleeping quarters and ate, studied, and played together. Over the next five years, they grew up from young girls to young adults together. Zekiye and her class were regarded as "abla" (older sister) by the girls in lower grades and they called "abla" the girls in higher grades. Since the number of students was limited and there were no distractions, the bonds that developed in Merzifon were unique and very strong. In contrast, when Zekiye attended the American Lyceum in Üsküdar in 1935, there was a large student body and Zekiye had 22 classmates; many of whom did not board in school. Moreover, the girls were older then and they were in a large city. Some of the friendships that developed in Üsküdar were also very close and for life, but (Mother says) Merzifon was special.

The girls were not allowed to have money in their possession. Their allowances were maintained by the school and used to purchase books and utensils from the tiny bookstore the school maintained on the premise. A Turkish man, employed as an aid, periodically purchased other personal items, such as tooth paste, from stores in Merzifon. The teachers prepared a list of such items. The delicate needs of the girls were purchased by the teachers, and the individual accounts were adjusted after these expenditures. And there was a gardener, a young German by the name of Kraus. The girls were infatuated with him. When he was around, they shouted innocent words like "5,000 (presumably Turkish Liras) Krausun siyah gözlerine" (5,000 TL for Kraus' dark eyes).

There were two locations where the girls and the teachers slept: the dormitory room and the adjacent open-air balcony. The former was reserved for the "freshmen." Girls who were not feeling well and students whose parents did not allow them to sleep in the open also slept there. Zekiye and her classmate Fevziye spent their last three years sleeping in the balcony, regardless of the weather. During thunderstorms, a canvas curtain protected the beds from the rain and the wind. The girls were required to sleep in their nightgowns only, without any encumbrances underneath. Mrs. Blake, a no-nonsense woman who taught French and music, insisted on this rule, though some house mothers did not strictly enforce it.

Since the girls lived next to each other, the school year was like a giant slumber party. Sometimes on cold days Fevziye dressed like a clown, wearing a nightgown over her pajama bottoms and the pajama jacket over the gown, and sang an old Turkish song, "Ah muallim, muallim," to which she danced (according to Mother's description of it) like a koala bear climbing a tree. ("Muallim" is the Arabic-based old Turkish word for teacher. "Hoca" is also commonly used for a teacher, often in high school, though it specifically implies a Muslim minister who teaches the Koran. A more general Turkish word for teacher, especially in grade school, is "öğretmen," one who teaches "öğretmek," and from whom one learns "öğrenmek.")

The daily routine began at the first ring at 6:15 a.m.. A second ring at 6:30 a.m. urged the girls still slumbering to get up. At the third ring at 6:45 a.m., the house mother for that day made sure that everyone was up. The girls dressed in gray uniforms and were ready for morning exercises by 7:00 a.m.. On warm days, they took walks around the school compound, accompanied by two teachers; on cold days, they gathered in the school yard and performed light military exercises. Breakfast was served at 7:30 a.m.. The beds were made after breakfast, when they were sufficiently aired. The study period began at 8:00 a.m.. This when the house mother for that day checked the beds and closets, the latter covered by curtains, to make sure they were neat. If not, the girl(s) with unkempt beds were called from the study (on the second floor) to the sleeping quarters (on the third) to improve their habits.

Classes began at 9:00 a.m. and continued until noon. The girls relaxed and played until 12:30 p.m., when lunch was served. They sat at four separate tables in the dining room, accompanied by two teachers at each table. The teachers asked the girls to change their seats every month, so as to foster friendships among all the girls. Socializing was encouraged during the meals, to allow the girls to improve their spoken English. Classes began again at 1:00 p.m. and continued to 3:30. At 4:00 p.m., the school opened the storage room where the teachers preserved food and delicacies the girls brought from home after holidays, or cookies and other edibles mailed to them by their parents. These food items were considered as community property, and the girls were allowed to consume a small portion of them before dinner. Of course, the most delectable sweets were consumed first.

The afternoon study period began at 5 p.m. and continued to 6:30. Then the girls changed to dresses before they came to dinner at 7 p.m. The evening study period began at 8:00 and continued to 9:30. The girls had to be in their beds by 10:00 p.m.. There was a coal stove in a classroom on the second floor. In winter, a Mahmut Ağa was in charge of keeping the stove hot. ("Ağa" is an old-Turkish label--similar to "Mr."--that is added to a name to show respect for a middle-age or older man, usually in villages and small towns.) He maintained the stove until the girls were ready for bed. On cold nights, the girls undressed in this room, warmed themselves and their water bottles (if any) and then ran up the stairs to slide under the covers while still warm. This was a wonderful start, especially for the girls sleeping in the open balcony. Sometimes some girls crawled in with other girls to keep each other warm. This cozy arrangement was usually interrupted by the teachers who also slept in the balcony, separated by a curtain from the girls. Periodically they inspected the girls and when they saw two of them sleeping together, they gently woke up the visitor and instructed her to go to her own bed, which was now colder than when she left it.

There was also an infirmary with four beds. Dr. Clark was the physician, Miss. Colmeyer, the teacher of heath and hygiene classes, served as something like a nurse and pharmacist. For minor ailments, the girls came to her for medicine. They had to observe one rule: no whining. That is, if a girl approached her with a sympathy-seeking demeanor and pleaded for an aspirin, she would say "no no no, you are not dying, you have only a head/tooth/etc. ache." The school could also deal with contagious illnesses. Once, Zekiye's friend Mesadet, who was a year ahead, contacted small pox and had to be quarantined for about a month. They moved her to a private room in the annex building, which was used also for some classes. No one was permitted in the room, except Dr. Clark and Miss. Colmeyer. The girls were allowed to send get-well cards and messages to Mesadet. When her condition began to improve, she was allowed to come closer to the window and see her friends, who waved hands and shouted get-well wishes to her. Mesadet's father, captain of a merchant ship based in İstanbul, was usually on duty at sea; her mother had died years ago. Since she did not have a family, she usually stayed at the school during holidays, with an aunt in the summer. Zekiye's other friend, Melâhat Ahıskalı from Erzincan (in eastern Turkey), who was a year behind Zekiye, also stayed in school during the holidays, in view of the distance to her home.

The curriculum in Merzifon included all the traditional courses: algebra, chemistry, physics, biology, history, geography, literature, composition and rhetoric, French, and music. In addition, the girls were trained in business, typing, bookkeeping, chicken husbandry, gardening, cooking, first aid, and playing hostess at formal and informal occasions. The education was excellent. Zekiye and Fevziye alternated as the best students in school, Mahmure a close second. Zekiye and Fevziye also alternated as the president of the student body each year.

Of course, on some days these two very bright students could be downright dumb. For example, after Miss. Blotter left the school on a year-long sabbatical, a Miss. Martin arrived as a replacement. During that year, she became the health teacher to Zekiye's class. Once, she called on Zekiye to describe the disease of cancer. Zekiye had not studied and tried to guess her way to a response, babbling about a casual illness like the cold or pneumonia, also explaining how one may recover from it. She did not comprehend the grimaces on the faces of her classmates who had studied. Miss. Martin did not interrupt. At the end of the recital, she asked Zekiye if this was all. Then she said "congratulations, you are the first doctor who knows the cause and cure of cancer." Mother says she was so embarrassed that she described her condition in Turkish as "yerin dibine girdim" ("I entered/sank to the bottom of the Earth") A year after Zekiye graduated from Merzifon and enrolled in Üsküdar, Miss. Martin became the principal ("Müdüre" in Turkish, in contrast to "Müdür" for a man) in Üsküdar and served in that capacity for 25 years.

During the first two years, the English class accentuated vocabulary and grammar. Then the girls were introduced to literature. The school maintained in the library a list of a dozen books for each class, assigned as recommended reading. They were progressively more difficult. A book report was required for each of the twelve books. The reports had to delineate at least the following: 1) the names of all other works by that author, 2) the names of the main characters, 3) the plot, 4) why the student liked or not liked the story. On some evenings and weekends, Miss. Odell, Zekiye's class teacher, invited the girls to her room to discuss the contents of various other books. On occasions when a girl suffering from a mild cold was alone in the infirmary, Miss. Odell invited her too. This girl was allowed to dip her feet in a pot of hot water, so as to improve her condition at the same time. Composition and Rhetoric, Zekiye's favorite class, was reserved for the last year, under Miss. Dorothy Blotter. She did not have this class again until her last year at Üsküdar three years later.

Every Saturday, except on very cold days, the girls were taken on long walks, usually accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Blake, Dr. Clark, his wife and/or their daughter, who was also the piano teacher. Each girl was given a ration of a sandwich, köfte (Turkish meat patties), a boiled egg, an apple, and an orange. These walks covered considerable territory, often to the villages in the vicinity of Merzifon. There the girls were encouraged to interact with village children, presumably to teach them humility and simplicity. On cold weekends, the girls stayed in school and played hide-and-seek and other games. Twice a year, they were taken to the town to participate in parades celebrating Children's Day (April 23) and Republic Day (October 29).

The mix of cultures did not always go smoothly. In 1930, two months after Zekiye arrived at the school, there was a funeral service for a Mrs. Villard, a former teacher at the school. The students were also invited. The girls sat on the floor while the teachers began chanting prayers. Something sparked a paroxysm of contagious laughter among the girls. They tried to contain themselves but to no avail. It became an infectious burst of laughter. Obviously the teachers were very angry.

In 1953, at age 11, I arrived in İstanbul to attend Sankt George Austrian Lyceum as a boarding student. Two years later Femsi enrolled in the girls' section of the same school. Although this was 23 years after Mother's time in Merzifon, as boarding students we enjoyed similar ambiance. Since we were in İstanbul and our school was relatively large, our experiences over the next five years were probably more like Mother's in Üsküdar, rather than Merzifon. Be as it may, we followed almost the same daily routines and formed similar bonds. Some of these friendships may have continued to this day, except for the fact that we migrated to America and lost touch with our past.

Although this permanent and abrupt severing of ties gave rise to occasional nostalgia, my sisters and I acquired the habit of viewing these mutually exclusive eras in our lives as periodic reincarnations. Unlike our Parents, who had roots, our past consisted of memories, not of tangible bonds, though we acted the parts expected of us when the past caught up to the present, for example when we visited Turkey. Our unusual background planted in us the seeds for unique personality traits, views, values, and habits which later made us, especially Gülhis and me, feel like Robert Heinlein's "A Stranger in a Strange Land." That is, we felt at home everywhere, yet nowhere in particular. This was especially pronounced in me. (I wrote the last paragraph in Miami Beach on May 10, 1995 and revised it three times the next day. Parents read each version and chose the original version. I was not sure. Father put an end to this by an appropriate comment in Lâz: "o(kh)itinu o(kh)itinu do okohvu." There is a similar phrase in Turkish: "kurcaladı kurcaladı ve bozdu." I cannot think of an exact translation in English. It is something like "he/she tinkered and tinkered--with it--until he/she made a mess of it.")

Mother corresponded with and visited several of her former teachers, especially Miss. Blotter and Mrs. Blake, after we arrived in the United States. Mrs. Blake was already married when Mother arrived in Merzifon. She was also a member of the school administration and a formidable woman. Her parents had been missionaries in Turkey and she had grown up in Turkey. Mother says her İstanbul-Turkish was superior to theirs. After Mother graduated from Merzifon, Mrs. Blake became the head mistress of the American Girls' School in İzmir. When she retired 25 years later, Mrs. Blake and her husband were presented with the key to the city. The Ministry of Education also granted them prepaid round-trip tickets to Turkey for the following year. She had served well. Mother visited them twice at their home in Boston. We saw Mrs. Blake the last time when she and her husband visited us in our home in Waynesburg sometime in the 1970s.

Mother says that, in retrospect, there was a deficiency about the education in Merzifon. The girls were not properly prepared to deal with the realities of life. They were raised in a "turn the other cheek" fashion, in a protected, safe, and trusting environment. Being so distant from real life, they grew up with delusions. In 1935, when they graduated, Zekiye and her classmates viewed life still through rose-colored glasses and anticipated their future with romantic expectations. Rude awakenings awaited many of them.

Friends, from 1930 to 1935. The "Merzifon Girls," as Mother refers to her classmates, felt like sisters and continued to interact after graduation. The potency of their friendship infected their husbands and children, who also became friends. Some of our warmest memories from Samsun are connected to our trips to Ankara where we interacted with Asuman and her family.

Asuman again, 1930. Zekiye and Asuman had already met in grade school in Giresun in 1927. They came together again in Merzifon in 1930. Zekiye had just arrived in school and was standing by the pool in the open courtyard inside the school building, inspecting her new environment. Asuman was doing the same from the balcony overlooking the courtyard. They saw one another and both of them shrieked each other's name. The two friends were together again after two years.

Zekiye was a top student in school, Asuman the worst. She was mannerly, endearing, polite, cute, sweet, but uninterested in school. So Zekiye tried to coach her friend. For example, she would mark for Asuman the Turkish equivalent of words Asuman did not understand in reading assignments. This did not help. If Zekiye had already identified the word "apple" on line 5 and "apple" appeared again on line 21, Asuman stopped and asked Zekiye. She could not memorize the words. On occasions when the girls were asked to memorize several poems, Asuman would memorize only one poem but forget its title. So when the teacher asked Asuman to recite a particular poem, which sometimes happened to be the one she had memorized, Asuman still failed, only because she could not associate the title and the poem. Be as it may, the time Zekiye and Asuman spent together in Merzifon strengthened their friendship.

But there was one thing in which Asuman excelled. She could dance, especially the "Çiftetelli," better than anyone Zekiye knew. (Çiftetelli is a sexy Turkish dance, something like a combination of belly dance and Italian Tarantella, performed in solo or in groups, usually by women, in which every woman dances by herself. Men do not participate in this dance, but ogle, though some men make fools of themselves trying. It is frequently performed in weddings and similar "family" occasions, usually after everyone has reached a stage of "reduced inhibitions.")

Soon after Zekiye and Asuman enrolled in Merzifon, Asuman's father moved from Ordu to Havza, a town near Merzifon. During short holidays, Zekiye accompanied Asuman to her home. Then, just before 1932, after two months into her second year in Merzifon, Asuman decided to leave. She said "she could not stand it there." She missed her home, especially her mother, saying things like "I wonder if my mother is also watching the full moon tonight?" Asuman enrolled in a handcraft school in Ankara for about six months and then quit going to school.

In 1935, when Zekiye enrolled in Üsküdar American Girls Lyceum in İstanbul, Asuman surfaced again. Her mother had died very young, in the early 1930s--though her grandmother and great-grandmother on her mother's side lived long lives. She was staying with her aunt and uncle in Kadıköy then. The school officials knew of Asuman's performance in Merzifon and were not inclined to accept her. Zekiye interjected on her friend's behalf and said that she would help Asuman with her studies. The school officials reluctantly relented. Zekiye was a boarding student and prepared her own assignments for the next day. Then, she woke up very early each morning and waited for Asuman to arrive. They had agreed that Asuman would take the earliest street car from Kadıköy to Üsküdar. The two would then prepare Asuman's assignments for that day. This schedule continued for a semester, but gradually Asuman began to invent excuses for not arriving on time. Then she stopped coming altogether. In 1936, she left the school, effectively ending her education. In 1939, Asuman married Nurettin Toköz, a high-level government official (and a violinist) from an elite family. Their daughter Şule was born in 1945.

Mother and Asuman met again in Ankara in 1947, when Father was completing his residency there. (I remember Asuman and Mother's other friends, Belkıs and Mahmure, from this time.) Asuman and her family became our extended family. My sisters and I regarded Asuman as if she were Mother's sister. After we moved to Samsun in 1949, our relationship continued to bloom. One summer, in 1954 or 1955, Asuman and Şule came to Samsun and stayed with us. Şule stayed longer and, like our mothers, we became childhood friends. Unlike Femsi and me, she was a sweet and quiet person, more like Gülhis. And I was aware of her presence. We traveled frequently in those days and visited Asuman and her family every time we were in Ankara. One summer when we were having a wonderful time with them, I had a severe case of shingles on top of my right foot. It looked messy and I could barely walk. It was not the role I would have chosen for myself in Şule's presence. Our families were close until our departure from Turkey in 1958.

In 1968, Mother and Gülhis visited Turkey the first time after 10 years. They renewed old friendships. This was not difficult, for the Turkish people view old bonds as timeless. The occasion meant much more to Mother and Gülhis. They had just emerged from ten years of isolation in small towns in America. The warm hugs and kisses they received in Turkey were exactly the prescription they sought. Şule was already engaged to a young man from a prominent family. Asuman and her husband were preparing for their daughter's wedding. This is an especially warm occasion in any culture and the intense activity captivated Gülhis. Her childhood friend was getting married and she participated in everything. Mother and Gülhis enjoyed themselves immensely and returned to the States rejuvenated. (And this initial visit set the stage for our annual exodus to Turkey until 1992.)

Mother and Gülhis came to Turkey again in 1969 and Gülhis stayed with Asuman to be near her friends, for Şule and Esat had a unit in the same building. Unfortunately, in their enthusiasm Mother and Gülhis had overlooked a darker side of the Turkish character. Underneath the politeness, warmth, and smiles, the Turkish people possess suspicious minds. During her visit in 1968, Gülhis had met a friend of Şule and Esat's and liked him. Since this friend frequently came to visit Şule and Esat in their unit, Gülhis came there too, to improve her chances of meeting him again. Unfortunately the circumstances were not favorable to such visitations: Şule worked and Esat was alone in the apartment. Gülhis was aware of this, but she was staying only a few weeks in Turkey, less in Ankara, and every day counted.

On one of these occasions, Asuman pulled Mother aside and asked her if Gülhis was perhaps interested in Şule's husband. Mother was speechless. She found my sister and told her Asuman's comment. Gülhis was terribly offended and embarrassed that Asuman would think so. Although she was certain that Şule and Esat knew better and were not aware of this incident, Gülhis felt self-conscious. For months after she returned from Turkey, Gülhis hovered in a shell-shocked state. Indeed, this one experience may have pulled her closer to America, by taking away the romance of Turkey, making it an illusion born of nostalgia.

Sometime in the 1970s, Şule and Esat moved to Washington, D.C. His Ph.D. in chemistry had enabled him to secure a position at the National Health Institute. The marriage seemed to have everything going for it. A few years later, without any explanation, Şule left Washington permanently and arrived at her parents' home in Ankara. We are still close to Asuman and Şule. Nuretting bey has passed away on Feb. 21, 1997.

Fevziye. Zekiye became especially close with 3 other girls in Merzifon: Fevziye, Mahmure, and Belkıs. As with Asuman, their names were household names to us until 1958. Zekiye and Fevziye were the two top students in Merzifon, also the most gullible. Fevziye may have been a little envious of her friend. She knew that Zekiye had the tendency to laugh readily upon the slightest provocation. A pattern began to emerge. Fevziye would incite Zekiye in class, who would chuckle. Then the no-nonsense teachers would ask her to leave the class. Zekiye did not complain that Fevziye was the cause. And she noticed that Fevziye also did not mention to the teacher that she had provoked Zekiye. After their graduation in 1935, Zekiye and Fevziye stayed in touch through correspondence.

Mother and Fevziye met again in İstanbul in 1942. (Fevziye held me in her arms soon after I was born in İstanbul in 1942.) When Mother joined Father in Ünye in 1943, Fevziye married Ahmet bey, who had inherited a manufacturing plant from his father. It seemed at first that Fevziye's marriage was a dream-come-true "izdivaç" (marriage). They lived in Sultanahmet--a historical section of İstanbul near the Blue Mosque and the Topkapı Museum. Her only child, Banu, a daughter, is about the same age as Gülhis.

Apparently Ahmet bey lacked enterprising talent. In 1964, he lost his business and Fevziye and her husband divorced soon after that. Fevziye, who can be a social butterfly, began to work at the American school in Arnavutköy, an expensive private school in İstanbul. In 1980, her daughter, a chemist, and her husband migrated to Canada. Fevziye retired in 1984 and moved to Toronto, to be near her daughter. She became a Canadian citizen. Mother and Fevziye call each other often, especially in the summer when Fevziye travels to Turkey. She stays with her many friends and returns to Canada after a few months. Then she calls Mother and they exchange news and gossip. She visited us in Miami Beach in April 1996 and again in April 1997. Fevziye is family to us.

Mahmure. Zekiye had also something in common with Mahmure: they had the worst handwriting. Mahmure was the daughter of an enlightened but poor "hoca" (preacher) whom the school officials in Merzifon had met on an occasion. They had been so impressed with him that they had proposed to educate his daughter tuition-free, though Mahmure was still in grade school then. During the first year, Mahmure attended her outstanding subjects at the grade school and also took classes at Merzifon. Like with Asuman in Üsküdar, Zekiye helped Mahmure with her classes, giving Mahmure her notes and summarizing the lectures for her. After the first year, Mahmure enrolled full-time at Merzifon.

Already at this young age, Mahmure longed for a better future for herself. Alas, sometimes she made clumsy attempts to imitate the sophisticated manners, hair styles, etc. of some of the well-to-do girls in school. She was not always successful. Some girls made fun of her, but not Zekiye. They became close friends. Their friendship continued in Üsküdar. In 1941, when Zekiye's family moved to İstanbul, Mahmure came often to stay with them. After we moved to Samsun in 1949, Mahmure and her husband visited us frequently in Samsun and we saw them when we came to Ankara. Mahmure was an English teacher at a high school then.

When we were getting ready for our migration to the States, several family members and Mother's friends wanted some of our belongings, like our fridge. Since these items were expensive in those days, Mother distributed them taking into account the financial position of the person. That is, if two friends asked for the same thing, the friend who could afford it less got it. Mahmure had asked Mother for our washing machine, as also Grandfather Dr. Haşim. Father was adamant about not giving it to Grandfather; so it was Mahmure's by default.

Then, Asuman approached Mother and asked for the washing machine too. Mother said that she had promised it to Mahmure. Asuman said that Mahmure had contacts with Americans and that since she and her husband both worked, they were in a better position to purchase such items. Mother agreed on the condition that Asuman would explain this to Mahmure. Since the three of them were good friends and we lived in Samsun while Asuman and Mahmure both lived in Ankara, Mother thought this was the expedient way of avoiding hurt feelings. Assuming that Asuman would talk to Mahmure, Mother gave the machine to her and thought the matter was resolved. Apparently Mahmure took this change of plans as an affront, or Asuman did not talk to her, because Mahmure did not speak to Mother when we left Turkey in 1958. Just before our departure, sensing that Asuman perhaps had neglected talking to Mahmure, Parents stopped by at Mahmure's home. She was not there but her husband was. The man was almost rude to them and was not willing to listen to explanations. Parents left in a "suit yourself" mood.

Over the years in America, Mother assumed Mahmure had reconsidered the occasion and understood Mother's decision. When Mother returned to Turkey in 1968, her friend Muazzez arranged a welcome party for her in Ankara. Things were jovial until Mother asked for Mahmure. Muazzez repeated the words exactly as Mahmure had instructed her, something like: "since Zekiye showed (in 1958) that she does not need me as a friend, I will not attend." Mother was very hurt. Her friendship with Mahmure had ended ten years earlier, but she was also disappointed in Muazzez. Instead of embarrassing her in public, by repeating Mahmure's words in front of everyone, Mother felt that Muazzez could have been more considerate and refined, for example by giving an excuse in public and telling her what Mahmure had said in private. Her crudeness ended also that friendship. The homecoming to Turkey turned into a rude awakening for Mother, and Gülhis.

Belkıs. Belkıs Sıtkı was a year ahead of Mother in Merzifon. She was from a very wealthy family in Çorum, a town near Samsun. After her graduation in 1934, Belkıs married into an equally wealthy family. The entire senior class and the teachers were invited to her wedding. The girls arrived on a school bus. It was a glorious occasion. After the wedding, Belkıs and Yakup bey drove behind their bus for about half-an-hour, before they exchanged a final goodbye.

Belkıs moved to Ankara and helped many Merzifon graduates with jobs in the government and other institutions. We saw them every time we came to Ankara. Belkıs and her husband tried to have children but without success for many years. At age 40 or so, Belkıs became pregnant but also bedridden due to an illness. Finally she gave birth to a girl whom they named Sevinç. Belkıs died in 1958, soon after the baby was born.

Melâhat and Destiny, 1980s. Melâhat came to Merzifon in 1931, a year after Zekiye. She was originally from a place called Ahıska in the Caucasus. Therefore, she was known in school as Melâhat Ahıskalı ("lı" for "from"), her place of origin substituting as her last name. Melâhat was bright, attractive, and vivacious. She and Zekiye became close friends in Merzifon, even closer later in Üsküdar. Some time after her graduation from Üsküdar, Melâhat's father left his family to live with another woman. Melâhat and her three brothers did not speak to him again. She and her older brother Burhan worked hard and together they sent their two younger brothers to school. One brother became a lawyer, the other a doctor.

Melâhat had been a promising student in Merzifon and in Üsküdar. Her teachers helped her to migrate to the United States. (Mother believes she came to America before us and completed a master's degree.) She married a William Cruise from Kentucky, a man who was about five years younger than her. In the late 1970s, Melâhat became ill from Parkinson's disease. She and her husband moved to Turkey, but things did not turn out as they had expected. They returned to the States, to live in Palm City, Florida. Mother kept in touch with her on the phone.

Sometime in the mid-1980s, Mother was watching the news, when the announcer mentioned that a man named Cruise had shot and killed several people at a shopping center in Palm City. She did not make the connection to Melâhat immediately, but it gradually dawned on her this could be Melâhat's husband. She called. Her friend said "Ah Zekiye, sorma" which literally means "Ah Zekiye, don't ask." (This expression is not meant to avoid questions but to convey severe regret, something like "Ah, Zekiye, I don't know what to say.") It was her husband.

Mr. Cruise was convicted and imprisoned. To the chagrin of the rest of his family, he had signed over everything he owned to his wife and told her, as Melâhat told Mother, "I will not come out of this; take the money and go to Turkey." Melâhat returned to İstanbul, but the wives of her brothers refused to care for her. So her brothers, for whom she had worked to finance their education, rented a home for her. Melâhat died there in the late 1980s.

I instinctively sensed the ultimate romantic story in this tragic ending, in what the man did and why he did it. This was not the situation of a man who became momentarily insane under pressure, as it may have appeared even to the authorities. I thought he had murdered these people randomly, out of desperation for sure, but deliberately, to force a solution to his "no way out" situation. That is, Melahat wanted to go to Turkey; her husband did not, having been there before. They did not have enough money for him to stay in America and for her to live comfortably in Turkey. Her deteriorating condition made their impasse even more hopeless. So, after much deliberation, he decided to sacrifice himself, so that he could give her everything they owned. But he was not a suicidal person and understood that he had to take care of himself too. He did this by forcing himself on the prison system for the rest of his life. If he killed only one or two persons, he might be released early from prison and find himself a homeless old man. So he did what he felt he had to do, to let her die in relative comfort in her homeland. As his last words to his wife conveyed, this was his last gift to his dying woman, romance exercised in desperation.

I thought how profound this conclusion was in other respects too. While the "romantic" Turks, Mediterranean, and Latins spoke and sang of romance as if they had a monopoly on such things, this "dull" American had sacrificed everything to that end. I wondered how much our idea, and that of most people in any culture, of romance and passion was nothing but a "give in order to receive" kind of mere symbiosis, and perhaps an ego trip too: sharing of good times and elation but really nothing more. (I thought everyone should consider if he or she could conceive of doing for his or her mate what this man did for his, if there was no other way.)

End of an Era, 1986. The Merzifon girls continued to interact after graduation, especially in the summer months. Often they arranged parties and barbecues on weekends, which also attracted the graduates who lived in other cities. After 1968, Mother attended these gatherings too. And we arranged a few memorable parties in our home in Tuzla almost every year in the 1970s and 1980s. We attended the last gathering of the Merzifon Girls in İstanbul in 1986. There were then about 20 graduates left who could come. It was like the end of an era, even for me. The party took place at an apartment complex in Kadıköy. When we left, there were still about 30 people there. As we were walking to our car in the parking lot, all the girls came to the balcony on the fourth floor, waving their hands and calling to us. I turned around to look and to take a snapshot of them. For a moment, they became the mischievous and romantic young girls I remembered from old Merzifon photos taken 55 years ago. The scene made a lasting imprint. As of 1997, only Asuman and Fevziye still share our lives.

Cavit (17 to 19). Sivas, Escape to Erzurum, 1930-1932. After the brief visit with Zekiye in Giresun, Cavit arrived at his brother's house in Sivas and enrolled in 9th grade. The conditions that had forced him to escape from Sivas to Çarşamba a year earlier continued. Somehow, he finished the 9th grade and in 1931 began the 10th grade.

On May 2, 1931, Cavit wrote his first card to Zekiye's mother. (The card begins with "Sevgili Ablacığım"--My Dearest Sister--which Cavit may have sent instead to his sister Ayşe in İstanbul. However, Cavit also addressed Zekiye's mother Safiye the same way, though on some cards with later dates Zekiye's mother is clearly identified as "Sevgili Safiye Ablacığım.") Because of the significant differences in their respective family situations, Cavit must have felt driven to make something of himself so that he could realistically pursue his ambitions with someone like Zekiye. The chaos at his brother's home in Sivas must have frustrated him. When the school year ended in 1932, again he was on probation. Cavit escaped from Sivas a second time, again on his bicycle, now heading for Erzurum, where, he thought, he would have the privacy to prepare for the classes he had flunked.

When Bahri found out that Cavit had run away again, he spoke to his policeman friend Selahattin to fetch him. Selahattin apparently understood Cavit's predicament at his brother's home and responded with "ancak ölüsü gelir" (only his dead body will come back). He did not go after Cavit. Unfortunately, the trip took Cavit 13 days and he was too late for the examination. He would have to repeat grade 10, as he had grade 8. (Father has always lamented about the two years he lost repeating grades 8 and 10 in Sivas. By then, he had come a very long way from his semi-orphan days, giving his best to each year. He still wonders about what he could have achieved with those extra two years.)

Lyceum in Erzurum, 1932-1934. Cavit (19 to 21). Cavit registered at the lycée in Erzurum, deposited his belongings at a hotel, and left for Sarıkamış, to visit his brother Sabri. The school had already started, but since he had already passed most of his 10th grade classes, he felt that he could delay his classes a few weeks. Meanwhile, Sabri's family had grown: the oldest son, Zeki, was already 2 and the next son, Kerami, was almost 1. (Zeki was born in 1930, the same year Cavit's sister Naciye's twin daughters Neriman and Necla in Çarşamba.) Sabri agreed to support his brother's education and needs. When Cavit returned to Erzurum, he went to the bakery operated by a Pirimzade Süleyman. Süleyman bey was a Lâz and a friend of Bahri. When he learned that Cavit was Bahri's brother, he sent one of his assistants to the hotel to fetch Cavit's belongings. He had several rental rooms above the bakery; he offered one to Cavit, for free. Cavit negotiated with a restaurant three daily meals for 7 TL per month. He continued with this arrangement until the semester ended in Jan. 1933. Then, he left his room at the bakery and moved in as a boarding student at the lycée. His brother Sabri continued to pay his tuition and expenses.

There were 70 violins at the school, in various states of dilapidation. Cavit fixed many of them. There were also five other students who could play the violin. Cavit formed a group with them and staged recitals at the school. When the school year ended in the summer of 1933, Cavit finished the 10th grade; he had another year to go. He went to Sarıkamış, to spend the summer with his brother Sabri, and to help at his brother's store. Sabri had a side business. He was under a contract to deliver wood to the military. Cavit attended this part of the business.

In Sep. 1933, at age 20, Cavit began his last year at the lycée. His classes were going very well and he continued to practice with his violin. And he wrote cards to Zekiye's mother. In 1934, out of 60 students in the graduating class, 10 graduated without failing a class. Cavit was among them. Two classmates, Mecit and Mithat, were his closest friends.

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"Oraya Gitmiyeceksin." Cavit's teacher Arif Öget, 1934. In those days, lyceum graduates automatically qualified as accountants. Cavit saw in the newspaper an advertisement in which accountants were being sought for 70 TL per month. He was inclined to accept the position and took the paper to the school director Arif Öget, who had been also his physics and mathematics teacher. He showed the offer to Arif bey. But Arif bey had a surprise for him. He had seen the potential in Cavit and had already applied to the government, seeking full scholarship for him to attend the medical school in İstanbul. He had done the same for Cavit's friend Mecit. Arif bey told him "oraya gitmiyeceksin" (you are not going there). He opened a drawer and handed over to Cavit the documents which confirmed his acceptance. Cavit was speechless. But after he overcame his shock, he perceived obstacles. Cavit had no one with whom he could stay in İstanbul for six years while he attended school. His sister Ayşe and her husband Servet bey had left İstanbul. He said "orada kalacak kimsem yok" (there is no one--in İstanbul--with whom I can stay). His teacher impressed on Cavit the full scholarship.

This was unbelievably generous. Turkey had emerged from nine years of a devastating war only a decade earlier. Still, the government was offering qualified students six years of free education at the medical school. The scholarship also included room and board, books, supplies, clothes, laundry, and 40 "kuruş" (cents) per day spending money. In return, the graduates under this program were under obligation to the government for 4 years. Upon graduation, they had to go wherever they were assigned. (This program anticipated the "National Service" bill submitted by President Clinton by more than 60 years. Even in the 1930s, America was not the only "Land of Opportunity.")

Cavit and Mecit arrived in İstanbul and checked into a hotel. They waited for final confirmation from the government. There was a hurdle. The government wanted to make certain that the students did not abuse this generous privilege by quitting halfway into their education. Each student had to have a cosigner who guaranteed to pay back the sums the government spent on his or her behalf, if the student decided to break the agreement, or failed. Neither Cavit nor Mecit knew anyone who would sign such an agreement for them. They went to see a notary for advice. The notary was a practical man. He told them to cosign each other's papers, stating "surely, at least one of you will become a doctor." Cavit cosigned for Mecit, Mecit for Cavit. They sent the notarized papers to the government and received their confirmation soon after that. This is how Cavit's medical career began.

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A very small world. Weston, WV, 1961. In 1960 or 1961 when Father was employed at the Weston State Hospital, he heard of a Turkish couple, both doctors, in Philippi, WV. One Saturday, Parents decided to drive to Philippi to meet them, unannounced as Turks often do, and to enjoy the ride. The couple was not at home. So Parent left a note and returned. The doctor (Oral) and his wife (Solmaz), both in their early thirties, returned the visit the next weekend. They were on their way to visit another Turkish couple, a doctor and his wife, in Clarksburg, WV, and invited Parents to join them. This was a drive of about 45 minutes and Parents decided to ride in their car. And Mother wanted to bring a present. Since Father's contract at the hospital included free food, Mother had saved some of the canned food and packaging in boxes in the trunk of our car for just such a contingency. The memories of the very difficult times we had experienced in Lakewood, NJ only a few years ago were still fresh in her mind. She perceived these young people in a similar situation, at the start of their careers in a foreign country.

They arrived in Clarksburg and met Dr. Nejat and his wife who had a law degree from Turkey. The women went inside while the men carried the food boxes. While they were so employed, Oral asked Father when and where he had completed his schooling. Father responded that he had graduated from the lycée in Erzurum and then the medical school in İstanbul. Oral pointed out that his wife's father had been a teacher in Erzurum during the same years. He asked Father if he remembered an Arif Öget. Father was stunned, then in tears. He went inside and hugged Solmaz, Arif bey's daughter, telling them how, 27 years ago, Arif bey had changed his life.

Oral and Solmaz eventually divorced and Oral returned to Turkey. They had two daughters; one died. Solmaz worked in Montgomery, AL until her retirement at age 59 in the 1980s. She lives there and we keep in touch. Her other daughter, also a medical doctor, is married to an American doctor.

Dr. Nejat's lawyer wife also played a role in our lives. In the summer of 1961, when I was a student in Trier, I visited İstanbul for the last time as a Turk. At about this time, this lawyer woman (name forgotten) was with Parents at their second home in Weston, to visit with them for about a week. After Grandfather died in Jan. 1961, his second wife, whom we had called "Cici Anne" when we were children in Turkey, tried to swindle Mother of her share of the Sirman Apartment complex in İstanbul. Cici Anne wrote to Mother and requested a general power of attorney, supposedly to close a few outstanding matters. Dr. Nejat's wife advised Mother against it, cautioning her that she might lose her share of the building. Mother refused the power of attorney and indeed, as we found out later, this is exactly what Cici Anne had in mind. Mother rescued the top story for herself.

This apartment became a God-sent gift to Mother's cousin and friend Harbiye, whom Mother knew from Giresun since 1927. In 1964, when Harbiye's husband Hakkı died, she and her son Tanju and daughter Gülden needed a place to stay. Mother invited Harbiye to move to her unit in Sirman Apartment, free of rent. Harbiye and children lived there until 1969. By then Tanju had become an engineer; Gülden had married and was in comfortable circumstances; Harbiye could stand on her own feet. Mother sold the apartment after they moved out.

Adoption of the "Celâyir" and "Sirman" Names, 1934. In 1934, a new law in Turkey required of all citizens to have a family name. This is when Uncle Bahri officially adopted the name Celayir for our entire clan. Until 1927, our clan was still known as "Lotosoğlu," changed from the equivalent Ottoman name "Lotoszade," and as "Çolağişi" in Arhavi. How and why Uncle Bahri decided on this name are not clear. Unfortunately, Uncle Bahri's notes were lost. However, various people in the family had bits and pieces of them: his son Nesimi, me, Gülhis, Saadet (Cevat's daughter), Orhan (Rıza's son and Harbiye's brother), and Münir (Mustafa's son and Emine's brother). I collated the information and reasoned about how Uncle Bahri might have decided on the name.

According to the Historical Encyclopedia by Çağatay Uluçay (in Turkish), the region bordering Tbilisi, Georgia on the north, Baku, Azerbaijan on the east, Tabriz, Iran on the south, and Urfa, Turkey on the west was called "İlhanlılar Devleti" (Land of İlhans) in 1355. İlhanlılar is a Turkish name: "İlhan" alone can be a man's or a woman's name--like the name of my grade school teacher, İlhan hanım. The "lar" or "ler" are the plural endings, which convert one İlhan to many İlhans: "İlhanlar." The "lı" addition to the name may have two implications, referring to people who are either offsprings of a person by the name of İlhan or from a place called İlhan.

This land, which included the coastal Lâz villages, was populated by two major tribes: "Karakoyunlular" (Link) and "Celayirliler" (Link). The latter consisted mainly of Mongols who had remained in these parts. Later they changed their name to "Celayirler" (Celayirs), and then to Celayir Dynasty. In 1358 or so, they became Sunni Muslims and were the dominant tribe in the area. They made Baghdad the seat of their government.

In 1395, "Timurlenk" (Tamerlane, 1336-1405, the Mongolian conqueror based in Samarkand, who overrun vast areas of Persia, Turkey, Russia, and India) and his nomadic hordes defeated the Celayirliler and occupied their land. Sultan Ahmet of Celayirliler sought shelter in Egypt that was ruled by the Mamelukes then. ("Mamelukes" refers to a military caste, originally composed of slaves from Turkey, that held the Egyptian throne from about 1250 until 1517 and remained powerful until 1811.) After Tamerlane returned to Samarkand, Sultan Ahmet regained control of his land. His rule did not last long. Tamerlane returned and again overran the Celayirliler land.

Once again, Sultan Ahmet sought shelter in Egypt, but this time he received no protection. Instead, he joined forces with Sultan Yıldırım Beyazıt (Bayezid I) of the Ottomans, who ruled the western regions of Turkey then. (The nickname "Yıldırım," literally "lightning," was given to Sultan Beyazıt because of his propensity to attack his enemies lightning fast.) In 1402, Tamerlane and Sultan Beyazıt fought a battle at a place near Ankara. Sultan Beyazıt lost the battle and became a captive. (There was an interregnum in Ottoman history until 1413 when Mehmed I became the sultan.) When Tamerlane died in 1405, Sultan Ahmet gained control of his land again. However, this time he was challenged by Karayusuf, the leader of the Karakoyunlular dynasty. Sultan Ahmet lost the battle, and he and his son were killed in 1410. The Karakoyunlular ruled over the Celayirliler.

I decided that there could be categorically no similarity of heritage between Celayirliler, who were presumably of Mongolian descent, and the fair-skinned Lâz people in our clan who spoke a language related to Greek and Latin. The Lâz people could not have been direct descendants of the Celayirliler. It is also not likely that they were related to the Karakoyunlular. This name is obviously derived from Turkish or Altaic Turkic; therefore, they cannot be the ancestors of the Laz people. The only way our Lâz clan can be connected to the Celâyir Dynasty is through marriage. That is, a man from Celayirliler married a Lâz woman from Arhavi or a neighboring village and this line led to us. This explanation has ramifications that may not be immediately apparent.

The notes we have on hand trace the connection between our clan and Celayirliler to two men around 1650: Osman Hacıyakupoğlu and Mehmet Ağa. ("Ağa" is a title that designates an important land owner in a village, but now also a polite reference to a village man, like "Mr.") According to one set of notes, the two names are mentioned together, as if these men were brothers. Another set of notes lists Osman first in 1620, and Mehmet later in 1650, as if they were father and son. The notes also mention that these men lived in Fındıklı, a village near Arhavi. Mehmet later moved to Arhavi and married a woman from Zaimler, a Lâz family. (The "Ağa" title may have been given to him after his marriage, when he or his wife inherited a large parcel of land and Mehmet became an important person in the village.)

To establish the connection to our clan, this Mehmet was probably a descendant of the Celayirliler. He married a Lâz woman from Zaimler family and started our clan. This is the only way in which our clan can claim legitimate ties to both Celayirliler and to our Lâz heritage, which we are irrespective of the Celayir name. To be sure, "Zaimler" is also a Turkish name, derived from Arabic "zaim" and Turkish "ler" for plural. However, in 1850 or so, when this man from Celayirliler married the woman from Zaimler, the Lâz had already adopted Turkish customs and the Muslim religion. Thus, the fact that a Lâz family used a Turkish name does not contradict the other-than-Turkish roots of the Lâz people.

The line from Mehmet continues through Eyyüp in 1690, Hüseyin in 1735, and Osman in 1770. Then, one set of notes shows a (Turkish) Çolakoğlu Ahmet--thus the name "Çolağişi"--after Osman. This line then continues to Mehmet Fevzi, Father's grandfather, in 1850. The other set of notes does not mention Ahmet and lists Mehmet as Mehmet Yazıcı on a land title, without the middle name Fevzi. To reconcile the two sets of notes, the following conclusions seem appropriate.

l Since the line from Osman (1770) to Mehmet (1850) leaves a large gap, Ahmet, or someone, must have existed between them. Therefore, the first set of notes seems correct.

l If Mehmet Fevzi and Mehmet Yazıcı refer to the same person, this creates a consequential problem. The Yazıcı family is a large clan in Arhavi, separate from Celayirs. For example, Father's aunt Zeliha married someone from Yazıcı family and had seven children by him. Father's brother Sabri's daughter Keriman married Osman Yazıcı from Arhavi. So if Mehmet Yazıcı and Mehmet Fevzi refer to the same person, as suggested on the second set of notes, then our clan is a branch of the Yazıcı clan. However, since the two clans have always regarded themselves as separate, it must be that someone confused Mehmet Yazıcı on the second set of notes with Mehmet Fevzi on the first.

l Be as it may, Mehmet Fevzi, a Celayir, married Ayşe Bahtoğlu, a Laz. They produced the offsprings depicted on the chart shown in Volume 1 and the family tree in Appendix-E. Albeit, I dispute Uncle Bahri's conclusion that our clan has a direct lineage to the Celayirliler. Indeed, the Laz people have probably much older roots, as discussed in Appendix-D.

About the name "Sirman" which Grandfather Dr. Haşim adopted in 1934, Mother does not know how and why he picked this name. Although we heard of one or two "Sirmen" last names in Turkey, to our knowledge, Mother (maiden name) and I (first name) are the only "Sirman" in Turkey. (For that matter, my sister Femsi, named after Father's mother, is also the only Femsi in Turkey, and we have not heard of another "Gülhis," though it is a Turkish name.) However, I saw "Sirmans," the name of an Indonesian economics professor, listed at a conference in Hawaii in which I participated in 1978. I could not locate the man to ask him about his name. And in 1997, while browsing the Internet, I found 119 Sirman last names in America--I am still the only Sirman, as first name. I contacted a Melinda Sirman. Her family came from England and settled down in Delaware in the 1800s.

Cavit (21 to 27). Medical School in İstanbul, 1934-1940. İstanbul "Üniversitesi" began its service under the authority signed by the Secretary of Education Reşit Galip on Aug. 1, 1933. Professor Dr. Neşet Ömer was the first president of the university. He was followed by Professor Cemil Bilsel. Dr. Tevfik Sağlam, Dr. Nurettin Ali Berkol, and Dr. Kemal Atay served as the deans of the Medical School. The university was organized according to the reforms adopted by Kemal Atatürk in 1924 which separated religion and state. And by the law adopted in 1928, all education was to be taught in Turkish, instead of Arabic. The university professors included academic people from Turkey and many Jewish professors who escaped Hitler's Germany and Austria. There were also professors from Switzerland, France, and other countries. Of the foreign professors, 19 were employed by the Medical School who were also connected with different hospitals in İstanbul. This group of professors remained in Turkey until the end of World War II. Most returned to their own countries; some of them migrated to the United States.

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When Cavit enrolled in the Medical School, Professor Cemil Bilsel was the president of the university and Dr. Nurettin Ali Berkol was the dean of the Medical School, then followed by Dr. Kemal Atay. Cavit's foreign professors included Dr. F. Arnt (who established the Department of Chemistry at the University), Dr. H. Dember (experimental physics), Dr. A. Naville (humanities), Dr. Alfred Heilbrom (zoology), Dr. Werner Lipschitz (biochemistry), Dr. Hans Winterstein (physiology), Dr. Aimé Mouchet (anatomy), Dr. Julius Hirch, Dr. Philipp Schwartz (pathologic anatomy), Dr. Siegfried Oberndorfer (pathology), Dr. Hugo Braun (microbiology), Dr. Friedrich Dessauer (radiology), Dr. Erich Frank (internal medicine), Dr. Rudolf Nissen (surgery), Dr. Wilhelm Liepmann (gynecology), Dr. Joseph Igersheimer (orthodontics), and Dr. Karl Hellmann.

Cavit moved into the "Yurt" (Dormitory) 36 in Şehzadebaşı and attended the university in Beyazıt. (These are two of the several historical sections of İstanbul.) There were 120 civilian students at the start. There were also students sponsored under military scholarships, and women too. The women did not have a dormitory and stayed with family and relatives while they attended the university. About 35 students shared the dormitory in which Cavit stayed. The first year was devoted to core curriculum classes; the medical classes began after that. Cavit was under full scholarship, and he had 40 cents per day for personal allowance. And his brother Sabri was helping him financially.

In 1935, Sabri stopped sending money. When Sabri arrived in İstanbul on a business trip later, he came to see his brother. Cavit asked him why he had stopped sending money. Sabri told him that he had received a letter from Bahri in which Bahri told him to stop sending Cavit money because he would help their little brother. Cavit had not received anything from Bahri and said so. Sabri began sending money again. Everything was a windfall for this orphan kid, but there was one loss: his violin. Someone in the yurt stole the family violin. However, there were other violins at the university and Cavit continued to practice. And he and his friends in the dormitory practiced dancing, especially the waltz in which Cavit became superb.

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The Waltz. I have not seen anyone, including professional dancers, dance the waltz as exquisitely as Father and Mother and Father and Femsi used to in Samsun. Father was in tails, Mother in a tailor-made gown. However, I was too young to appreciate the beauty of their performance then. But I do remember that when the waltz was played Parents had the floor to themselves for a few minutes before others joined in. The highlight of their act in America came at Femsi's wedding, at the Tradewind Hotel in Niagara Falls on Aug. 6, 1966. Father danced first with Mother then with Femsi. Femsi, the tomboy, had taken ballet lessons. She could climb walls but twirl like the wind too. She twirled. The Italians who circled them knew their ballroom dancing but apparently they had seen nothing like the poetry they were witnessing then. It was the last time I saw Father, Mother, and Femsi dance the waltz. Father was also very good dancing the Şamil, a Caucasian dance performed by men in solo. I remember seeing him perform this and other Lâz dances at parties in Samsun, when everyone was loose enough to appreciate them. (As for me, I am adept with the Mambo.)

Cavit excelled at the medical school and graduated in June 1940. His two friends from Erzurum were among the graduates. Mithat, like Cavit, was to become a radiologist later; Mecit became a congressman from the village of Yusufali near Erzurum. The class of 1940 formed a bond that was not matched by any other class-- which the graduates of other years readily admit. But because Cavit had attended the university on scholarship, after graduation he was assigned to different parts of the country. WWII and personal hardships forced him to follow a different path than his classmates. He lost touch with them. Then we migrated to America and that part of Father's past seemed lost forever.

A very small world. Waynesburg, PA, 1963. Unusual encounters, when the past caught up to the present, happened frequently to Parents. When we moved to Waynesburg, PA in May 1963, Gülhis started the 10th grade at the local high school. A real estate agent helped us to find our rental home on Bonar Avenue. His daughter Sharon was Gigi's classmate. Sharon introduced Gigi to a Turkish exchange student, a girl named Esin, who was staying with a Warnick family. This was Esin's last year. Mother invited her to our home a few times and through Esin we learned about Mr. and Mrs. Pincus who were hospitable to her. Soon after that, Esin returned to Turkey.

In Feb. 1964, we purchased our home on Bonar Avenue, two blocks down the street from our rental house and across the hospital. It was one of the nicest properties in Waynesburg and Parents were proud of it. The house was a symbol, that after eight years in America we could finally declare ourselves middle-class. The "Pincuses," as we called them, were our neighbors; our backyards joined. They were the first (and only) neighbors to visit us in our new home, and Parents were invited to their 25th wedding anniversary that year. They became our closest friends in America over the next 17 years. Thus, we met our best friends in America through a Turkish catalyst.

After Esin returned to her home in Dıyarbakır, Parents corresponded with her, and occasionally she sent us pistachio nuts. (Dıyarbakır has the best pistachio nuts in Turkey.) Esin later married an American, an electrician (or an electrical engineer, perhaps with the Western Union), and had a son. (Except for an uncle, Dr. Mustafa, everyone in her family ostracized Esin for marrying an American.) Eventually she and her husband settled down in Reston, VA.

In the summer of 1972, two years after our home in Tuzla was built, Esin, her son, and her uncle Dr. Mustafa and his wife visited Parents in Tuzla. Like Father, Dr. Mustafa was a radiologist. It turned out this man was Father's classmate from the medical school. This is how Father broke the ice with his former friends after 32 years. The graduates had arranged a party at a restaurant in Kadıköy. Dr. Mustafa urged Father to attend. Since we did not have a car then, Dr. Mustafa and his wife came in their car and took Parents to the restaurant; after the party they brought them home again, about an hour's drive in heavy rain.

Father could not establish a spontaneous relationship with his friends then, because he and Mother came and left Turkey at odd dates and they were not there when the class met. It took another unusual encounter, Dr. Burhan, to break the ice permanently in 1982. As for Dr. Mustafa, in the early 1980s, he and his wife came to America to stay with their daughter in San Antonio. Parents talked to them from La Jolla, CA, when they were visiting me. This was the last we heard of them.

Pincuses. Mr. Pincus was a manager at the local dress factory; Mrs. Pincus the assistant director of a home for unstable young girls. Our friendship with them over the following 17 years greatly alleviated the loneliness Parents felt in America. They were also more sociable and worldlier than our other neighbors, most of whom apparently preferred privacy. Often we visited each other unannounced, as we do in Turkey, to prevent formalities from becoming a wall. Their son Mike and daughter Betsy were about my age. Since they were attending schools elsewhere, we met during the summer breaks.

In 1971, after my divorce from my first wife Judy, Mrs. Pincus helped Judy to secure a position as a counselor. Since I had Judy's school loans to pay, I was grateful to Mrs. Pincus for the fact that Judy was independent and could concentrate on Belinda. After my marriage to Gayle in 1971, we began to interact with the Pincuses independently, since Gayle was Jewish on her Father's side and catered to that religion. Mrs. Pincus became a close friend to me during the immediate period following my divorce from Gayle, a difficult time for me, as I evaluated my values and direction in life.

In 1973, the Pincuses stayed with us in our home in Tuzla. Our wonderful friendship lasted until we departed from Waynesburg in the summer of 1981. Mr. and Mrs. Pincus both retired at about this time. After I settled down in my home in La Jolla, CA in 1982, I called them to suggest that they should visit La Jolla, to see if they wished to retire there. They came, saw, and moved into a nice apartment on Prospect Street, where they have been living since then. From 1982 to 1985, when Parents stayed with me in La Jolla during the winter months, we met with the Pincuses. We still correspond.

A very small world. Columbus, OH, 1981. After we sold our home in Waynesburg on Oct. 21, 1981, Parents and I spent the winter in a rental apartment at the French Village in Columbus, OH. While I was visiting in Canada for a few days, Mother saw in the paper an advertisement about a piano concert by a Turkish woman, İdil Biret, in Columbus. Parents, accompanied by Gülhis, attended the concert. During the intermission, Father went out for a smoke. A man and his wife were sitting behind Parents. The man asked Mother if the name of her spouse was Cavit. Mother affirmed. He introduced himself as Dr. Burhan Söylemezoğlu and said that he and Father had been classmates at the medical school 41 years earlier. (Since it was difficult for Americans to pronounce the doctor's last name, he was known as Dr. Burhan Burhan in Columbus.) Mother suggested that they go together to the lobby and surprise Father. This is how Father met another classmate and through him a more solid link to other former friends.

Father says Dr. Burhan was very studious and had the best grades in the medical school. Upon graduation, the Turkish Government financed Dr. Burhan's postdoctoral work in America. Instead of returning to Turkey, as required by law, Dr. Burhan and his wife Safiye, also a medical doctor, settled down in Columbus. They lived there for forty years. However, because both had failed the ECFMG examination for foreign doctors, they could not practice medicine in America. He worked for a pharmaceutical company and they wrote several books together.

In the summer of 1982, Dr. Burhan and his wife arranged a party at the Divan hotel in İstanbul. All 1940 medical school graduates were invited. Father met almost all of his former classmates in one group, among them Dr. Rıdvan Cebiroğlu, one of Father's closest friends at the medical school, Dr. Haydar Altınok, Dr. Selim Berkol, Dr. Rıdvan Cebiroğlu, Dr. Nurefşan Çakın, Dr. Vehbi Göksel, Dr. Süleyman Torin, Dr. Bedri Ünal, and Dr. Fethi Öktemgil. Several of Father's friends had also come to the States, but they had failed the ECFMG examination and returned to Turkey. Among former classmates who had tried, only Father had passed this very arduous hurdle. Father's friends told him they were both proud and envious of him. Since this meeting, Parents have joined this group on a regular basis. The class of 1940 became Father's version of Mother's Merzifon friends.

As of 1997, Father's class still meets. Every spring, the surviving members of the group travel together to a favorite site in Turkey and rejuvenate themselves. They organize informal parties and picnics in their homes in the summer. The families have known each other for so long that the wives are also treated as former graduates, and some of the offsprings. We organized our last party for Father's friends on Aug. 24, 1991 in Tuzla. I was present. I had also attended the party the previous year and had been treated warmly, as if I were a member of the gang. In addition to a few photos we have other tangible rewards from these occasions. Dr. Selim's wife, Hayriye hanım, is a poet and has enriched us with a wonderful poem about Parents. The members are not certain that they will be around to attend the activities next year. So the surviving members enjoy each year for all the years to come, and for friends who have passed away. In 1990, Dr. Burhan died of cancer in Turkey; his wife died in 1993.

Zekiye (17 to 20), Üsküdar American School, 1935-1938. Compared to Merzifon, the school in Üsküdar was large, with a student body of several hundred girls. Zekiye was the only one there from her class in Merzifon. Mahmure and Melâhat Ahıskalı came a year later. Asuman attended the school for about a year and then left. Muazzez Deveci (whom we met in Samsun after 1949), Münevver, and Mesadet, earlier graduates from Merzifon, were already there. Of the 22 girls in Zekiye's class, only five attended as boarding students. Their class ring had the motto "Meliora" engraved on it.

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Over the following three years, Zekiye formed lifelong friendships with Zwart and Bercuhi, two Armenian girls who were her classmates, and Muazzez, Münevver, and Melâhat from Merzifon. The closeness between the Merzifon graduates was known to the American missionaries. When a new missionary, Miss. Morgan, arrived in Üsküdar, she already knew whom she should contact for friends. Former missionaries who had returned to America had told her to get in touch with Merzifon girls, to have an immediate circle of friends.

Zekiye was again a top student in class, one of the best in school, though a girl by the name of Mülhime Gökbudak in her class had slightly higher grades. (Mülhime became a lawyer later.) On the other hand, due to her weak health, Zekiye spent the second study session in bed. All her classmates and teachers were amazed that she could prepare her lessons so quickly in only one study session. She participated in graduation ceremonies in Üsküdar on Sep. 20, 1938. Because of her weak health, she spent the week before the ceremonies in bed at the American Hospital.

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In the summer of 1989, Dr. Halet Onay, Father's friend from the medical school, who also played the violin, was recuperating from an illness at the American Hospital. Parents came for a visit. Mother saw the picture of a man on the wall and felt she knew this man. She came closer and read the name of Dr. Shepard under the picture. Then she remembered. He had been the chief doctor and the first administrator there when Mother was cared for at the hospital 51 years ago. Dr. Shepard had examined her.

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Cavit. Engagement Ring, "Oct. 29, 1935". In the fall of 1935, Cavit, who had been attending the medical school in İstanbul since 1934, knew that Zekiye was in school in Üsküdar. On the day of the "Cumhuriyet Bayramı" (Republic Day) on Oct. 29, 1935, he anticipated that Zekiye would be coming home to her Cici Anne (Hamide hanım) for the holidays. He waited for her at the Galata Bridge in İstanbul, a hub for all public passenger ships heading to and from various parts of İstanbul, including Üsküdar. Indeed, Zekiye stepped off the ship and saw Cavit waiting for her. This was their first cosmic date, so to speak. Other fortuitous encounters followed. One Saturday, toward the end of the semester in 1936, Zekiye was preparing for her examinations. Presumably Cavit was doing the same at the medical school. Zekiye's friends suggested that they take a break and go to the movies. Zekiye declined at first but then decided to join her friends. The girls stepped off the ship at the Galata Bridge and saw Cavit, waiting.

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Zekiye experienced strong premonitions from time to time and began to feel as if destiny were sending signals to her. She knew from family gossip that years ago when Cavit's mother first saw her in Arhavi, shortly before her death, she (Cavit's mother) had felt a strong affinity toward her. Zekiye had also heard of rumors that Cavit's mother was a psychic of sorts. She assumed that Cavit's mother had passed on her feelings to her son, for Cavit seemed spellbound by her, determined to espouse her. She contemplated if indeed they were meant to be together. In 1939, two years before their wedding, Cavit gave Zekiye an engagement ring. The engraving inside the ring said Oct. 29, 1935, the date of their first encounter at the Galata bridge.

Old Turkish Homes. Turkish homes dating from the days of the Ottoman Empire still exist in historical parts of İstanbul. Unfortunately they are rapidly being replaced by new construction. These narrow wooden structures of aged grayish brown color generally consist of three floors. There is usually a small fenced-in garden next to the house where the occupants raise roses and other flowers, and/or vegetables. These houses are usually found side-by-side along narrow winding streets covered with cobble stones. The street is animated with pedestrians, some strolling lazily, chatting with friends and neighbors, others walking purposefully in pursuit of an objective. It is a lively and warm scene. Residents and shop owners on the same street regard each other as extended families.

The first floor of a typical house usually contains the entry, kitchen, storage space, wash room and bath, an informal dining area, the exit to the garden, and steps to upstairs. Except for the parts close to the windows and the rear exit, the first floor is usually dim and uninviting. The second floor is where the family rooms are found. This may include a "guest room" used almost exclusively to socialize with important visitors, also on formal occasions. Otherwise, the doors to this room usually remain closed. A family or living room and perhaps one or two bedrooms and a bath are also located on this floor. The third floor is either an attic used for storage, or it may also contain a bedroom, especially if the family has several children and/or visitors who stay overnight, a common occurrence in Turkey. Iron grills of various shapes cover the windows, especially on the first floor. Two types of curtains are used on most windows, especially in the guest room: heavy outer curtains, usually made of lined velvet, to block the view to or from the outside, light inner curtains of transparent material to block the sun on occasions when the heavy curtains are open.

The guest room is always ponderously decorated, usually with heavy, real or imitation, French antiques. This custom dates to the special relationship the Ottoman Turks had with France in the 16th century. The furniture includes elaborate sofas, marble-top side tables, frequently a chandelier, a cabinet with glass doors, to store silver and crystal trinkets and to display porcelain nicknack, and a large and expensive Turkish carpet. There may be pictures in ornate frames on the tables, some on the walls. The decorations include artifacts of baked clay and trays and other items of molded brass. They may hang on the walls or stand on the floor. If this room also serves as the formal dining room, there are also an imposing table and a set of about six chairs on one side of the guest room. The atmosphere is generally pretentious and stuffy.

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In contrast, the family room is decorated cozily with comfortable chairs and sofas along the walls. The wooden floors are generally covered with Turkish carpets of various quality. The Turks insist on a balcony or patio attached to some part of the house. Since it is not always safe to attach a balcony to an old wooden structure, a compromise is found. In many houses the section of the family room facing the street usually extends a foot or two beyond the house profile. This is the favorite part of the room. People spend considerable time there, sitting by the window, drinking tea, observing life outside, and chatting with neighbors on the street and at windows across the street.

Cavit's First Patient. Cavit began to practice medicine already in 1939, before his graduation. Hamide hanım had a neighbor by the name of Saniye hanım. Her son Bahri had been released recently from Gülhane Military Hospital where he had been treated for cirrhosis. His abdomen was bloated with gas and water. The man could barely breathe and his face had a bluish hue. Indeed, he was in a coma. A doctor from the Gülhane hospital had checked his condition and left, saying he could not help. In desperation, the family appealed to Cavit. When he arrived at the man's home, everyone was sitting by the steps, sobbing and awaiting the obvious.

Cavit entered the room, closed the door, and looked at the patient. He immediately recognized that the accumulated gas in the abdomen was interfering with the man's breathing. Cavit had his stethoscope with him. The ear pieces of the instrument were connected to the membrane by foot-long flexible metal coils. Cavit removed the membrane and lowered one coil down the man's air passage. The gas exploded from his mouth, so much so that the coil hit the ceiling. Bahri soon regained consciousness and began to mumble a few words. Cavit opened the curtains and asked the man if he wanted a cigarette. He did. Then, Cavit opened the door. Everyone was amazed by the transformation. The man's wife asked Cavit "sen Allahmısın, Peygambermisin?" (are you God, prophet?).

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Afife hanım, 1984. Turkish people love to recapture the past. We, especially Parents, have done so often, revisiting places and people. And judging by the animated pleasure Parents display on these occasions, indeed they "can go home again."

Across the street from Hamide hanım's house there was a large villa belonging to a well-to-do family. The lady of that house, Afife hanım, had a habit of sitting by the window and observing life outside. In the summer of 1984, when Parents were in Tuzla, Mother suggested to Father that she wanted to see the old neighborhood in Fatih. After some difficulty they located the street in the Sinan Ağa neighborhood of Fatih. (Mother says that the name of the street, Emaret, in Arabic alphabet, is still legible on the corner.) They found Afife hanım's house and rang the bell. One of Afife hanım's two sons opened the door. Yes, Afife hanım was still alive and apparently remembered the young couple from across the street. Mother sat and chatted with her, by the same window from where Afife hanım had watched life 50 years ago.

"Doctor Oldum," June 1940. For his final examinations in June 1940, Cavit needed a quieter place than the dormitory. During the day, he studied at the home of Hamide hanım, her husband, their daughter Zekiye, and sons Muzaffer and Fehmi; he returned to the dormitory at night. Hamide hanım's house was a three-story wooden structure constructed in the traditional Arab/Turkish style. Cavit used the room Hamide hanım's nephew Hami used when he visited them in İstanbul. A week before the examinations, Cavit's eyes were bloodshot from reading. Zekiye, who had recently arrived from Afyon (on her way to Edirne), read to Cavit his books for the final examination in surgery. She did this in the manner I remember from my childhood, when she read stories to me, frequently interrupting the reading and asking "anlıyormusun?" (do you understand?)

At the end of the week, Cavit left for his dormitory, supposedly to spend a day studying with his classmates. Actually it was the day of the final oral examination. He returned and announced to Zekiye and a surprised audience at home "Doktor oldum." (Doctor I am/became). Shortly after that, Cavit joined the army as a military doctor. In Dec. 1940, after spending six months at the Gülhane Military Hospital in İstanbul for further training, he was assigned to Gelibolu (Gallipoli).

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Epilogue. Cavit and Zekiye began their respective lives in two different worlds. Zekiye came seemingly from a stable and predictable home environment. Cavit did not, though his brothers and sisters, especially Ayşe and Sabri, looked out for him in his constantly changing world. There was also a common elements between them. In addition to being second cousins, both of them grew up in part in a Lâz environment that had Arhavi at its center. However, their situation began to reverse, starting as early as 1932, definitely after 1934. Although they were both in school in İstanbul from 1935 to 1938, Cavit was gaining control of his world, whereas Zekiye was increasingly at the mercy of hers. Foremost, Cavit worked toward a medical degree, while Zekiye merely attended school, as if it were a pastime. He looked forward, while Zekiye lived off her past, if only because she did not pursue a concrete goal or ambition.

Zekiye could have excelled in almost any field. People who know English are in high demand in Turkey even today. In 1938, she was among a handful of people in Turkey who were fluent in English. She also knew French. Coming from a respected family, she had contacts who could have helped her with promising positions in any sector. In view of her innate warmth and unpretentious, pleasant and sociable personality, she could have risen to levels that no one in our large clan could have matched.

For example, in 1938 she could have enrolled at the university in İstanbul and studied political history, one of her best subjects. She had been a top student in every class she took. In three or four years she would have had her degree. Turkey was an emerging Western country that would soon need representatives at the United Nations, NATO, and other infant organizations. With her phenomenal memory, quick intelligence, and engaging personality, she would have impressed even the United States. Imagine if already in the 1940s a woman represented Turkey at an international forum and spoke English as good as the American and British representatives . . .

But karma had other plans for Zekiye. It interfered partly through her health. Her experience with adenitis and her weak constitution as late as 1938 dissuaded her parents from encouraging her to continue schooling. Her romantic and dreamy personality also interjected, by denying her focus or an objective. And 1938 was a precarious time for formulating plans, especially for a woman. Even if she had attended the university and graduated in 1941 or 1942, she could not have pursued such plans until several years later, for the world was at war until 1945. As we shall see, Zekiye seemingly took the expedient way out. Indeed the path she chose became the most difficult one she could have taken, though she also excelled on that path: by becoming a superb wife and companion to Cavit, a wonderful mother to us.

Cavit's motives are equally complex. He succeeded by self-will and moving mountains out of his way. In retrospect, he did not have the outgoing personality that is seemingly required for extra levels of success, especially in the United States. He made the best of what he had, working hard and willing himself to achieve goals. On the other hand, there is an incident that happened sometime in 1936 or 1937 that throws light on the complexities of his personality. This was a transgression that happened at the medical school. Cavit paid almost dearly for it, but for Zekiye's interference.

While attending his second or third year at the university, Cavit received a message from his brother Bahri in Samsun. (Bahri had moved to Samsun in 1935.) The message said that if Cavit would find an excuse to quit the medical school, he (Bahri) would pay for him to go to Europe and attend a medical school there. This offer was coming from a brother because of whom Cavit had lost two years of schooling, who had given him money for books only to demand it back the next day. Still Cavit responded. He began to starve himself and continued to do so until Zekiye found out about Bahri's offer and straightened him out. Cavit was lucky to have Zekiye around, for soon his brother withdrew the offer.

The question that arises immediately is why would Cavit do something like this in spite of himself, jeopardizing his entire career, indeed future, on the word of a brother who had been unreliable in the past. What could have motivated his behavior? I sensed an answer. It was opportunism of a special kind that motivated him: his obsession with fame. Had he graduated from a famous European university, he would have been one of the very few Turkish doctors with this distinction in those years. He had maximized his circumstances and opportunities and perhaps deserved fame at the level he wished. On the other hand, WWII would have interfered also with his education and plans.

Obsession with fame has also adverse sides, especially when the urge and quest are not fulfilled. After we moved to the United States and my sisters and I did not evolve the way Father had "planned" for us, he reminded us repeatedly that but for us he could have become also a surgeon and (presumably) achieved fame. I thought if so, then perhaps Father should have stayed single.

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4. Our Beginnings, 5/6/1940 to 5/28/1949

Zekiye (19 to 22). Trabzon, Afyon, Edirne, 1937-1940. The years from 1937 to 1941 set the direction of Zekiye's future. These "ominous years" began with Dr. Haşim's quest for a new lifestyle. After practicing medicine in Giresun for 12 years, in 1937 he joined the government. This decision marked a major turning point for Zekiye, one that replaced the stability she had known in Giresun with rootlessness and incipient tribulations, which set the stage of our migration to United States in 1958.

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In 1937, there were openings for government positions and Dr. Haşim decided to change the pace of his life, by joining the government. He became the deputy regional director of health for the northeastern region based in Trabzon. The same year, the family left Giresun and moved to Trabzon. Dr. Haşim was in charge of health matters in a wide area that also included the cities of Erzurum and Kars. A problem emerged soon after he arrived in Trabzon: Dr. Haşim did not get along with his boss.

After receiving her diploma from Üsküdar, Zekiye joined her parents in Trabzon. Nazire was having a serious problem with her digestive system. Dr. Haşim suspected an ulcer. Nazire was put on a passenger ship to İstanbul. She stayed at the Cerrahpaşa Hospital, the best in İstanbul, and was operated on there. Zekiye wrote to Cavit and asked him to check on Nazire. Dr. Haşim had to go to Erzurum on duty; the family left for Arhavi. When he came to fetch his family in Arhavi, he told Safiye that he had been demoted, and transferred to the town of Afyonkarahisar. (Afyon is located inland in Western Anatolia, halfway between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean.) He moved there in the summer of 1938, while Zekiye, her mother, Hatçe, and Nazire spent six months in Arhavi, until Dr. Haşim found an attractive rental home in Afyon. On New Year's Eve (1938/39), the women boarded a ship in Hopa and headed for İstanbul. In İstanbul, they took the train from Haydarpaşa train station (the hub for all domestic train service) to Afyon. For the first time in her life, Zekiye would not have the sea near her. Her life still centered on her family, school, school mates, and perceptions, as it had during her childhood.

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Their stay in Afyon was short. Dr. Haşim was promoted to his former position and transferred again, this time to Edirne, a town on the European part of Turkey, close to the borders with Greece and Bulgaria. On May 6, 1940, Zekiye, her mother, and the girls accompanied him to İstanbul. The women stayed initially with Hamide hanım in Fatih, while Dr. Haşim looked for a suitable home in Edirne. (Edirne is also home to the Selimiye Mosque, architecturally one of the most beautiful creations. It was designed and constructed by "Mimar" (architect) Sinan, the most renowned architect of the Ottoman Empire.) It was during this interval when Zekiye prepared Cavit for his final examinations, when Cavit graduated and, in June 1940, joined the army as a military doctor. While he was being trained at the Gülhane Military Hospital (until Dec. 1940), in Aug. 1940, Zekiye and her family moved into a rental home in Fatih. They remained there for about six months. By then, Dr. Haşim had found a suitable home in Edirne and the women could join him there.

Marriage on Oct. 19, 1941. These changes in Cavit and Zekiye's life were taking place at a time when Turkey was recovering from its national anguish following the death of Kemal Atatürk on Nov. 10, 1938. A year later, WWII broke out. WWI had been about the disposition of Ottoman lands and Turkey had fought on the side of Germany. The nation was still recovering from the bloody battles it had fought during WWI and after 1918. Having found its independence on Oct. 29, 1923, Turkey was trying to acclimate to its new--Western--identity. Therefore, the only prudent choice Turkey could make in WWII was to remain neutral, unless the nation was threatened. Thus, when the war broke out, Turkey mobilized its forces, just in case the war spread also to Turkey, not so much by design but by accident. (As I pointed out in the Chronology Appendix, it would not have served Hitler's interests to take on also the Turks.)

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Zekiye and the family joined Dr. Haşim in Edirne at a time when the war was moving to the Balkans. Zekiye's mother Safiye worried about their safety there. So after about three months in Edirne, the women returned to İstanbul. In Apr. 1941, when German forces entered Greece, the family boarded a ship for Samsun. They stayed a few days with Zekiye's cousin Cemil and then headed for Vezirköprü, to stay a few days with Cavit's sister Ayşe and her husband Servet bey. Then they rented a home there. At this time, Cavit was doing his military service in a village of Gelibolu; Dr. Haşim was in Edirne. Both of them came to Vezirköprü for brief visits on two occasions. On their second visit on Oct. 19, 1941, Cavit and Zekiye married. Cavit returned to Gelibolu, Dr. Haşim to Edirne, the women to İstanbul. These long separations from her father would have enormous significance for Zekiye later.

"Sirman" Apt., Lâleli, Oct. 22, 1941. Dr. Haşim owned a property in Kıztaşı, the community between Aksaray (White Palace) and Fatih in İstanbul. In 1941, before Cavit and Zekiye's wedding, he sold that property for 8,000 TL and used the proceeds as down payment for an apartment complex in Lâleli, a neighborhood in Aksaray. (The purchase price was 30,000 TL; the Dollar was about 2 TL then.) On Oct. 22, 1941, Zekiye, her mother, and Hatçe and Nazire left Vezirköprü and arrived in Samsun. There they boarded a passenger ship bound for İstanbul. Upon arrival, they moved into the top floor of the building named "Sirman Apartmanı."

Turkish Cities. Turkish cities are similar to cities in Europe, and only New York and Mexico City in North America, in that each community is a self-sufficient village. That is, residential units are blended with commercial shops and small offices (e.g., doctor, dentist, tailor), sharing the same building. The nonresidential entities usually occupy the ground (street) level and the first floor of the buildings. Some metropolitan areas are occupied by massive old buildings, usually with decorative frills, of dirty-grayish color, like such buildings around the world. They may be up to about 10 stories tall, lining the streets side-by-side in communities that are dotted with small parks, village squares, mosques, restaurants, and all kinds of small specialized stores, like in New York.

The architecture changes outside the metropolitan area. Here the buildings are practical apartment complexes made of brick or building blocks, each surrounded by a garden of blooming flowers, bushes, and a few fruit (mulberry, fig, etc.) trees. People of lower middle-class means reside in structures that are usually 4 or 5 stories high, often painted in pastel colors, as the old single family homes that blend with them. The latter are always covered with red shingles. More recent buildings in middle-class areas may be much taller and have spaces between them. Of course, there are exclusive neighborhoods with elaborate villas and decorative gardens. The latter are surrounded with walls covered with roses, bougainvillaeas, and other flowering bushes.

The Turkish people like balconies and terraces, to entertain friends and visitors, or to relax and catch the breeze on hot days. So the residential apartments usually have one of these, generally overlooking the sea, scenery, and/or a street. In lower middle-class neighborhoods, this is also a good place to hang the wash. The Turkish people insist on participating in "what goes on" outside, if only by observing the activity. Views that overlook an uninhabited direction, even if beautiful, would generally not appeal to them, for they would consider this as a potentially melancholic influence.

Unlike the United States, there are no "desolate" suburbs in Turkey. Thus, the neighborhoods may change but not the ambiance, like in most parts of the world. It is always vibrant. Turkish cities are designed for walking. Everything that is needed is available in the same neighborhood. The shops on site sell all essential items, such as groceries, meat, pastry, bread, knickknack, even clothes. They stay open late into the night. There are also transient peddlers who sell a variety of goods on carts pulled by a horse or donkey. The shops and peddlers usually specialize on one or a few similar products. A car or public transportation is required only to commute, and/or to obtain specialty items (e.g., designer fashions) offered by stores in particular parts.

The commercial areas in parts of old İstanbul are arranged so that all the stores on a street sell, for example, only electrical equipment, or furniture, or glassware, or clothing, etc. Although large supermarkets came into being in some parts of İstanbul and other major cities in the 1970s, they are neither common, nor desirable, nor convenient in Turkey. İstanbul is much more spread-out than Los Angeles: it may take about four hours of Turkish-style driving to cross the city east to west, perhaps longer north to south, considering also the many islands and resort places that are part of İstanbul. So if Los Angeles is "92 communities looking for a city," İstanbul may be described as "92 communities looking for a neighborhood, 92 neighborhoods searching for a city."

The Turkish people like to enjoy life, eat at leisure, and visit each other, much like their Mediterranean and Latin counterparts. There are all sorts of restaurants and cafes all around in every neighborhood. Many of these are built in exquisite parks that offer romantic and soul-comforting ambiance and wonderful scenery. The activity picks up considerably on summer nights, with people walking to "gazinos" (open-air restaurants), restaurants, and cafes, many of which offer live music and/or dancing, even on weekdays. Walking alone is fun for many families and groups of friends. On weekends, seemingly everyone goes to some place, a picnic, the beach, or often visiting relatives and friends in distant towns.

The "joy of living" is probably one reason why Turkey remains a developing country. The average Turk feels that progress is fine as long as it does not significantly interfere with the quality (joy) of his or her life, which in Turkey includes leisure time and socializing. This is a sentiment shared by peoples of other Mediterranean countries, some of which are, of course, more advanced than Turkey. Thus, although Turkey does admire many things in USA, Japan, and Germany, the combination of development versus joy achieved in Italy and southern France is probably the only relevant optimum criterion for the Turkish people. This may be also the result of a climate-induced mutation dictating their philosophy of what constitutes the "good" life.

Cavit in Bolayır Village. In the fall of 1941, while stationed in the Bolayır village of Gelibolu, Cavit and a "yaver" (aid to a general) by the name of Kenan were both on horseback, returning to their company. Near the village of Kâzım Dirik, their path became more arduous, passing through rolling hills and escarpments. Suddenly something spooked Cavit's horse and it started to run at a full gallop. Cavit saw a man and a donkey ahead on his path. The man was trying to pull the donkey to the side, but the donkey refused. Unable to stop or even slow the horse, Cavit hung on. The horse jumped over the donkey and continued at full speed. The path followed a steep course down the escarpment, where part of the hillside had been removed to allow passage; there was a deep drop on one side. Cavit saw a sharp turn ahead and sensed that his horse was running too fast to make it. But the animal made it, with its hooves on the almost vertical hillside. A group of officers on horseback had joined Kenan and they were watching Cavit. Later, Kenan related to Cavit what one officer said: "I am a cavalry officer but I have never seen horsemanship like this before."

As company doctor, Cavit had his hands full treating a skin disease that caused pruritus. Since there were no facilities for dealing with this problem, Cavit had to improvise. As a preventive measure, he devised a public bath for the entire company. There was a mill nearby and a reasonably deep depression in the ground next to it. The soldiers collected large flat stones and placed them on the bottom and sides of the depression, to form a small reservoir and to keep the water free from mud. They used a makeshift pipe to divert some of the water from the mill to the reservoir, allowing for continuous flow, and added hot water they boiled in large pots. Until the disease came under control, all unaffected men were ordered to take frequent baths.

Meanwhile, Cavit kept the men afflicted with the disease under quarantine. He built an infirmary of sorts that included bunk beds to save space. There were no medicines in the casern to fight off this disease. Again Cavit extemporized. He obtained a large container of sulphur from the health director of a nearby village. He mixed the sulphur with lime and made large quantities of a paste which he smeared on the infected spots. Although the paste mildly burned the skin, the disease was cured in a matter of days. (Mother and I had the same disease in Bafra in 1944.)

Fisherman's House. Gallipoli, Nov. 1941. In Nov. 1941, Cavit came on a short leave and brought Zekiye and Hatçe with him to Gelibolu. They rented a room from a fisherman and this is where the two had their honeymoon. Zekiye and Hatçe stayed there to the end of Jan. 1942, while Cavit continued his military duty in Atifbey Çiftliği, a village nearby. Cavit could leave the camp on some nights only and arrived on horseback. He would sleep fully dressed; then he would return to duty early in the morning, all for 60 TL per month.

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Train to Erzurum. In Feb. 1942, Cavit was ordered to accompany a shipload of soldiers to İstanbul. Zekiye was pregnant with me and did not want to stay in Gelibolu. Since private passengers were not allowed on the ship, Zekiye came on board incognito late at night and stayed in her cabin during the day-long trip, the only woman on board. They had to leave Hatçe in Gelibolu.

İstanbul was full of discharged soldiers waiting for military trains to take them to their hometown. However, the winter was severe and the trains were not running on schedule. Eventually Cavit was assigned to a train heading to Erzurum, accompanying the soldiers as a military doctor. Zekiye stayed with her mother and Nazire in Lâleli. On the way, a soldier began to cough blood. Cavit wanted to take him to the military hospital in Sivas, a stopover on the way, but the man's friends told him that he was from Erzurum, that, ill or not, he should continue to his hometown.

When the train arrived in Erzurum, the soldier disappeared, to avoid going to the hospital. Cavit looked for him but could not find him. Since he had a day off, Cavit decided to take another train to Sarıkamış, to see his brother Sabri. After spending the night there, he returned to Erzurum to take the train back to İstanbul. He went to an inn to drink tea. When he got up to pay for the tea, the waiter did not accept the money. He had been on the train from İstanbul and had recognized Cavit as their doctor. The waiter told him that the soldier who had coughed blood was taken to his home and was doing all right. Cavit embarked on the train and returned to İstanbul. In Apr. 1942, 40 days after their departure from Gelibolu, Cavit and Zekiye were ready to return there.

Cici Anne Hatice Hanım. Before Cavit and Zekiye left for Gelibolu, Dr. Haşim arrived from Edirne. Zekiye noticed that her father frequently claimed excuses to be away from home, but she did not know what to make of it. When Cavit and Zekiye were at the pier in Sirkeci, ready to embark on the ship, Dr. Haşim came to see his daughter off. Zekiye had been always very close to her father and this farewell felt particularly sad to her. She cried profusely. Perhaps she was sensing something ominous, though she was not yet aware that things would never be the same again between them.

Years later, Cici Anne (her first name Hatice, the formal form of Hatçe), told Mother that she (Cici Anne) had been at the pier too, standing a distance away from her father so that Mother would not notice her. We believe Grandfather met her in Edirne. She was a nurse who had two grown sons (Nejdet and Çetin) from her first marriage. Shortly after Grandmother Safiye's death, Grandfather married this woman and Hatice hanım became our Cici Anne. A very capable and cunning person, she cared for me a great deal when I was a student in İstanbul. We did not see Grandfather after we moved to America in 1958. He died in Jan. 1961; Mother could not attend his funeral.

I visited Cici Anne and her daughter Zehra (Mother's stepsister, who was born in Diyarbakır on Sep. 21, 1945) in the summer of 1961, when I came from Germany. It was the last time anyone from our family saw them. Later I found out from Mother that Cici Anne had tried to deceive her of her (Mother's) share of the Sirman Apartment at about the same time I was in İstanbul. Cici Anne did not succeed with the apartment, but she did with Grandfather's other holdings, including a large grove near the Marmara Sea and Grandfather's İstiklâl Medal, which normally goes to the first male child or grandchild: me.

Mother regarded Cici Anne as the cathartic who deformed and purged her father's love for his family, especially her. The wedge Cici Anne drove between Mother and her father was one reason why we left Turkey in 1958. Having lost her mother and the connection to her father, Mother's memories of the past left a sibilant wound in her heart. She wanted to erase her past and build a new one, free from her previous past. The ornery excesses of some members of Father's family strengthened her resolution.

Sirman's Birth. İstanbul, July 15, 1942. Zekiye stayed in Gelibolu until Apr. 1942. Accompanied by Hatçe, she returned to İstanbul to be with her mother and Nazire while she prepared for my birth. Her father and Cavit came to İstanbul in anticipation. Cavit's first trip around July 1 was premature. Grandfather and Father came again, at different times, after my birth at 6 p.m. on July 15, 1942.

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As a side story, Mother had a new tailor-made dress when Father arrived. But the dress did not sit well on her and she was displeased with it. Seeing Mother so unhappy with the new dress, Father volunteered to alter the dress, assuring her that she would like the finished work. He went out and purchased a belt and a few other items to make the dress more appealing. He returned, locked himself in a room, and made the changes he envisioned. When he was through, he asked Mother to try the dress on. Bells-and-whistles. She was amazed. The dress fit well and it looked very nice on her. Indeed several neighbors who saw Mother in her new outfit asked her to allow them to scrutinize the dress so that they could copy the style.

Over the years, when Father felt creative, he asked Mother to purchase a material she liked and then went about creating a comfy dress she could wear at home. His talent is not limited to dresses. In the 1970s, when the ornate upholstery of our French Provincial sofa needed replacement, Father purchased new material and refitted the entire sofa. He can be as dexterous with his hands as a surgeon, or the violinist he once was. Perhaps this was a way for him to make up for the fact that he did not become a surgeon, the branch of medicine in which he wanted to specialize, had there been a scholarship available for him to study surgery when he started the medical school in 1934. Instead he became an excellent radiologist. Alas, it was never enough for his creativity.

What was unique about Sirman? Mother explains that he was what the Turks call a "tosun," a healthy, big, and handsome baby, with large eyes and curly hair (a few years later). As a firstborn, a son too, he enjoyed prominence in his mother's heart and father's expectations. His mother sang to him songs she had learned in Merzifon. When Sirman was old enough to understand, she read to him stories from Grimm's Fairy Tales and other books. Sirman was a sensitive child. He would ask his mother to read the story of the Little Red Riding Hood again, but without the wolf eating the little girl.

His mother loved and nurtured him in a fashion only a superior mother can, regardless of the trying circumstances around her. His father too had the best of intentions and cared for Sirman, but the discrepancy between his expectations and Sirman's true nature soon evolved into a continuous contest. His father saw in Sirman not a unique individual but an extension of himself, thus burdening his son with obligations of what he had to be, do, become: in this case reaching even more fame and recognition as a doctor. Sirman rejected this burden, instinctively as a child, deliberately as an adult, until the expectations became irrelevant.

Safiye Dies, Apr. 10, 1943: End of an Era. Grandmother died while she was performing the noon prayer ("namaz") at home in Lâleli. Zekiye (25), Hatçe, and Nazire were with her. Grandfather did not come from Diyarbakır, where he was stationed then. The rootless cycle that began in Mother's life in 1937 got into full swing after Apr. 10, 1943. The rich and spoiled past she had known was gone forever. This was the onset of a reincarnation in misery, hopelessness, and frustration, brought about by five factors, both endogenous and exogenous: 1) her lack of focus, in part caused by her ill health, about what she wanted to make of her life, and the fact that she had hibernated for five years after her graduation, 2) her father's abandonment, 3) her husband's Lâz identity, 4) his family, and 5) unfortunate circumstances.

Mother had no control over her father, and since she was already married, it was too late for resolutions about taking control of her own life. Now the only thing she could do was to make the best of what life threw at her. Mother's favorite mantra, "life is all those things that happen to you when you were planning other things," became irrefutable wisdom because she left herself no options. And since her husband was a driven man, his circumstances dominated hers right from the start. Unfortunately, his circumstances came with a strong Lâz individuality and a bunch of cantankerous family members. Father's Lâz identity, or perhaps his own identity, surfaced almost immediately in the form of a confusion as to where his loyalty belonged: his brothers and sisters, or his budding family. This confusion caused a potent rage in Mother over time.

The Extended Family. Since the family, especially on Father's side, played such an important role in Mother's life from 1944 until 1958, they are reviewed.

Dr. Haşim, "büyükbaba". Although "dede" is the more common word for Grandfather, we called Mother's father "Büyükbaba" which appropriately translates to "Grandfather." ("Büyükanne" is used for "Grandmother," though "Anneanne," "Mothermother" or "Mother's mother," is appropriate reference to the mother of one's mother.)

Dr. Haşim had been living in Edirne since May 16, 1940. In Mar. 1943, a month before Grandmother died, he returned to İstanbul to announce that he had been assigned to Diyarbakır. Zekiye and her mother were both surprised and dismayed that they would be moving to a backward part of Turkey. To be sure, only Grandfather was moving there. He had already met another woman. In Diyarbakır he could continue his romance without interference from his family. In May 1947, Grandfather was appointed to Aydın, a town southeast from İzmir. Soon after that, he retired and moved to the top floor of the Sirman Apartment in İstanbul. He had exited from Mother's life in 1941; he did not enter our lives again until 1948. Although we were close with him and his new family from 1952 to 1958, all of us knew that he had abandoned Mother at a critical time in her life. He died in İstanbul on Jan. 26, 1961. We have not visited his grave. As to Cici Anne and Zehra, we do not know what became of them.

Dr. Bahri, "Bahri amca". Uncle Bahri, Father's oldest brother, moved from Sivas to Samsun in 1935. Soon after that he retired from the military. During WWII, he reenlisted under the emergency rule and was sent to Trabzon. His duty there finished in Sep. 1943. He returned to Samsun and lived there with his wife Zehra, sons Selâmi (1924), Nesimi (1926), Nizami (1928), daughter Aysel (Sivas, 1935), and son Saffet (Samsun, Apr. 7, 1940). He died in his daughter's home in Ankara early in 1978.

Selami, Father's favorite nephew, whom he had babysat in Sivas, died in a car crash in Yugoslavia when he was driving from Germany to Turkey in 1967. After Selami's accident, Parents invited Uncle Bahri and Zehra yenge to our home in Waynesburg. We interacted with Selami's widow Semiha and sons Fetih Korkut and Mehmet occasionally until our departure from Turkey in 1992; however, Selami's parents, brothers, and sister have ignored his family since the accident. Nizami and his wife Azize and Nesimi and his wife Sevgi were very helpful to Parents when Father had his stroke in İstanbul on Dec. 4, 1989. As of 1997, we are in touch with Nesimi (son Mehmet, daughter Melda), Nizami (son Turabi, daughter Melek), and Saffet (wife Annamarie, daughter Jale).

Aunt Ayşe, "Ayşe hala." Father's oldest sister Ayşe contributed substantially to Father's upbringing when he was growing up. In 1943, she and her husband Servet were living in Ordu on the Black Sea. In 1950 (or so), they moved to İnebolu, a smaller coastal town west of Samsun. Servet bey died in 1966; she died at her home in Çamlıca early in the 1980s, two months after her sister Naciye, also in İstanbul. (Çamlıca is a rural subsection of İstanbul near Üsküdar. It is a mountainous area decorated with orchards, quaint hillside gazinos and restaurants. It was used to be known as a place for lovers, also celebrated by one of Mother's favorite old Turkish songs: "Gel Gidelim Çamlıcaya," "Let's go to Çamlıca.") Ayşe did not have children. She and her sister Naciye looked like twins. Gülhis has almost the exact facial features of both aunts and, Mother insists, also their "tongues."

Aunt Naciye, "Naciye hala." In Feb. 1943, Aunt Naciye, her husband Mehmet, and their daughters, Necmiye (1928, Posof), twins Neriman and Necla (1930, Çarşamba), and son Erol (1937/38) lived in Fatsa, a village near Ünye. When Father arrived on duty in Ünye, to begin his 4-year national service for the scholarship, Naciye's family moved in with him, even before Mother arrived with me in her arms. Her daughter Necla lived with us from 1948 to 1953. We are in touch only with Necla.

Uncle Sabri, "Sabri amca." Uncle Sabri, his wife Münevver, sons Zeki (1930) and Kerami (1931), daughter Keriman (1933), and son İlhami (1940) lived in Sarıkamış. In 1941, he moved to İstanbul and started a business selling glassware. He also purchased a property in Bağlarbaşı, then a rural subsection of Üsküdar, and built a large home there. He died in İstanbul sometime in 1983 or 1984. Uncle Sabri was a gentle person and most helpful to Father during his early schooling. The property he purchased in İstanbul turned out to be a gold mine. In 1991, it was sold as a commercial property, providing a substantial inheritance to his offsprings. As of 1997, we are still in touch with Keriman (husband Osman, daughter Hande, son Dehan), though Zeki (wife Yüksel, son Sinan, daughter Sezen), Kerami (wife Ümit, daughter Femsi, twins Arda/Ayda), and İlhami (wife Zühal, daughter Tuba) also call occasionally.

Uncle Cevat, "Cevat amca." In 1943, Father's younger stepbrother Cevat was based in Arhavi, though he pursued business opportunities everywhere there were opportunities. My sisters and I saw him occasionally when we were growing up in Samsun. I did not meet his wife Meliha (who is a "Puskulaşi" Celâyir) and many children until 1986 when Parents and I visited them in Arhavi. Uncle Cevat died on May 2, 1996. We are in touch with Meliha and daughters Saadet and Canan. (Saadet and Canan may be two of the warmest first cousins in the family; we are close to them.)

Of Safiye's brothers, Vasıf, Rıza, and Hasan (who had no children), we were close to Vasıf's son Cemil (dayı to us) and his wife Saniye (yenge to us) who lived in Samsun. They both died in İstanbul in the late 1980s. We are in touch with their children, who were our childhood friends in Samsun. Rıza lived in Arhavi and died there. We are close to his children, especially his daughter and Mother's favorite cousin Harbiye and her children, other daughter Feriha, and son Orhan. His other son, Metin, died soon after his marriage. Orhan's two daughters, Zerrin and Sibel, and son Suat visited us in Miami Beach late in Sep. 1996.

We did not interact with Mother's Merzifon friends, also an extended family to us, until after July 1947, when we moved to Ankara.

Ünye, Apr. 22, 1943. National Service. In Feb. 1943, Father completed his military duty in Gelibolu and arrived in İstanbul. Since he was educated by the Turkish Government, he had an obligation of 4 years of national service to the country. The government assigned him to Ünye, a picturesque town on the Black Sea to the east of Samsun. Uncle Sabri had a new suit made for Father and paid his way to Ünye. Father started his practice. He had written to Mother about an X-ray tube he had seen advertised in a magazine. Uncle Sabri ordered the tube and Mother was to bring it with her. Now Father would also have the latest equipment. It was a promising start. In addition to running his own medical practice, as a government health official Father was also responsible for health care in Ünye and the surrounding villages.

Unfortunately, Aunt Naciye and her family were living nearby in Fatsa then. She invited herself, her husband, and four children into the small house Father had rented for us. After burying her mother in İstanbul, on Apr. 22, 1943, Mother arrived in Ünye, holding me and accompanied by Hatçe and Nazire. It was a bad start from the beginning. By allowing his sister to move in, Father committed the first of his many mistakes. The place could barely accommodate Father, Mother, Hatçe, Nazire, and me. The situation became miserable for Mother.

"Hatice and Rüsküşe." One day, when Father was seeing patients at the municipal clinic, he noticed a woman of about 45 years who was looking at him in a curious way. It turned out that the woman was mentally ill and had spent a few months at the mental hospital in İstanbul. The woman, her name Hatice, was under the influence of a woman ghost by the name of Rüsküşe. Apparently the ghost had a sister whose name was also Hatice. The ghost (Rüsküşe) periodically approached this woman (Hatice) to help her find her sister Hatice. So the woman would go out at odd hours of the night, in search of this sister who shared her name.

Father thought he might be able to help the woman by unorthodox means. He told Hatice that he had met the other Hatice, the ghost's sister, in İstanbul sometime ago, that indeed Hatice had sent him to Ünye to find her sister (the ghost) Rüsküşe. He asked the woman that the next time the ghost contacted her she should put her in a bottle and bring the bottle to him. He would mail it to İstanbul and the sisters would be together again, and Rüsküşe would not need her help. Indeed, the woman did bring a bottle. Father took it to the pier and threw it into the water. He told the woman that the bottle was on its way to İstanbul. Several months later, Father met the woman's son and was told by him that his mother had stopped going out at nights. Father's "cure" had worked.

Mother breast-feeds a baby. In May 1943, a village woman came to Father's office, with a baby in her arms. The woman had ulcers on her breasts and could not breast-feed the baby, who was screaming with hunger. Father called Mother from upstairs and asked her if she would breast-feed the baby. Mother did so and continued to breast-feed this baby occasionally for about a month.

This happened again in Aug. 1943, when Parents were in a bus, on their way from Trabzon to Erzurum. A military officer and his wife entered the bus in Bayburt, the woman carrying a baby in her arms. This young woman also had ulcers on her breasts and could not feed the crying baby. Mother introduced herself, me, and offered to breast-feed the baby. She did, to the gratitude of all the passengers.

"Our Doctor." One day, the mayor (Mustafa) of the village of Zivin fell ill from pneumonia. His friends came to fetch Father. They departed on horseback. Zivin was quite a distance from Ünye and they had to cross several streams. They arrived in the evening. Mustafa was already in a coma-like state. He did not speak and apparently did not recognize the people around him. Father knew that days seven through nine of pneumonia were critical. He injected Mustafa first with camphor oil to give him strength. Using salt water as an IV, he injected him again. Finally he gave him also sulfonamide and calcium injections.

Soon it was daylight and Father opened the wooden shutters. Mustafa recovered sufficiently to ask Father who he was. Father said "happy recovery, I am the doctor." Mustafa was grateful. Father told him that the next time someone became ill in the village, rather than riding all the way to Ünye, they should come to the gendarme building at the outskirts and call him at the health department. Father also mentioned that he was thinking of getting a motorcycle in order to respond to such calls in a more timely fashion. He returned to Ünye and Mustafa soon recovered fully. (There are 3 types of localities in Turkey: the smallest unit is a "köy" or village with a "muhtar" as the chief official; a "kaymakam" is the official in charge of a "kasaba" or small town, whereas a "vali" or mayor is the head of a "şehir," a city. The muhtar is elected locally; the kaymakam and vali are political appointees from Ankara.)

A few weeks later, Mustafa and a few friends arrived in Father's office and placed on his desk a pile of money. They told Father that the entire village had pitched in to enable him to purchase his motorcycle. Unfortunately, Father had just received the news that he was being transferred to Erzurum. He explained this to Mustafa and told him that he could not accept the money. When word got around in Ünye that their doctor was about to be transferred, the residents, various officials, including the head of the town council, sent telegrams to Ankara. The telegrams appealed to the officials in Ankara that Father was needed in Ünye. This despite the fact that there were established doctors in Ünye, some of them natives. Ankara did not heed the requests. So just as Father was making a name for himself and improving his financial situation, he had to leave Ünye.

Nahide Çarmıklı. One of our neighbors in Ünye was a Cemal bey and his wife. They had 5 children, including a girl named Nahide. Nahide was about 17 years old then (and, Mother says, occasionally she held me in her arms). One day, Cemal bey received a letter from an aunt in Arhavi. The aunt spoke about a Lâz engineer and businessman by the name of Ziya Çarmıklı, who had been recently divorced from his wife. He was looking for another wife and the aunt thought that Nahide would be suitable for him. Nahide was also willing, but because Ziya bey had divorced his first wife, Cemal bey was reluctant. Mother also believed this would be a good match for Nahide. She appealed to Cemal bey to give his approval. Cemal bey was not yet convinced. On the day Parents boarded the ship for Trabzon, leaving Ünye for Erzurum, Cemal bey and Nahide came on board to wish them farewell. Mother asked Cemal bey for his promise that he would give his consent to Nahide's marriage. He did and Nahide and Ziya Çarmıklı married. Years passed and Ziya bey became one of the richest men in Turkey; the marriage flourished.

After Parents built our summer villa in Tuzla in 1970, they visited Ziya bey and Nahide at their villa in Bebek, a most attractive section of İstanbul along the Bosporus. Both of them liked and were very respectful of Parents, in part for the role Mother had played arranging their marriage.

In the 1960s, Turkey had strict laws about how much wealth a citizen could maintain in foreign exchange. However, while the consequences of not abiding the law were serious, the wording was not precise. Ziya bey, who had also branched into import and export, was arrested for money laundering and was put in jail. He was humiliated. Soon after his release, he had a problem with his heart and came to the United States for a heart bypass surgery. He died in America in the mid-1970s

I saw Nahide only once, in Tuzla in 1991. She came for a visit and stayed about an hour. This Nahide was a wealthy and well-traveled woman. We spoke about the places around the world we liked. She told us that her son had been a classmate of a prince from Brunei, that they had been invited to his wedding at the palace there. Her earthy demeanor and casual appearance impressed me. Here was a very rich woman who had not lost touch with her humble roots. She did not use her money in pretentious ways but simply to enrich herself. I liked her.

Dr. Haşim interferes. Grandfather Haşim, who was in Diyarbakır at the time when Parents were in Ünye, had heard that Aunt Naciye was living with us. He knew this could not be a happy situation for his daughter. So unknown to Parents, he had pulled a few strings and had Father appointed to Erzurum, just so that Parents would be away from aunt Naciye and her family. (Father found this out in Erzurum.)

Father had a second suit made from the material Naciye's husband Mehmet gave him. Then, Parents, accompanied by Hatçe, Nazire, and Aunt Naciye's oldest daughter Necmiye, embarked on a ship to Trabzon. They planned to stay a week or two with Uncle Bahri there and continue on ship to Hopa. From there they would travel on land, south to Erzurum. (This was the occasion when Mother breast-fed the baby in the bus.) Erzurum would be a homecoming of sorts for Father, for he had completed the lycée there ten years earlier. Since their promising beginning in Ünye was interrupted so soon, Parents had barely enough money for the trip. Father had purchased a few pairs of shoes to sell in Erzurum, so that they would have some money before he got his first pay.

The "Radio" incident. Aunt Naciye's family was so poor that little incidents assumed large significance. Her husband Mehmet had given Father a radio. Before Parents departed for Trabzon, Father reimbursed him for it. Apparently Mehmet did not tell his wife that Father paid him, probably because he was a habitual gambler. The radio was still an issue a year later. While visiting in Samsun, Necmiye told to other family members that her yenge (Mother) should sell her jewelry so that she can pay off her husband's debts. In fact, a year later (1944), when we were in Bafra, Aunt Naciye and Necmiye came to collect the debt, also to complain to Father about Mother in Mother's presence. (That Father did not put them in their places then fueled Mother's rage.) Father told them that indeed he had paid for the radio. Aunt Naciye began to cry, damning her gambling husband.

Ünye to Erzurum. July 19, 1943, visit in Trabzon. Parents arrived in Trabzon and moved in with Uncle Bahri and his family. (Due to WWII, Uncle Bahri had reenlisted in Samsun and was stationed in Trabzon until later in 1943.) Selami, Nesimi, and Nizami were circumcised during our brief stay there. As it is customary on this occasion, the kids received presents, including a camera. Father took the camera from them to sell in Erzurum. In turn, the sons took shoes Father had purchased in Ünye. This was not all. Uncle Bahri was interested in Father's X-ray tube. He took the tube and kept it. So after about fifteen days, Parents, Hatçe, Nazire, and Necmiye, less the X-ray tube and shoes but richer by the camera, continued the journey to Hopa. It so happened that Uncle Cevat was also on that ship, returning from a business trip in İstanbul. He noticed the camera and took it, supposedly to examine. He kept it. This is how Parents arrived in Erzurum, poorer than when they left Ünye, why there are no photos of our stay there.

Erzurum, Aug. 1943. In Erzurum, Parents stayed in a hotel for a few days, until Father found a dismal two-room tenement. A hole in a corner of one of the rooms served as the bathroom, the stench a reeking fug. (I tried to imagine Mother's shock.) Parents, Hatçe, Nazire, Necmiye, and I stayed there two months. Late in September, Father found a two-story rental home. It was a considerable improvement. Father used the first floor as his office. He installed a storage tank on the roof and filled it with water. Then he connected a hose to it to serve as a pipe. This way Parents had a home-office with running water. Things were looking up again.

Father's clientele, especially from the local Lâz population, rapidly multiplied. One evening, he told Mother that he felt he might win something at the bingo game. He left for the coffeehouse where the game was played and returned with a material for a new suit for himself. On another occasion, he won a Parker pen. Soon after Parents moved into their second home, Nazire accompanied Necmiye back to Fatsa, to Aunt Naciye's home. (In those days, young girls did not travel alone.) Nazire remained about a year with Aunt Naciye's family in Fatsa, which could not have been a happy experience for Nazire.

"He has 5 Children." One evening, a member of the local police force was found in an intoxicated state while still on duty. The head of the police department requested an immediate medical report about the man's condition, before he suspended the officer from his duties. Accompanied by two fellow officers, the man was brought to Father's office for examination. One of the accompanying officers whispered to Father: "this man has a wife and five children." Father, who seldom takes alcohol, appreciated the man's situation and wrote on a pad: "since I took some alcohol this evening, I am unable to examine this officer at this time." He saved the man's job. After this incident, Father earned the respect and gratitude of the entire police department for the duration of his stay in Erzurum.

Father has Typhus, Jan. 1944. Father worked at the hospital during the day and attended to his own patients in the evening and at night. He was also responsible for health-related matters in the villages and military camps around Erzurum. The latter was an especially difficult duty in winter, since Erzurum can get as cold as Siberia. The roads in that part of Turkey were only rudimentary in those days, blocked by snow throughout the winter months. As a rule, health officials did not drive to the villages in winter. Father did, on weekends.

On a cold day in Dec. 1943, Father and another health official rode a horse sled to one of the military camps. There, someone told them about a very sick man in Dumlu, a village nearby. Father drove there to see him. Before Father entered the man's shack, he took off his coat and threw it on the snow, thus unknowingly shedding a layer of insulation. The man had typhus. Father did what he could for him and returned to Erzurum. A week later, Father had high fever, back-pain, and felt very weak. He assumed he had a cold, but soon recognized the symptoms of typhus. Father thought he contacted the illness through skin dust, for he remembered seeing the man's naked arms, and the fact that the skin on them appeared to be dry and flaky.

So just as Parents' financial situation was improving, Father fell gravely ill, and his condition worsened. He was taken to a room at the local hospital where he drifted into coma for 27 days. The end loomed only as an outgrowth of happenstance, with no Warrior Angel in sight, the intractability of karma a fact. Mother's life became a daunting routine. Every morning, she put on her rubber snow shoes and walked the distance of about 5 miles to the hospital to be with Father. Their friend Dr. İbrahim waited for her at the entrance of the hospital. When she turned the corner, to cover the last stretch to the hospital, walking downhill, he waved to her from the steps, to signal that her husband was still alive, that she should not hurry on the ice. Mother stayed with Father until darkness encroached. When it was time to leave, instead of taking a horse sled ("zanka" in Turkish), Mother walked home, to save money. A pharmacist in town said later "I would give ten years of my life to Dr. Cavit to stop Zekiye's tears." This was the most hopeless periods in Mother's life.

Mother had no money and was too proud to admit it to the few people who offered help. An officer's wife from Hopa, Zehra her name, asked Mother if the soldier assigned to their home should bring food to her. (All officers had a private assigned to them to help out with chores.) The doctors at the hospital suggested to Mother that she should have her meals at the hospital. Mother graciously declined these offers and stayed hungry. Father's situation worsened. A doctor at the hospital told Mother that the hospital staff did not expect him to live, that she should contact relatives. Mother sent a telegram to her father in Diyarbakır.

But soon Father recovered from his coma and Mother sent a second telegram, asking her father not to come. Sabit bey, the older brother of Uncle Sabri's wife Münevver, arrived from Sarıkamış to ask Mother if she needed anything. Mother did, but she did not admit this. He had brought with him some oranges and "Kaşar" cheese (which tastes like the Italian Provolone). Mother ate some of it and gave the rest to Father who was feeling better and needed more nourishment than he got from the food at the hospital. (Sabit bey's daughter Yüksel married Uncle Sabri's oldest son Zeki.)

Samsun, Fatsa. Medical Leave, Mar. 1944. Father left the hospital during the first week of Mar. 1944. He was granted a medical leave of three months. Parents could not afford to stay in Erzurum. So Parents came to Samsun to stay with Uncle Bahri and his family. Father had still 3 years to go on his national service. He asked his brother if he would go to Ankara and talk to his friends at the Department of Health, to have Father appointed to a coastal town. Uncle Bahri left for Ankara and returned a week later with a promissory note that Father would be assigned to Bafra.

Parents stayed with Uncle Bahri for two or three weeks. When Uncle Bahri was in Ankara, Father, who was still recuperating, went to Uncle Bahri's office to treat his patients so that his wife Zehra would not complain about loss of income. Parents did not feel comfortable there. And they were not welcome at Grandfather's house in Diyarbakır. So at the end of Mar. 1944, Parents decided to go to Arhavi, so that Mother would be in a more comfortable environment to give birth to her new baby.

The ship dropped anchor in Fatsa. Aunt Naciye's husband, a health official, visited them on board and insisted that they disembark in Fatsa, that a doctor would do well there. Parents were persuaded and moved in with Aunt Naciye and her family. The house was small: a room, a kitchen, and an entre. Aunt Naciye's family, 6 people, slept in the kitchen, though sometimes her daughters spent the night with the neighbors. Our side, including Hatçe, Nazire, and me, 5 of us, took the room. The entre was intended as Father's office.

Aunt Naciye's husband Mehmet was a gambler. Parents figured out shortly that they were persuaded by him to stay there so that Father's income would take care of the household, while he gambled his. It was too crowded and uncomfortable there. Meanwhile, Father had forgotten in Samsun the prescription pad he had printed. He left on a bus to retrieve the pad. Before his departure, Mother told him to purchase for us passage to Arhavi, that she wanted to leave Fatsa when he returned.

On the return trip, the ship arrived in Fatsa at a late hour. Father waited on board for Mother's arrival. However, Mother, accompanied by aunt Naciye's husband and me, could not find a motorboat. (Hatçe and Nazire stayed with Aunt Naciye.) When she found a boat and was halfway to the ship, she saw Father on another boat heading for the shore. Finally Father and Mother got together on the ship. They found out later that Aunt Naciye had been very angry that Father had not stopped by, insisting that Mother had instigated the oversight.

Femsi's Birth. Arhavi, June 4, 1944. Parents arrived in Arhavi in Apr. 1944 and moved in with Mother's uncle Rıza and his wife Saadet. However, Rıza had declared bankruptcy and was not in a position to feed extra mouths. Father opened an office on the second floor of Rıza's expired office and gave Rıza 40 TL monthly. Father's appointment to Bafra had not yet materialized and the three-month medical leave Father had obtained from Erzurum was running out.

On June 1, Father left for Erzurum. There were no doctors or pharmacists in Arhavi in those days. Before Father left, he told Mother that when the baby was due, she should go to a hospital in Rize or Trabzon and have the baby there. Mother responded that since there was no money for such an indulgence, she would stay in Arhavi and have the baby with the help of the family. Femsi was born with the help of a midwife, her name Raife "dadı." Rıza dayı, Saadet yenge, their daughter Harbiye, who had come from Pazar, and Hamide hanım were by Mother's side. (Femsi was born with her birth sack intact, considered to be a sign of good fortune.)

Erzurum, July 1944. Rumors about Grandfather. The nurses in Erzurum had heard from nurses in Diyarbakır that Grandfather Dr. Haşim had been living with a woman, that he had married her. They told this to Father when he returned to Erzurum. Less than two months later, the transfer to Bafra came through. When Father returned to Arhavi to collect Mother, he told her what the nurses had said about her father. Mother, still the gullible child-woman, had never suspected infidelity from her father, whom she had glorified by addressing him as "Eybaba" (father of fathers). She wrote to him, asking if the rumors were true. She received no response.

Arhavi to Samsun, July 19, 1944. Parents left for Samsun. When the ship arrived there, they were told that the sea around İstanbul had been mined, that under military orders all passengers had to disembark in Samsun. The unloading of all passengers and their belongings together created a logistical nightmare on the ship. After Parents reached the shore, they found out that their large duffle bag, with all their possessions, had been left on the ship. Father left on a motorboat to look for the bag; Mother sat on the pier, holding Femsi in her arms, while I slept with my head on her leg. Although it was late at night, there was considerable activity at the pier. Selâmi (and, Mother believes, Nesimi too), Uncle Bahri's two oldest sons, were strolling in the park next to the pier. They saw Mother sitting there and exclaimed in shock "yenge, is that you?" They invited Parents to their home, but Mother declined. Father returned with our belongings and Parents checked into a hotel.

Bafra, July 26, 1944. When Parents arrived in Bafra, they moved into a hotel, a two-story building of which the first floor was a saloon. The next morning, Father went to the city hall to introduce himself to the director of the health department. Someone told him about a rental home. Parents came to see it, a three-story building, and decided to rent it. We lived there until Jan. 1946, for about 18 months.

Father made the first floor his office, the second floor became our living quarters. The third floor was an uninhabitable attic. Parents purchased rattan furniture for the living room, including six chairs, two end tables, and a larger table. We could afford curtains only for the living room. Parents used the carpet they had brought with them in the living room. It was the only one left from several rugs Mother had brought from her parent's home.

The house was accessed from an empty lot with a water well in the middle. Our home had its own well in the garden. Parents used the water from the well for the wash and house cleaning; they purchased the drinking water. (Mother says the water from the well was so alkaline that Femsi had severe diaper rash.) WWII restrictions still applied and Parents could not use electricity in the evening. Parents had left Hatçe and Nazire in Fatsa. Nazire joined us after about three months. Fortunately Hatçe found a husband at about this time and left. Her daughter Leyla was born in 1945.

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Ahmet, Hasan, and Saime Çakın. Father was serving at the municipal health department in Bafra. Soon after Parents arrived, they had a visit from the director of the municipal services, Ahmet Çakın, his mother, and his sister Adalet. They were so impressed with Parents that Ahmet bey spoke about them to his brother Hasan and his wife Saime, when the latter came for a visit from İstanbul. This is how Parents met Hasan bey and Saime hanım.

We crossed paths with them again. It so happened that Hasan Çakın and Saime hanım were also property owners in Mercan Yuvası. When we built our home there in 1970, Saime hanım was one of the first "old" friends who welcomed us. (She is about 2 years older than Mother.) In the interim, Hasan bey had grown to a billionaire (as in Dollars) merchant. Parents visited them every summer. I met Saime hanım only once, in the summer of 1990. Our home was on sale and Saime hanım came with her (and Mother's) friend Meliha. (Mother and Meliha remember each other from their childhood in Kulakkaya--1929 to 1936--when Meliha came there from Ordu during her summer holidays.) Parents were away on a visit and I was alone in the house. I entertained them for about half an hour before Parents returned. (This episode is illustrative of how in a small and mobile country, everyone can meet "lost" friends and acquaintances again and again.)

Father Rescues a Child. A young woman from İzmir and her three-year-old child were visiting one of our neighbors. While the woman was occupied, the child ran away and fell into the well in front of our house. Parents heard hysterical shouts and rushed outside. About fifteen critical minutes passed before the folks could find a ladder, lower it down the well, and fetch the child. Father scooted the unconscious child to his office. He poured alcohol on the cement floor of the room next to the entry and lit a fire to keep the child warm. Then, he began to resuscitate. The child was saved.

Adile from Merzifon. Mother had an older schoolmate named Adile in Merzifon. She had last seen her at Adile's graduation in 1933, two years earlier than her own graduation. She remembered that Adile was from Bafra and that her father was a Saip bey. Mother asked the neighbors if they knew a Saip bey. Word got around and one day Mother had two visitors: a Ragibe hanım and Raciha, Adile's mother and sister. She found out from them that Adile had married a government official and was living in Ankara. Mother says Ragibe hanım was a very nice lady, that they stayed in touch also after we moved to Samsun.

Zehra Sirman's Birth, Sep. 21, 1945. In 1939, when Mother was in Afyon, she became friends with the two daughters of the police captain. She met one daughter, Deniz, again in Erzurum late in 1943. Deniz was married to an engineer and had a diamond bracelet that Mother liked very much. She wrote about it to her father, asking him to order a similar bracelet for her. There was no response. When Mother's stepsister Zehra was born on Sep. 21, 1945, we were in Bafra. Mother received a photo from her father. The photo showed Cici Anne in a sumptuous bed, holding her new baby. On her (Cici Anne's) arm there was a bracelet, the same one about which Mother had written to her father, to order it for her.

Sirman has malaria, Mother infection. My first memories date to age 3 (1945) in Bafra. I remember being ill from malaria, Father, Mother, and Nazire fussing over me in bed. On one occasion, Father asked Nazire to bring quinine, "kinin" in Turkish. I understood it as "kilim" (a thin carpet) and said "but it will not fit in my mouth."

In Jan. 1946, Father was called to reserve duty. (We do not know why, for WWII had already ended in 1945.) Father left for Samsun to begin his duty. While he was away, a burglar came to our home. Mother screamed in terror; Nazire chased him away. While Father was away, Mother suffered an infection in the urinal canal. It was so severe and painful that she left Femsi and me with Nazire and took the bus to Samsun, to check into the hospital where Father worked. With cold sweat pouring from her body, she remembers asking Father "I am not afraid of it, but is this how death comes?"

Samsun. Reserve Duty, Jan. 1946. While Father was doing his reserve duty in Samsun. Mother, Nazire, I, and Femsi stayed in Bafra, waiting for him to find a suitable home for us. Father stayed with his brother. Although the apartment on the second floor of Uncle Bahri's five-story building was for rent, he did not offer it to his brother and rented it to someone else for 40 TL per month. Then, for the same amount of rent, Father found a house in "Çiftlik" (orchard, plantation) near the section of Samsun known today as "56 Houses." Since we had no furniture and the house was cold, Father asked his brother for a carpet from his home, as he had many. Uncle Bahri refused. (Father suspects Zehra yenge talked him out of it.) Mother, Nazire, Femsi, and I arrived in Samsun in Apr. 1946. The house was a walking distance from Samsun lyceum and Uncle Bahri's sons Selâmi, Nesimi and Nizami were going to school there. They came to us for lunch almost every day, when we had barely enough for ourselves. (Hatçe and her family had also moved to Samsun at about this time. Her husband had a position with the Department of Forestry.)

Cousin Necla. Aunt Ayşe, who had no children of her own, asked her sister Naciye to let her daughter Necla to move in with her. Necla did. However, Aunt Ayşe was a disciplinarian and Necla was unhappy. One day, when the two were visiting Uncle Bahri in Samsun, Necla ran away and came to us, imploring Mother to "please keep her." Of course, Mother could not do so. When Ayşe hala came back and did not see Necla, she guessed what had happened and came to our house to fetch Necla. (A few years later Necla did move in with us.)

Azade, the Bride. Femsi and I had our first pet in Samsun: a baby sheep. (Turks rarely adopt pets.) We did not have room for it on our property, but one of our neighbors, an Armenian woman and her daughter Azade, had a suitable yard. The woman told Parents that we could keep the sheep there. Femsi and I went there often to play with it.

Before we departed from Samsun, Azade married İsmet, the son of an uncle of Cemil dayı, Mother's cousin. Zehra yenge, Ayşe hala, and Mother attended the wedding. Azade was not a pretty girl, even as a bride. On their way home after the wedding, Zehra yenge and Ayşe hala debated the wisdom of a man marrying an ugly woman. They were both colorful talkers. Mother sympathized with Azade and did not participate in the discussion. However, listening to the language they used, it took some effort for Mother to hold herself from breaking out in laughter, in spite of herself. (Aunt Ayşe used the same biting and flippant vocabulary and her wisecracks on Mother on occasion.)

We stayed at the Çiftlik home for six months, until about Sep. 1946. Father's reserve duty was over then and we returned to Bafra, since Father was still on assignment there. Across from our Çiftlik home there was a large house that Mother liked very much. Before we returned to Bafra, Parents persuaded Uncle Bahri to purchase this property for himself.

Gülhis' Birth. Bafra, Mar. 2, 1947. Parents returned to Bafra and rented a house across from Bedia and her family, whom Parents had met earlier when we were in Bafra. One day, Nazire chased Femsi and me outside, to wait for the stork that would bring a baby to our home. I remember Femsi and me standing away from the house, looking at the roof, waiting for the stork. The stork must have sneaked in, for there was a baby in the house after a while. At age less than 5, I was allowed to name the baby: Gülhis, a name I had heard and liked. ("Gül" is a rose and "his" is feeling and emotion; presumably together they imply something like "as tender and fragrant as a rose petal," or one whose "feelings are as fragrant as a rose." The name is very rare in Turkey.) After we arrived in America, "Gülhis" became somewhat of a handicap in that Americans could not pronounce the "ü" part of her name and what came out did not sound "tender." She changed it to "Gigi."

Early in 1947, the 4 years of national service Father owed to the government was about to be finished. Parents began to contemplate our future. They decided that we would be much better off, if Father became a specialist, soonest. As he had done several years ago, to have Father appointed to Bafra, Uncle Bahri went to Ankara to seek an opening for Father at the Numune Hospital. Father wanted to train in surgery, but there were no positions available in it. Through his friend Cemal bey, a congressman from Arhavi, Uncle Bahri secured for Father an opening in radiology. And Parents had accumulated 5,000 TL by then.

Sadettin and Bedia. Parents became friends with Bedia and her family in Bafra. In 1946, Mother introduced Bedia (22) and her family to Sadettin (37), great-uncle Osman's son and Mother's second cousin. Apparently Mother had a knack for arranging marriages, we decided years later, for the ones she arranged flourished. In this case, she achieved a miracle, in that Sadettin and Bedia agreed to become engaged without seeing each other, each trusting Mother's judgment. Indeed, Sadettin had insisted on seeing Bedia and Mother had conveyed his request to Bedia's father. However, Bedia's father rejected his request on the grounds that, after all, Bedia was accepting Sadettin based only on Mother's recommendation. He added that it would hurt the family pride if Sadettin saw Bedia and then changed his mind. Sadettin concurred with his reasoning. They were married in the latter days of 1946. Sadettin died sometime in the 1970s, when we were in America. Bedia lives in Ankara. They had two sons: Mehmet and Osman. Osman remained single; Mehmet, who is an officer with the Navy, and his wife had two sons: Affan and Dağran. For a time, Mehmet was stationed at the Naval School in Tuzla and was our neighbor there. We hear from them sporadically.

Üsküdar, Apr. 22, 1947. 1st Friend, İlhami. On Apr. 2, 1947, we left Bafra when Gülhis was 50 days old, as we had Arhavi in 1944 when Femsi was 50 days old. We arrived in Uncle Bahri's home in Samsun. Father would leave for Ankara, while Mother, Nazire, Femsi, Gülhis, and I would embark on a ship to İstanbul. We were to stay with Uncle Sabri for a few months, while Father introduced himself for his residency and prepared for us in Ankara. (At about this time, Grandfather Dr. Haşim left Diyarbakır and moved to Aydın.) While we were İstanbul, Vacit surfaced unexpectedly and he and Nazire decided to get married.

The time we spent in Bağlarbaşı until July 1947 was the happiest of my childhood memories, thanks entirely to my cousin İlhami, Uncle Sabri's son and youngest offspring (1940), and my first friend. We played, wrestled, rode his bicycle, climbed the "kestane" (chestnut) and "dut" (mulberry) trees, took long walks, and camped on their terrace. I also got to know my older cousins, the strong Zeki (the oldest son), amiable Kerami (second son), and beautiful Keriman, İlhami's older sister who shares Femsi's characteristics: blond hair, hazel eyes, and the sharpness of mind, though she is not formally educated. Uncle Sabri had also raised an orphan girl by the name of Nazire who was about Keriman's age. She too became an older sister. (Years later, this Nazire married a wealthy Turkish man; some of her children are in the United States.) And, presaging my future, I had my first real infatuation, with the daughter of the next-door neighbor, Emel (Arabic for "Hope"), a beautiful blond girl with a wonderful figure. And she was about my age: 5.

Ankara, July 1947. Father's Residency, our Çiftlik Home. We arrived in Ankara and moved into the new home Father had rented for us. The plush villa belonged to Ferit Avnar, a well-known stage actor. Father prepaid the rent (125 TL per month) for the entire year from the 5,000 TL Parents had accumulated in Bafra. The house was situated in a "çiftlik" (orchard) and had a beautiful garden with many fruit trees. The location, "Orta Ayrancı Bağları" section of Ankara, was a considerable distance from the city in those days. Since Nazire was no longer with us, Mother was afraid to stay alone in a large house with only three little children. And she had not yet learned to cook.

Fehmi's Wedding. Parents asked Hamide hanım, Mother's Cici Anne, to move in with them, giving them a segregated part of the house where they had privacy. This way, Mother had the company of her Cici Anne, her daughter Zekiye, and son Fehmi. (Her older son Muzaffer was married.) And Hamide hanım and her daughter prepared the meals. Zekiye was a widow then, as was Hamide hanım. (Mother had been named after this Zekiye.) Her son Fehmi, a ranking heavyweight wrestler in his youth, now an official with the government, had his wedding in this home. On one occasion, Mr. Avnar, the landlord, brought over some friends for a party in the garden. Mother met them briefly and, in her excitement, uttered the words "the garden is so beautiful that we always "otluyoruz" (graze) there, instead of "oturuyoruz" (sit) there. She was terribly embarrassed.

As for me, I began to practice what I became in adult life: an adventurer. Once, I stepped into a bus headed for the city. At the destination, the bus driver noticed me sitting there all alone. He must have asked me where I embarked on my trip, for the bus brought me back to that station. I arrived home and received a good spanking from my terrified parents. Mother says that often I was totally naked when I ran away from home to the bus station.

Gülhis' Accident, Aug. 1947. One day in Aug. 1947, Mother left Gülhis, who was about six months old then, in her swing, to attend to something else. The swing was a hammock-like contraption tied to two screws on opposing walls. Gülhis fell out and, on her way down, hit her head on the edge of the table below the swing, severe enough to slightly distort the shape of her head. I remember Father straightening her head, literally squeezing and massaging it between his hands.

Mother has Typhoid, Sep. 1947. Then, Mother fell ill of typhoid. Since Father was doing his residency at the hospital, our care became an imminent concern. This is when we met some of the finest people in our past. Gülhis was taken by a childless couple who were originally from Arhavi. Femsi and I were taken by Sadettin and Bedia who were now also in Ankara.

By happenstance, Rıza dayı became ill in Arhavi. He came to us to await an operation, before he was moved into the hospital. Mother's illness was so severe that she too had to be taken to the hospital, so that Father could care for her. She stayed at the hospital for 40 days. Things could not have been easy for Father. He was on call at night, visited Mother and other patients during the day, had to check on Rıza dayı, came to see Femsi and me, and then traveled across the city to check on Gülhis.

Nazım bey and Emine hanım took care of Gülhis for 40 days when Mother was ill. One day, Gülhis began to cry for no apparent reason and would not stop. Nazım bey and Emine hanım were at a loss about the cause. A neighbor came for a visit and suggested that they release the baby from her "kundak." They unwrapped Gülhis and saw that a bee had stung her bottom. ("Kundak" is a material made of cotton, in the shape of a tablecloth, that Turkish mothers fold into a triangular shape to wrap babies like a mummy, to keep them immobilized and out of trouble. It is no longer used in the cities.)

"The Patient's Father is Here." When Nazire heard that Mother was ill, she came from İstanbul and brought Femsi and me to our home. Mother had told Father not to contact her father. Grandfather, Cici Anne, and Zehra had moved from Aydın to İstanbul, at about the same time we left Uncle Sabri in İstanbul to join Father in Ankara. When Nazire came to Ankara to take care of us, Vacit visited Grandfather and told him about Mother's illness. Grandfather came to Ankara and visited Mother at the hospital. This was the first time Mother was seeing her father since 1943, when he had briefly visited his family in Lâleli to announce that he had been transferred to Diyarbakır. Mother was in a semi-coma state when the door to her room opened. She heard a voice saying "hanımın babası burada" (the lady's father is here). Mother, who adored her father, was delighted and saddened.

Grandfather left after a few days. (This visit opened the door for us to stay with him a few months later, a sorry experience.) Mother began to recover. The chief doctor, Dr. Rüştü, was a strict supervisor. On one occasion, when Mother was recovering but still ill, he saw her taking a few steps in the corridor. He admonished Father for not looking after Mother, for allowing her to walk. Finally Mother came home. Then it was Father's turn. He too came down with typhoid and spent a week in the hospital.

Neclâ with us, Dec. 1947. In Dec. 1947, Nazire returned to İstanbul. Mother asked Aunt Naciye for her daughter Necla, so that she could take care of us while Mother recovered. Necla was 17 then and beautiful like a movie star. This is how she became a part of our family. She was our older sister until her marriage in 1953.

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Lice. Selâmi, Uncle Bahri's oldest son, and Münir, another close family member whom we met more meaningfully in Samsun, were doing their military duties in Ankara when we were there. Both of them visited us often. With them came lice. (I do remember Necla using her fingernails to crack them in my hair.) On one occasion, Asuman and Belkıs, Mother's friends from Merzifon, stopped by. I whispered to them: "Anneme söylemeyin dediğimi ama biz bitlendik" (don't tell Mother I told you, but we have lice).

"Ankaralı" Necmiye. For as long as I remember, Mother has referred to her friend Necmiye as "Ankaralı Necmiye" (Necmiye from Ankara), presumably to pinpoint her from other Necmiyes, e.g., Aunt Naciye's oldest daughter. This Necmiye was one of the nicest Celâyirs. She was Osman dayı's youngest offspring and Sadettin's sister, the same Sadettin whom Mother had married to Bedia in Bafra. Mother and Necmiye were about the same age. When Mother lived in Giresun, Necmiye and her family were nearby in Ordu. They knew each other also from Kulakkaya.

In 1928 or 1929, Necmiye's older sister Bedriye, who was about 17 then, married Nafız Kurt, a man beloved by everyone in Arhavi. He was a high official in the personnel section of the Department of Transportation in Ankara. In this position, he was able to help many Lâz families with jobs in the government. Until Bedriye's wedding, Osman dayı and his family lived in Ordu. Then the family, including son Sadettin and Necmiye, moved together to an apartment in Ankara. Sadettin moved out after his marriage. Necmiye attended the İsmet Paşa Girls' Art School in Ankara. In those days, art in Turkey consisted almost entirely of needlework, carpet making, pottery, and fashion design. Necmiye was very gifted. Upon graduation, she became seamstress to the high society in Ankara, mostly friends of her sister Bedriye who was a socialite.

Mother and Necmiye grew very close during our stay in Ankara. Father took care of Necmiye's parents' health problems, Necmiye made clothes for Mother. (Her father, Osman dayı, died in our home in Samsun in 1950 or 1951.) When Mother was ill with typhoid and needed a presentable nightgown for the hospital, Necmiye brought her one. A few years later, when we became high society in Samsun, Necmiye became Mother's seamstress. We visited her every time we came to Ankara. Mother stayed in touch with her after we moved to America.

Necmiye married late, twice, briefly each time. Both of her marriages were unhappy. Bad luck followed her in other ways. She lost one breast to mastectomy. Sometime in the 1970s, Necmiye purchased a small apartment in Kadıköy and moved to İstanbul. When we left Turkey in 1992, Necmiye was on her own, not a desirable circumstance in Turkey at her age. Compulsively clean, she was also somewhat of a recluse. Until her death in 1995, Mother called her often and occasionally sent her vitamins.

İstanbul. with Grandfather, entering 1948. Father's pay was 250 TL per month during his residency. Parents had used part of the 5,000 TL they had accumulated in Bafra to prepay the rent for our home. Early in 1948, Uncle Sabri's glassware shop in İstanbul burned down. He and his family were desperate. So were we, but Father sent him 2,000 TL, about all the money Parents had in their possession. Our rent was due but we had no money. So in June, Father took leave from the hospital, purchased a motorcycle, and left for Arhavi to earn some money there quickly. He opened an office in Rıza dayı's house. Mother, Necla, and three of us left for İstanbul to stay with Grandfather, Cici Anne, and Zehra in Lâleli. Father sent Mother 100 TL per month for Mother to give to her father, for rent and our upkeep.

We stayed there three months, three very difficult months for Mother. To recuperate from the heaviness she felt, Mother brought us to Uncle Sabri's home on weekends. On one occasion, she started to cry in the presence of Uncle Sabri and his wife Münevver and talked about her unhappiness at her father's place. Uncle Sabri, a good man, invited us to his home, but his wife canceled the offer. It was time for Father to return to Ankara to complete his residency. We had to remain in İstanbul, because Father could not find a landlord who was willing to rent him a home for a wife and four children, Necla included. The school year had already started. A few days before we returned to Ankara, Mother enrolled me in the grade school in Bağlarbaşı, the same one my cousin İlhami attended.

Zwart, our Dentist, and Bercuhi. When Mother was in school in Üsküdar, she had befriended two Armenian girls: Zwart and Bercuhi. They had been close friends then. So when we were with Grandfather, Mother decided that we needed dental care. Zwart was a dentist now. Mother took us to Zwart to attend to our teeth, including Mother's. Zwart knew Mother did not have money and gave her services free.

Although I saw Zwart again when I was in school in İstanbul from 1953 to 1958, my more recent encounters with her began in the summer of 1973, when I arrived in İstanbul with my second wife Gayle. I had a problem with my wisdom tooth and came to see Zwart. Gayle also received treatment. We also met Zwart's daughter Ani. Zwart had married late and Ani was only about 16. Then, from 1976 to 1980, when I was employed in Saudi Arabia, I often stopped in İstanbul for a few days. I made a point of at least calling Zwart on the phone, though I also visited her several times and brought presents.

In 1980 or so, Ani came to the States to visit a relative in New York. She met a 45-year-old Turkish engineer who asked her for marriage. Ani accepted. They married soon thereafter. Zwart was perturbed that her daughter had married so abruptly and a much older man. After Zwart's husband died, she liquidated her assets and came to the States to be with her daughter and several grandchildren. She grew unhappy in the States and sought reprieve in İstanbul, leaving about $20,000 in her account at the Chemical Bank in New York. Then she began to suffer from manic depression and needed treatment. She encountered all sorts obstacles closing her account in New York and transferring the balance to İstanbul.

Bercuhi took charge of Zwart's affairs. She did not want to tell the problem with the account to Ani, for fear that Ani and her husband might keep the money, when Zwart needed it for her care. In May 1989, Bercuhi contacted me in Washington. Since I had no authority over Zwart's account, and I was no relative, it took me several weeks to resolve the problem and have the money wired to Turkey. (Indeed, I finally told the vice president in charge that I would contact the Banking Committee in the Congress and write complaint letters to the papers if he dragged his feet any longer.)

In July 1989, Parents and I visited Bercuhi. Together we came to see Zwart. She was staying at the La Pas French retirement home in İstanbul then and was no longer coherent, a doctor I had known almost all my life. Zwart died soon after our visit. Early in the 1990s, Mother told me that Ani and her husband had decided to return to Turkey.

Ankara (2nd Time), Oct. 1948. Mother was very unhappy in the hostile environment of her father's home in İstanbul, so much so that we left İstanbul and came to Ankara even before Father could secure a place for us. Finally, after an arduous search, Father found an apartment.

Muzaffer and Hediye. In the interim, we stayed three weeks with Muzaffer and his wife Hediye (Gift). Their home was heated by central heating, which the government had built into the homes it provided for its employees. So we were warm. Muzaffer, the older son of Mother's Cici Anne Hamide hanım, was a senior official with the Government. His wife Hediye was the orphan girl his uncle had adopted and raised. Because of his choice of bride, Muzaffer's family was not on speaking terms with him. Parents, who are infinitely tolerant of such things, had maintained contact with Muzaffer and his wife. Now they became friends when we needed them.

In 1953 and 1954, when I was in school in İstanbul, I visited Muzaffer and Hediye on several occasions at their home in Beyoğlu, then the plushest part of İstanbul. I found Hediye very attractive. As to Hamide hanım's family, Fehmi died years ago. We lost touch with his family and Muzaffer's.

Muzaffer's sister Zekiye was 13 years older than Mother. She was about 47 when we last saw her in our home in Samsun in 1952. She stayed with us 28 days, when she was dying of bone cancer. I remember the lady as a relatively tall and slender person with short curly hair. Parents cared for her meticulously. Father studied her x-rays and knew there was nothing he could do about her condition. I also remember the films. The bone material in her skull and chest area were dissipating, there were dozens of tiny holes all over her skull. Her condition was so severe that she had difficulty taking nourishment. Father went out to restaurants and inns to purchase "meze," a popular Turkish platter with a variety of delectable appetizers, so that she would eat something.

Her condition continued to deteriorate. Father suggested that if there were a treatment, she could obtain it only at a major hospital in İstanbul. He had told this to her when she first arrived, but the only place in İstanbul where she could have stayed was with her brother Muzaffer, whom she and her family had shunned since his marriage. Eventually she accepted Father's advice and left for her brother's home. She died soon after that.

Sirman in 1st Grade. The tiny apartment Father finally found for us in Ankara rented for 125 TL per month. It was located in the Doktoroğlu Apartments on Meşrutiyet Street in Kızılay, which is, together with Kavaklıdere, the most desirable section of Ankara. I was accepted at the Mimar Kemâl Grade School, because I had already started school in İstanbul. Our apartment was cold. So while I attended school, Necla took Femsi to the home of Ankaralı Necmiye, so that at least she and Femsi would be warm. Mother stayed at home and took care of Gülhis.

Father, Radiologist. May 1949. Father completed his residency and became a "röntgen mütehassısı" (radiologist). Parents wanted to move to İzmir (on the Aegean Sea), to start anew away from father's family. On the other hand, they had spent their entire lives on the Black Sea and did not feel secure enough to move so far away from family and known places. The decisive factor was that Parents had no money to start on their own. Uncle Bahri told them he would help if they moved to Samsun, not İzmir, presumably to make sure he got his money back.

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Vali (Mayor) Fahri bey and Nafiye hanım. Vali Fahri bey and his wife Nafiye hanım were two angelic people who crossed our paths when Parents needed help desperately. "Vali" (mayor) Fahri bey was the brother of Mother's "Cici Baba," Hamide hanım's husband, a member of the very fine Sohtaşi clan in Arhavi. He had served as the mayor of a town in the east; then, he and his wife, who was from an elite family, had retired in Ankara. Father had taken care of their health needs while he was doing his residency. Now Parents needed money to embark on their trip to Samsun and to get settled there.

Father went to Fahri bey and asked him if he could lend him money. Nafiye hanım left the room and brought back loose money on her apron. She said this is all they had. Father counted 3,000 TL, a substantial sum in those days. Parents paid the loan within two years, without interest, as it was the custom in Turkey then. When Parent's situation improved a few years later, they also helped family and friends, frequently by outright grants, or loans on a "pay when you can" basis, also without interest.

To Samsun, May 28, 1949. We left Ankara on May 28 and arrived in Samsun on May 29, 1949. Nothing in our lives had gone smoothly so far and this trip was no exception. While in school, I had brought home every conceivable childhood disease, also infecting my sisters. (I also remember that dreadful day in class, and the laughter, and the calm look on the face of our lady teacher, when I got up from my seat, one I occupied with two others, me in the middle, to go to the bathroom, after I "peed" in my pants.) Femsi had recently recovered from measles, but Gülhis was just breaking out when we embarked on this long trip. On account of her illness, Parents could not take public transportation. So they rented a taxi. Father and I sat in front; Mother sat in the back holding Gülhis in her lap. Necla sat to her left, leaning her head on Mother's shoulder, as she suffered from travel sickness. Femsi slept to the right of Mother, her head on Mother's knee.

We arrived at Uncle Bahri's house and stayed there about a week or ten days. Our cousin Saffet, who is two years older than I, and his older sister Aysel were having chicken pox. Of course, we had to have the same. Later, my sisters and I had whooping cough. Gülhis was so afraid of my (and her own) cough that when it came, she would crawl to Mother, saying "öksü geliyor, öksü geliyor" (cough is coming, cough is coming), where she could pronounce only the first part of "öksürük."

Epilogue. In 1978, when I was in Riyadh, I became close friends with an Irish engineer by the name of Shenagher. About a year later, his wife Nora was allowed to come for a visit. She was an attractive woman in her 30s. One day, I saw her sitting alone in the lobby of the hotel. We talked. One thing led to another and soon she was talking about her life. She said: "we married when I was young and soon I was pregnant. Then I was pregnant again, and again. Already at age 23, I had to take care of three babies; my life was decided for me. I love my husband, but I don't know if I would do it again . . ."

Apparently this wisdom of loading women with babies immediately after marriage is a universal urge for men. All too often, this is also a way of insuring that women have no second thoughts, no other viable options. A moment's impulse and the paths of several people, even generations, are plotted in concrete. This is how for the majority of marriages, especially in the developing world, "family" often became self-enslavement for adults, men too, and cruelty to children who had no say in this.

I extended these thoughts also to our history. In June 1940, when Father graduated from medical school, he was a penniless doctor. Even pushing aside the 4 years of service obligation he had to the government, immediately after graduation he had to enlist for 2 years of military service. Meanwhile, Mother's weak health had supposedly prevented her from continuing her education at the university and pursuing a career. Yet, her constitution was strong enough to survive enormously strenuous conditions for a dozen years, and with three children . . .

Mother had graduated in 1938. She could have recuperated for several months or even a year, and then enrolled at the university. In 1938, her father had not deserted her yet; her Cici Anne lived in Fatih. The opportunity was there. Other Turkish women were diligently pursuing careers. Already in 1935, there were 16 women members of the Turkish Parliament. With her sharp mind, Mother could have started any degree program. By 1942 or 1943, she would have finished her degree, and Father would have completed his military service. This is when they should have married.

Such an obvious plan would have made an enormous difference in our lives. Getting a position would not have been a problem for Mother. Her friend Belkıs' husband, her cousin Bedriye's husband, and her cousins Muzaffer and Sadettin were ideal contacts for a position in the government. Mother could have lived in Ankara and helped Father from there during his national service. This arrangement would have also enhanced Father's chances of being stationed in or near Ankara, instead of Godforsaken places, at least for part of the 4 years. Rather than pursuing such a sensible plan, from 1943 to 1949, really to 1952, Parents, both of whom are educated and bright, had doomed themselves to live like refugees.

Under the transient and difficult circumstances in which Parents lived, they had to assume unbelievable burdens and work unending hours to take care of themselves and us. They had little or no time for themselves and survived as much by chance as grit. It seemed to me that much of the human misery was voluntary. People blindly subscribed to populist prescriptions of happiness, pining to fulfill a primordial urge: they must be married soonest, regardless of their situation, and propagate their genes soonest, even if their decision condemned them and their children often to lifelong servitude and misery. In a two-hour movie this idiocy evoked romantic notions, for those who made it. But what would have happened to Mother, loaded with me and pregnant with Femsi, if Father had died of typhus in Erzurum in Jan. 1944?

In 1953, when I was 11, Grandfather came to school to take me home on a weekend. We took a bus. We were standing in the aisle, when the driver suddenly hit the breaks and Grandfather fell to the floor. Sitting there, he looked up at me for help. I glanced at him but did not move. I watched him struggle to get up on his feet, the way Mother had . . .

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5. Samsun Years, May 29, 1949 to Jan. 1958

Palimpsest. With Samsun, a city of about 60,000 people then, came the promise of a better future. To be sure, until about 1952 Parents had too many loans for comfort and tranquility, but Father was making lots of money and we had a stable address. Time would take care of the rest, was their thinking. We could begin to invest in our future, without interruptions as in previous years. Uncle Bahri spoke to Father about a Dr. İbrahim who had a X-ray machine for sale. Father purchased it for 20,000 TL, a very large debt in those days. Since the doctor was leaving, we moved into the same four-story building he vacated on the Mecidiye Street, overlooking this busiest commercial thoroughfare in Samsun. We lived there until 1958, when we migrated to America.

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The building belonged to the Kefeli family, the wealthiest in the city. It was divided into two large units, ours was the eastern half, about 35 feet wide. The other side was an office. A car dealer occupied the street-level floor. Father's office was on the second floor, the residential part on the third and fourth floors. That this building also became our home happened by default. It was an ideal location for an office but not suitable as a dwelling. However, Mr. Hayri Kefeli was renting all three floors together. Father did not want to pay for three floors, use only one, and also rent a home for us. And this home-office arrangement was convenient for him.

We reached Father's office and our residence from steps on a side street: Şafak "sokak." (A large street is "cadde," a smaller one or a side-street, usually paved with cobblestones, is "sokak.") From Mecidiye to the steps was about 40 feet, the length of our home. (So our home-office was 3 stories times about 35 by 40 feet = 4,200 sq.ft, 2,800 sq.ft of it our residence.) The outside steps led to a patio, where the first entry on the left was ours, the second, a few feet away, belonged to our neighbor, an office. On the other side, there was a large curtained window with iron grills in front, hiding a room in Dr. Suavi's office; Dr. Enver occupied the floor above him.

Our entry opened to a corridor that was about 10 feet long. The wall on the right separated us from the other office; on the left were the steps to our residence. They started where the corridor met the anteroom for patients. Since the patients often filled the waiting room, the corridor, and the patio outside, we had to filter through them to reach the steps. Father's office, the x-ray room, and a bathroom for patients were on this floor. Unfortunately, so were our kitchen, though we moved it upstairs later, and another bathroom where we also took baths.

About half-way to the second floor, above the main entry, the steps led to a platform that extended about 4 feet to the left. From there they turned left and continued, next to the wall that separated us from our neighbor, to another platform and directly to the entry to our main living quarters. This platform extended about 6 feet to the left and led to another bathroom. The steps continued to the left of the bathroom. After a third platform to the right, they continued to the third floor. The first and second platforms were like two cozy interior balconies, though we did not use them as such.

The entry on the second floor led to our den that extended to the front room, the two separated by folding doors. The front room faced to the Mecidiye Street. This is where we entertained formally, including piano and violin recitals a few years later. The master bedroom was to the left of the front room, over the x-ray room. There was another bedroom next to the master bedroom and to the left of the den. We converted the second bedroom to a kitchen, since the kitchen downstairs was inconvenient. However, we also kept a twin bed there against the wall along the entry. Indeed, all rooms also doubled as bedrooms and camping sites for floor mattresses. We had a round wood stove in the den that kept us warm in winter, where we studied, and around which we listened to gossip when we had visitors from distant villages. The third floor was only an attic, which we later converted to a dormitory with three beds. This was a haphazard arrangement, but in view of our austere past, the place felt like a palace to us, at least until about 1952.

The neighborhood was lively. We were in the middle of a laissez faire' habitat, surrounded by every imaginable establishment within one or two blocks: barbers, tailors, groceries, vegetables, fruit, dairy products, meat, pastry, fresh bread (where they baked them), candy, clothing material, books, gold and jewelry, cars, and several good restaurants, tea houses, and cafes. Diagonally across from our front room, to the left on Mecidiye Street, was the "Yapi ve Kredi Bankası" (Building and Credit Bank). The other corner was occupied by an office and school supplies store. Also directly across from us, on Şafak sokak, there was a radio shop where I listened to Paul Anka's Diane in the early 1950s. A furniture store, where they actually made and sold them, was next to the radio shop. Cemil dayı's apparel store was on Mecidiye, about 40 yards from us to the west. There were even two lumber shops and a place where they molded huge blocks of copper in blast furnaces dug in the ground, on the way to our grade school which was only three blocks away. Some of our family friends lived within one block, several within two blocks.

Father, the chief Doctor at the "Belediye." Father was the chief doctor at the Municipal Health Department ("Belediye"). His pay started at 60 TL per month, increased to 80 TL later. (He had served in a similar capacity at the Regional Health Departments in Ünye and Erzurum, which were Federal entities, and at the Municipal Health Department in Bafra.) Father worked there until about 2 or 3 p.m. and then came to his office. He did not like this job. His coworkers were inefficient and he was burdened with bureaucratic hassles. Moreover, he had huge loans to pay. Since he was absent from his office until the afternoon, he was losing patients to his competitors. Father resigned once but was persuaded to cancel his resignation. He did quit his position in 1951, after about two years, to devote himself entirely to his own practice. (As luck would have it, Father was told by a friend in 1981 that if he had worked there an additional month or so before quitting, he would have been entitled to a pension. Father's only pension came through his employment in America.)

Muharrem bey and Fatma hanım. Father had to borrow considerable sums of money to finance his practice in Samsun. In addition to the 3,000 TL he had borrowed from Vali Fahri bey in Ankara, he had received 3,500 TL from his brother. Moreover, under an arrangement that Uncle Bahri had worked out with a local investor, a Muharrem bey, Father owed this man 8,000 TL. Muharrem bey was originally from Rize, a town east on the Black Sea. According to the rumors, he had murdered someone in Rize, somehow escaped punishment, and settled down in Samsun. He and his wife Fatma hanım were childless. They lived off the interest they earned from their loans to local merchants.

The deal Uncle Bahri had worked out was criminal. Muharrem bey had been earning about 150 TL per month interest on his 8,000 TL he lent to Father. Uncle Bahri had persuaded Muharrem bey to loan this sum to Father, with the understanding that Father would pay him 200 TL interest per month for life. That is, Father would always owe the principal and pay 200 TL per month interest ad infinitum. Among the Lâz, a younger brother is normally expected to honor a deal his older brother makes on his behalf. Father was stuck with this arrangement for more than three years, until he, with persistent backing from his friend Dr. Ali Turgut Kabalak, finally dissolved the agreement.

Uncle Bahri and Muharrem bey were outraged that Father had dared to break the deal. After some turbulence and commotion, Father persevered, but with a proviso that ratcheted up the pressure on Parents. Uncle Bahri was adamant that Father pay off his loan to him first. So except for the amount we needed for our living expenses, Father gave him all his income, which caused a mayhem in Father's other loans. I still remember the periodic agony Parents experienced under his hard-edged pressure. By 1952, Father had paid off the loan from his brother. Muharrem bey exited our lives after collecting 7,000 TL interest and his 8,000 TL principal. It was fortunate that Father was earning substantial sums of money. I do remember him hurrying up the stairs one afternoon to announce to Mother that he had already made 1,000 TL that day.

Years later, I reviewed Father's interaction with his brother and I could see only 3 occasions when Uncle Bahri had been really helpful: 1) when he had Father assigned to Bafra, 2) when he had found for Father an opening for his residency, and 3) when Parents stayed with them when they had no place to stay. Every other experience, also their stays, had cost Father dearly, including the 2 years he lost in school. One wonders if Uncle Bahri sometimes tried to trip his brother to make sure that Father did not surpass him . . .

Subashı Grade School. In Sep. 1949, I enrolled in the second grade at the Subashı Grade School in Samsun. It was an excellent school, but one attended also by "mahalle çocukları" (lower-class boys and girls). Often Father was so angry with his brother that he kept me away from my cousin Saffet. So instead of going to the grade school that Saffet and most children attended, we ended at Subaşı. This was not a problem for my sisters; it was for me. There was a rowdy bunch of kids in my class who must have appealed to my temperament. We fought constantly and, from 1950 through 1951, I participated with them in all-out street fights and sling shot wars against boys from other neighborhoods. Because of these dubious memories, I was glad to be out of Samsun in 1953.

The teachers were superb. Niyazi bey was my teacher during the second grade. İlhan hanım, who looked a lot like actress Gina Lollobrigida, replaced him for the remaining three years. She was also Gülhis' teacher for five years; Semahat hanım was Femsi's teacher. (We located İlhan hanım, her daughter, and her sister in İstanbul in 1990 and spent a very pleasant afternoon together. She was a widow then, and still attractive.)

Turkish Cuisine. The Turkish cuisine is as elaborate as the French, Italian, and Chinese menus. Like their Italian, French, and Latin counterparts, the Turkish people prepare and savor food as if this were a celebration, almost as ceremoniously as Thanksgiving or Christmas in America. That they may be sacrificing a few years from the end of their lives, for indulging in rich food, is all right as far as the Turks are concerned. For the alternative would make no sense to them: to add 5 or 10 years to the end of one's life, by denying good eating for decades. Despite such indulgence, many people reach the age that is comparable to the average in America. However, families have begun to make adjustments. Since the 1970s, people have learned to substitute beef for lamb, for lamb dishes are traditionally prepared with more fat content for taste. Smoking has also declined appreciably, as perhaps also the consumption of dairy products.

Eating habits were not an issue when we were growing up in Samsun. Every morning we had a full breakfast of "taze ekmek" (oven-fresh bread), "yağ" (butter), "yumurta" (eggs), "beyaz peynir" (feta cheese), "kaşar peyniri" (like provolone), "zeytin" (olives), "pastırma" (like pastrami), "sucuk" (hard, spiced sausage), different "reçel" (preserves), and hot "çay" (tea). (Pastırma is purchased in thin slices cut off blocks of cured meat covered all around by a quarter-inch-thick paste of very hot red peppers.) The lunch was an elaborate but informal banquet of several dishes. As for dinner, the Turkish people almost always go out on summer nights: to an "açık hava sineması" (an open-air theater where they can eat and watch a movie), "lokâl" (an open-air club where they can dance and eat), "lokanta" (restaurant), or a "gazino" (an open-air restaurant where they can eat and be entertained by live music or a show). And there are mobile vendors selling all sorts of delectables.

In winters, we stayed home on weekends. Early Sunday morning, Mother, Necla, and our maid prepared "pide." (These are flat dough pieces that are about two feet long and three inches wide. They are filled either with ground lamb mixed with onions and herbs, or feta cheese mixed with butter and parsley. The sides of the pide are wrapped over the filling and pinched closed.) The women placed about a dozen of these on large round trays which we took to the bakery half-a-block away. There they shoved the tray into an open-fire hearth for about 10 to 15 minutes, until the pide turned light brown on the outside, chewy crisp inside. Within minutes, they were spread on our breakfast table and rapidly devoured, accompanied by hot çay.

Feasts: Ramadan, Sugar Feast, "Sacrifice" Feast. Ramadan (Ramazan in Turkish) is the name of a month in Arabic. Since the Arabic calendar follows the lunar calendar, each month begins about 10 to 11 days earlier the following year by the Western calendar. (Although Turkey has been using the Western calendar since 1923, it continues to observe the Arabic calendar on religious occasions.) This is a time when almost all Turkish households abstain from eating, drinking, smoking, and sex during the day--sunrise to sunset--for the entire month. Children, sick people, and travelers are exempt from this tradition; "modern" Turks do not participate. The hours before the sunrise represent the last opportunity for indulgence. So cities, towns, villages, and households are sprinkled with light at these early hours when people prepare and consume delectable food before the sun rises.

Ramadan leads directly to one of the happiest feasts in Turkey: the "Şeker Bayramı" (Sugar Feast). After a month of abstinence, people indulge in food and celebration. All homes prepare the most delectable Turkish dishes and sweets for this occasion. Relatives and friends visit each other; goodwill saturates the air. And two months and ten days after the Sugar Feast it is the occasion of the "Kurban Bayramı" (Sacrifice Feast). This is when almost all families butcher a sheep and offer it as a sacrifice.

When my sisters and I were growing up in Samsun, shepherds from neighboring villages brought their flock to the market in the city. The backs of the sheep selected for sacrifice were painted in pastel colors: pink, yellow, green, red . . . The sight of flocks of sheep coming from the mountains, hills, and valleys was something to behold. As custom dictates, the person who does the cutting faces the sheep southeast toward Mecca--the same way religious people do the mihrab of a prayer rug when they pray on it. This person may be someone from the family, or a professional "throat-cutter" (I presume) who does it for a fee. The most delectable meat dishes in Turkey are prepared on this occasion, including broiled sheep's head, a delicacy in Turkey.

On one occasion late in the 1970s or early in the 1980s, it was Ramazan and Parents were in Tuzla. They decided to drive to Arhavi, taking the coastal route from İstanbul. After visiting with Cemil dayı and his family in Akçakoca, they passed the city of Zonguldak, the coal center of Turkey, where Mother's cousin Orhan had worked in the early 1950s. After Zonguldak, the road turned inland, then back to the coast. Parents passed through the scenic towns of Amasra, Abana, Çetalzeytin, and Sinop (the most northerly city on the Turkish mainland) and arrived in Samsun.

They spent the night there and visited a few old friends the next day. Continuing their trip leisurely through Ünye, Ordu, Giresun, Trabzon, Rize, and Hopa, they arrived in Arhavi at midnight, on the day of the Sugar Feast. Everyone but Saadet, Uncle Cevat's second (of 3) daughter, was already in bed. She was making a dress for Canan, her younger sister. Everyone woke up and the celebration began. (This is one of the advantages of living in a "developing country." Life is unstructured, customs are timeless.)

Baklava. After watching the Lâz women prepare Baklava, I decided that Baklava is created, not made: it emerges, much like a sculpture. As a start, the ingredients call for 25 to 40 layers of paper-thin dough leaves. A handful of dough is first pressed by hand into a "pide" that looks like pizza bread. An "oklava" (a yard-long rolling rod of about an inch in diameter) is then used on a large table, that is spread with flour to prevent sticking, to roll the dough larger and thinner. The way an experienced hand works this magic is a sight to behold. Unlike the Italian pizza bread that can be whirled by hand, here the circular layer is about a yard in diameter and paper thin. In those days, this was the only way these layers could be prepared, fresh on the spot.

These layers are placed in a huge round tray with 2 to 3-inch sides. The individual layers are smeared with molten butter to add flavor, and to prevent them from cracking in the oven. Additives consist of a combination of pistachios, walnuts, and hazelnuts that are baked and then beaten into a fine grain size. (In the old days, people used round fist-size stones from the seashore for this purpose.) The nut mix, as also the syrup, is prepared a day earlier to divide the time. The additive is then spread on every third layer (of a 25-layer baklava), or the fifth layer (of a 40-layer baklava), and the next layer is put on top of that.

Then the baklava is cut diagonally at about 1.5 to 2-inch intervals to produce rhombic servings. The tray is shoved into the oven and baked until the top layer is light brown and the bottom layer is not burned. The tray is removed from the oven and this is when the baklava is saturated with very sweet cold syrup of sugary water, which may also include some spices. The idea here is not to serve a soggy or chewy baklava, but a relatively dry baklava that is uniformly sweet and dissolves in the mouth. So the quantity of the syrup poured, its sweetness, and how evenly the syrup saturates the various layers, which is a function of the diagonal cuts and how the syrup is poured, must be judged carefully. Suffice it to say that a good baklava is truly a culinary artwork.

Hürriyet. "Hürriyet" (Independence) was the name of a remarkable man we met in Samsun, a communist who was shunned by the establishment. He was an electrical genius. Five or six months after we arrived in Samsun, we met a major calamity. The X-ray tube on Father's machine was kaput, the equipment was useless. Someone told Father that he should see Hürriyet. They met and Father had a live insurance policy. Because of Parent's hospitable and unprejudiced ways, this man grew very close to us. If Father needed help, Hürriyet dropped whatever he was doing and came. Father purchased a new tube for 4,000 TL; Hürriyet installed it.

Hürriyet was more than a friend. Our 20,000 TL machine was old and needed service almost continuously. An x-ray machine in those days occupied an entire room, with dozens of thick cables protruding from all sides. And the electric service in Samsun was not reliable. Voltage fluctuations, service interruptions, and outages were taking their toll. Father and Hürriyet spent many a night in the x-ray room, fixing something, while we waited anxiously upstairs. Our livelihood depended on this man as much as the equipment itself. He helped with the old machine and then with the Siemens Father purchased for 55,000 TL in 1952. (The Dollar was worth about 3 TL then.) It was the best of its kind in Turkey.

We lost touch with Hürriyet after 1958, when we moved to America. In the 1970s, Hürriyet and his family were living in Foça, a village near İzmir. Word got around that a Dr. Cavit Celayir had a home in Tuzla, that he came there every summer. One day, Parents had a wonderful surprise: Hürriyet and his family visited them. Parents asked them to stay and they renewed their friendship. And in 1981, when Parents were vacationing in Turkey, they came to İzmir to see Hatçe, the orphan girl who had grown up with Mother. From there, they drove to Foça and spent two nights with Hürriyet and his family. Then they continued to Bergama, the site of Pergamum, which is almost as spectacular as the Ephesus also in this area. (Ephesus is the site of an ancient Greek city, with its temple dedicated to Artemis, Roman Diana, and a favorite stopover of Saint Paul.)

The Electric Motor. Father's medical practice demanded reliable electric service. So we were at the mercy of the Department of Electricity. Once, the electric service was cut for three weeks, at a time when we were loaded with debts and Uncle Bahri and Muharrem bey insisted on payments. So Father spent 3,000 TL to purchase a large electric generator that operated on gasoline. He placed it outside on the patio, next to our entrance. The "pot pot" sound the motor made became quite a curiosity. Neighbors, even other doctors, came by and watched it work. When Father purchased his Siemens x-ray machine, he gave the electric motor to his brother Cevat.

Our First Car. The Turks are a restless lot. They love to be on the go, to travel, to see places. In the early 1950s, only the very rich could afford a private car. The main deterrent was not the price of the car; rather, good service stations were rare and maintenance costs were prohibitive. So people did not want to take a chance owning a car. They rented taxis instead, if they wanted to go to distant places. For short trips in the city, we used the "payton," an elaborate horse buggy. We traveled by taxi to charming villages, such as Çarşamba (on the way Ordu), Alaçam (a village west of Bafra), and often to our picnic spots in Derbent and Matosyon.

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Once, when we were returning from Çarşamba, Father asked the driver to let him drive the car. The driver did. Alas, when Father was passing a truck, he hit it on the rear instead and damaged the car. The driver was near panic from grief, saying repeatedly "what am I going to do now?" Father, being a doctor, solved his problem: he offered to buy the damaged car for 3,000 TL. The truck that was involved in the accident used a rope to pull us to Samsun. The car was repaired and we had our first car. However, we did not use it for long. Father sent a telegram to his brother Cevat, who was having a difficult time making ends meet, with little prospects for a better future. He wanted Cevat to use the car as a taxi in Samsun. Cevat told Father that he would do better in Ankara. He left for Ankara. On the way, he fell asleep and skidded off a bridge. The car was repaired and sold in Ankara. Father received from Cevat 1,500 TL from its sale.

Süleyman Balkan. This man was the antithesis of Muharrem bey. He was a wealthy merchant who had also a car dealership. And he was someone to whom Father could turn to when he was in dire need. Although Süleyman Balkan was a sharp businessman, he was apparently not afraid to follow his instincts when he felt like it. One day, Father walked into his office and, without saying a word, started to stare at the safe behind the counter. This was a time when Father had outstanding loans from Uncle Bahri and Muharrem bey, when he had incurred sizeable additional loans to finance the x-ray machine, the car, our house in the "56 Houses" development, etc. He was in desperate need of money.

Süleyman bey was alone with his manager. He asked Father why he kept looking at the safe. Father responded, in the riddle-like fashion he sometimes speaks, that he wished he had the key to the safe. Sensing the direction of Father's words, Süleyman Balkan asked Father what he would do with the key. Father responded that he would take all the money inside the safe. Süleyman bey asked how much money he needed. Father responded 10,000 TL. Süleyman Balkan asked his manager to write a check for that amount and include in the memo line the words "Bedeli naklen alınmıştır." The words meant "This loan has been repaid in cash," an unbelievably generous gesture. This was a loan, but the words said there was no loan. He gave this huge sum to Father, on his word that he would repay it some day, whenever it was convenient for Father to do so.

About a month or two after this incident Süleyman Balkan passed away. Father found Süleyman Balkan's oldest son, told him about his debt, and gave him the money in cash.

Femsi, the Tom Boy. "Erkek Fatma" literally means "male" Fatma, where Fatma is a woman's name. So it is the American "Tom Boy," a label that was not inappropriate for Femsi. The two of us were very energetic and infinitely mischievous. For example, when our family friends visited us in the evening, we would gently persuade their kids to join us in the bedroom, our favorite playground on these occasions. Then, one of us would hold the kid on the bed, placing a pillow or two over them, while the other jumped on the kid from the top of the heavy clothes closet a few feet away. (If there were no other kids, we practiced on our little sister Gülhis.) Sometimes we would also turn off the electricity and make ghostly or animal-like sounds in the pitch dark room and scare the kids stiff.

Indeed, the children were terrified of us and the first chance they got, they ran away from the room to literally hide behind their mothers' chairs, holding on tight. Since Femsi and I looked so pleasant, the mothers did not understand why their children categorically refused to join us again. We even sent Gülhis to arbitrate for us, but this too did not work. On one such occasion, Femsi, while jumping on a visiting child, missed the kid and hit her leg on the corner of the bed frame. The flesh on her shin was scraped to the bone, blood flowing. (She carries a two-inch scar from this "accident.")

On another occasion, Femsi and I were playing on the (cement) gutters outside the building on the top floor. People on the street and officials in the bank across the street saw us and were terrified. They alerted Father. We heard him race upstairs and hid at a far corner under the roof, next to the pigeons who had their nests there. We remained totally silent. Father searched every corner but could not find us. Since he had patients waiting, he returned to his office. I do not remember if we suffered a good beating for this later, but if not, we did on (many) other occasions. We stopped jumping on the kids because soon all the children knew the score and stayed glued to their parents.

Namaz, Sirman's religious trip. In 1951 or 1952, someone, perhaps Vacit dayı, Cemil dayı's sister Huriye teyze, or the religion class in grade school introduced me to a cycle of religiosity. That is, I did the daily namaz, all 5 of them--morning, noon, afternoon, evening, night--every day. I memorized the prayers and adages in Arabic and then spoke them during the prayer, probably mispronouncing many words.

Moslem prayers require more than verbal participation. First there is the "abdes," the ritualistic cleansing which must be fresh. That is, things like discharging of excess air spoils its purity and the abdes must be repeated. Then, a spot is selected for the prayer rug, facing approximately to Mecca. This spot must be a private location, out of traffic. Then comes the "namaz" in which a perfunctory set of exercises (standing, kneeling, sitting, and touching the forehead to the ground while sitting) is repeated several times, the number depending on the prayer--the time of the day. The words are mumbled during this exercise. The noon prayer on Fridays is the most important "namaz" of all.

Once, when we were driving in our car, near the village of Ilıca, we stopped for a picnic. Cemil dayı's sister Huriye, a very religious woman, was with us. Although Huriye avoided wearing the chador, she always dressed in neutral outfits that revealed nothing, and she covered her hair with a scarf. In contrast, Mother looked modern. It was time for either the noon or afternoon prayer. I prepared myself and then selected the highest ground to perform the prayer, perhaps also to show off. I completed the routine and returned. Mother and Huriye teyze were sitting next to each other on a spread. Mother told me that while I was praying, several village people and travelers had stopped by to compliment Huriye teyze, who had no children, for raising such a wonderful son. I practiced my religiosity during that summer and then stopped, as inexplicably as I started.

Sirman's broken arm. In 1952, Ahmet Kılıççı was one of my closest friends in Samsun. His father was a wealthy merchant in İstanbul and they had an exquisite two-story Mediterranean style summer home across from Subaşı Grade School. It may have been the most attractive property in Samsun in those days, separated from the street by a wall covered with roses and other flowers. The iron gate opened to a large French garden with several ponds and fountains. Steps led to an upper yard with grass, fruit trees, and walls covered by climbing roses. From the French garden, wide baroque steps, decorated along the way with small patios, balconies, flower pots, and flowing water, led in cascading curves to the folding doors on the second floor, to their home. I had a crush on Ahmet's sister Emel (8) who was a year younger. This blond girl, with blue eyes, was a prematurely ripe beauty.

We were in the upper garden; I was on a tree collecting fruit. Just as I was reaching for a fruit on a far branch, the branch on which I was resting my foot broke and I fell head first to the ground. It was my neck or an arm. I instinctively extended my left arm, even though I am right-handed, and landed hard on it before I rolled. My forearm, both the radius and ulna, was broken at an angle. Gingerly, I put my hand in my pants' pocket and Ahmet and I walked home. When we arrived, I announced gently "Anne, don't be afraid, but I broke my arm." Seeing the shape of my arm, Mother became hysterical called Father.

Father took an x-ray of the arm and that evening Dr. Kabalak and Father studied the complex fracture. Then, one held me while the other pulled and set the arm, though not entirely straight. Then, Dr. Kabalak wrapped my arm in a cast. My arm healed with a slight inward twist from this experience, but otherwise it was all right. I broke the same arm again during a gymnastics exercise in Germany about eight years later.

The Clan. In Samsun my sisters and I were old enough to recognize and remember the people we met. We had lived with Uncle Sabri's family in İstanbul already in 1947. They were the first family members distinctly in our memory. We also knew Grandfather Dr. Haşim's family in İstanbul from 1948. In Samsun, we met the rest of the clan. Some of them lived in Samsun, most came for visits. Close family included Cemil dayı and Huriye teyze (Grandmother Safiye's oldest brother Vasıf's son and daughter), Emine and Münir (Great-uncle Esat's son Mustafa's offsprings), Orhan and Metin (Grandmother Safiye's older brother Rıza's sons), and later Rıza's daughters, Harbiye (in Pazar) and Feriha (in Arhavi). Since Uncle Bahri's family lived in Samsun, we had ample time to get to know our cousins from his household.

Things were not always cozy. Now that we had a stable address, the family began to take advantage of Parents' generosity. Perhaps they had to depend on someone, since many of our relatives were poor. Our home often functioned like a hotel, sometimes a combination of hotel-hospital-restaurant. My sisters and I did not know better and cozily anticipated the visitors and the village gossip they brought. Indeed, these visits were cozy, except when Aunt Naciye or Ayşe dropped by. Sometimes they were unpleasant to Mother and she tolerated their presence on account of Father. Perhaps it was the other way around. The aunts felt they were at their brother's home and regarded Mother as the guest.

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Uncle Bahri, who was already a well-established doctor in Samsun, did not share Father's concern for the family. People avoided asking favors of him because of respect for his age and unpredictable temper. And Zehra yenge was not an obliging woman. Indeed, our home turned into a lunchtime restaurant for Uncle Bahri, his sons, and their acquaintances. We were in a state of happy commotion. In addition to the visitors who spent only a night or a weekend, several family members came and stayed for much longer. Some of them died in our home. I surmise Mother often worried about our future in Turkey.

Necmiye and Sirman's puberty. In 1951, Aunt Naciye's oldest daughter Necmiye came to live with us and stayed about a year. Someone was always visiting us in those days, spending the night at our home. The visitors came at all hours. To accommodate them, especially in the summer months when we did not have school, Mother woke us and gave our beds to the guests. In retrospect, this was an outrageous arrangement and surely Mother knew better. However, the visitors were from Father's side of the family. Mother probably felt it was up to Father to set the standards. He did not. He had grown up very poor himself, and some people had helped him. So this was Father's way of making up for past favors, but also to people to whom he owed no favors. Since the beds were taken, this left only the floor mattresses. I had to double with Necla or Necmiye on many occasions. Mother did not consider the fact that, though only 9, I might have reached puberty, that putting me in bed with a delectable girl was not the thing to do.

At about this time, I was also playing doctors with Ülke, a neighbor's daughter who was about a year younger than I. We did this in the attic, away from everyone. So when I thought Necla or Necmiye was asleep, I continued my anatomical explorations. I was fascinated by the fact that these older girls had full breasts, erect nipples, and their pubic area felt shaved, though I did not necessarily expect to find hair there either, for I had none.

Necla was like an older sister and helped me with my classes. She did not want to get me in trouble and did not squeal to Mother. But eventually Necmiye did. One day, I was playing on the street when Mother called me upstairs. Before I understood what was happening, Mother was slapping my face. Apparently what had offended Necmiye was that I had whispered "sevgilim" (darling) to her, while exploring. She kept repeating that it was not appropriate for me to say such things to her. (If I had known this, I would have explored silently.) Be as it may, I grew up to become a promiscuous teenager and adult.

Sometime later, Father asked Necmiye to leave our home, due to an unrelated event. One morning, when we were about to have breakfast, Necmiye wanted to use the hot water in the kettle to wash her hair. Our maid told her that the water would be needed for tea for breakfast. Since petty minds are doomed to think pettily, Necmiye interpreted this as an underhanded trick by which Mother wanted to make her unhappy. She complained to her mother who was visiting. When Mother overheard this outrageous accusation, after having catered to Necmiye for a year, she called Father upstairs. He listened and said to Aunt Naciye and Necmiye, "you have always embarrassed me" and sent them away.

Turkish mothers with eligible sons diligently investigate the personalty traits of prospective brides. While Necmiye's two younger sisters, Necla and Neriman, started families when they were young, Necmiye married very late, to a divorced man with children. Since she was very pretty, we surmise word got around about her querulousness. We saw her again in Tuzla in 1968 and thereafter. Mother greeted her warmly, and she conducted herself the same way. All three sisters came to say goodbye when we left Turkey in 1992, Necla staying with us for a few days.

Orhan. Orhan, Mother's first cousin (Grandmother Safiye's older brother Rıza's older son) had been visiting us on and off for several years even before we settled in Samsun. Parents remember his childhood. In 1938, Mother had helped him prepare his grade school examinations in Arhavi. Later, when he was in high school in Trabzon, Mother had given him some of her books. (She says Orhan lived in a one-room apartment and cooked beans for the entire week in one shot.)

When we moved to Samsun, Orhan was in high school. He came to our home to prepare for his final examinations, when Necla and Necmiye were also staying with us. Apparently Zehra yenge complained to Uncle Bahri about this unseemly arrangement at his brother's home. One day Uncle Bahri barged into Father's office and admonished him for housing a young man when there were also two young girls at his home. Mother had to tell Orhan to leave. He moved to Cemil dayı's home.

Orhan enrolled at the university and graduated as a metallurgical engineer. After doing his military duty, he went to Germany. He returned and joined the government. I remember visiting him once in Zonguldak (on the Black Sea), when he was working as the chief engineer at the coal mining facilities there. In 1958, he married the daughter, Gönül, of a wealthy village landowner.

Orhan has considerable political savvy. He looks distinguished and is sociable. He moved up in the government. Alas, as luck would have it, he worked for his boss, a high-powered political appointee, with such loyalty that when his boss came to disfavor and lost his position in the 1980s, so did Orhan, permanently. Then, his wife developed severe arthritis.

Orhan, his wife, and younger daughter Sibel, an architect, live in the apartment they own off Bağdad Street in Kadıköy, a modern and popular section of İstanbul. They also have a summer home in Antalya on the Mediterranean coast. His son Suat is employed elsewhere. His older daughter Zerrin, about 35 in 1994, is a supervisor at an international bank. She has also all of her father's charm and mother's grit. (Zerrin may have been the most attractive Celâyir woman in the 1980s.) She left her first husband and married a second time in 1990. Orhan visited us in Tuzla every summer, but we did not see him in 1992. A pregnant Zerrin came instead, charming Mother and me with her light sophistication and animated personality. Zerrin, Sibel, and Suat visited us in Miami Beach in Oct. 1996.

Cemil dayı and Saniye yenge. Cemil dayı (Grandmother Safiye's oldest brother Vasıf's son) was an apparel and cloth merchant. He had moved to Samsun in 1939 or 1940 and opened a small shop, "Celâyir Pazarı" (market or store), on "our" (Mecidiye) street. In 1941, Mother and her mother had visited with him in Samsun, when they were on their way to Vezirköprü, seeking shelter from WWII. In 1949, we met him, his overweight and very pleasant wife Saniye yenge, who spoke Turkish with a heavy Lâz accent, his only daughter and the oldest child Bilgin (about a year younger than I), and oldest son Vasıf (a year younger than Femsi). After we moved to America, Bilgin married Hasan (who is an engineer with Koç Holding), Vasıf married Nadire.

Mother says that when we stayed with Uncle Bahri, it was inconvenient for us to take baths there, that we used come to Cemil dayı for this purpose. I remember Saniye yenge washing me in a "leğen" on their back patio. ("Leğen" is a round tray-like contraption of metal of about 3-feet in diameter and 10-inch sides). Mother has also pointed out that I was much more civil in those days, that I thanked Saniye yenge with "elinize sağlık, yenge" ("health to your hands," which is a colloquial way of saying "thank you"). Sons Cezmi (married to Vijdan) and Cihan (married to Sevgi) were born when we were in Samsun. Cemil dayı moved to İstanbul in 1957, just before we migrated to America. His youngest son Hakan was born there.

We have cozy memories with Cemil dayı's family until 1966, when Femsi married an American, not a Turk and Muslim. Cemil dayı could not bring himself to congratulate Femsi. Although we kept in touch after that, some of the warmth between us was gone until about the mid-1980s. When I was in Riyadh, I visited them every time I passed through İstanbul. We were as close as before when Cemil dayı died in 1989, Saniye yenge in 1991. (Of course, all of us, individually, called their children to offer our condolences.) The sons were not able to continue the business. It was terminated sometime in 1991. Vasıf cried on our last day in Turkey. We keep in touch with them.

Emine and Münir. We closely associated with another branch of Celâyirs: Great-uncle Esat's son Mustafa's offsprings, Mother's second cousins. Emine is about two years younger than Mother; her brother Münir was born in 1926. Parents had met Emine and Münir in 1945, when we were living in Bafra. Emine was already a seamstress then. Once Mother needed a gown for a party and Emine made it for her. And we had seen Münir in Ankara in 1946, when he was doing his military service. He had taught me to tell the time on his watch. Their father Mustafa and his brother Osman (Grandmother Safiye and Father's first cousins) were still alive when we arrived in Samsun.

Münir's handwriting was of typeset quality, and he seemed to have a natural talent for drafting. In 1952 or 1953, Father contacted his friend Teyfik İleri, a senior engineer with the Department of Highways, and secured for Münir a position with the department. Father had met Teyfik İleri at the university in İstanbul, where Teyfik was the president of the student body. They had crossed paths again in Erzurum in 1943, when Teyfik İleri was there to give a speech. Teyfik bey thanked Father for his recommendation, when Münir's competence and talent became clear. (In 1951, Teyfik İleri became a congressman from Samsun.)

Parents helped Emine and Münir with the down payment for their home in the single-family community project called the "56 Houses" that was designed in the image of American neighborhoods. (Of course, this neighborhood was infinitely livelier than the typical American neighborhood, as we would find out in a few years.) Münir convinced Parents to purchase a unit there for us too. We did, but because Mother preferred the city, we rented our home to American soldiers who operated the radars directed at the Soviet Union.

Emine never married and has devoted herself to managing her brother's life. She picked Münir's wife İnci in Samsun and arranged their wedding. Unlike her brother, who is essentially an unassertive bureaucratic type, Emine is a calculating and clever woman, and very sociable. (She might have been a good match for our Cici Anne Hatice hanım.) Though not formally educated, Emine can debate most issues based on common sense.

Considering their very humble beginnings, Emine has made a success of her brother's life, thus, perhaps also her own. To achieve these results, she relied on her wit, worked very hard, and sometimes she used people. We helped them often in Samsun, and in 1959, when we were together in Germany. In view of many joint memories, we are close. Münir has a knack for jokes and is an entertaining company, though he is somewhat introverted. In 1992, when Münir retired from his position with the Department of Highways in İstanbul, his son Fevzi was about to become a doctor. On Jan. 10, 1997, Münir (69) died from heart attack.

With Münir, Cherry Orchard in İskilip. Sometime in 1950 or 1951, after Münir joined the Department of Highways, he was assigned to a tertiary road project in the town of İskilip, on the way to Ankara. He was going there for only about a week, so he took me with him. During the day, we were on the project site next to a huge "kirazlık." ("Kiraz" is cherry; "kirazlık" translates to cherry orchard.) I ate as many cherries and bitter cherries ("vişne" in Turkish) as I could--which may account for my "sweetness" in adult life. It was a wonderful vacation.

İnebolu, BSA Bicycle. In 1951, we boarded a passenger ship bound for İstanbul. Our destination was İnebolu, a cozy small town on the Black Sea. This was our first visit to Aunt Ayşe and her husband Servet bey. We stayed with them about a month. Since they did not have children, they had adopted a girl who was about my age. She became our friend, as other kids in the neighborhood. We played together all day. Next to Aunt Ayşe's home there was a half-completed house with bare walls, about 6 to 8 feet off the ground. We played "touch me if you can" with the other kids, running all over the walls that were no more than 10 inches wide.

While we were still in İnebolu, or soon after we returned to Samsun, Father purchased me a small BSA bicycle. (He also purchased a larger Miele bike for my cousin Saffet.) I spent hours on my bike riding over everything but the walls. Family friends who saw me on my bike were terrified, for me and for the people on my path. On one such occasion, I fell and hit my forehead on the corner of the sidewalk across from home. I bled profusely until Father fixed the wound. (I still carry the scar.)

In 1952, Servet bey had a stroke. Still loaded with debt, Father closed his office and left for İnebolu. When he was a child and had no place to go, Servet bey and Aunt Ayşe had taken him in and helped him with his education. So now it was Father's turn. He stayed there a week and helped Servet bey to recover. (Servet bey died in 1966 or so.)

Deaths. Also in 1952, Great-uncle Esat's son Osman dayı (Sadettin, Bedriye, and "Ankaralı Necmiye's" father, and the older brother of Emine and Münir's father Mustafa) was very ill. He came to our home. Uncle Bahri suggested that Father should take him to the hospital, but Father declined. Osman dayı stayed with us for 23 days. Father sensed the end was nearing. On the day of his death, he sent us to Uncle Bahri's home. Osman dayı died in Father's hands. His son Sadettin, who came from Ankara, was also present. Osman's brother Mustafa, Emine and Münir's father, died a few years later, at their home in "56 Houses." Mother arrived and sent Emine out. Then she cleaned the house and removed traces of illness and death. When Emine returned, she said to Mother "I will never forget this." Perhaps she did not, though Emine is a survivor, with the expediency of a survivor. (This was the occasion when Father noticed the antique piece his father had given to Mustafa for appraisal.)

Grandfather emerges, 1952. In 1951 or 1952, there was an important development in Mother's life. Always the minion of her father, Mother was aching to break the ice with her Father, perhaps to convey that since things had turned out fine for her, he did not need to feel guilty, in case he did. She was showing this benevolence to a father who had effectively deserted her a decade ago, who had been more concerned about his aging libido than her fate as she was going through hell, who had been less than hospitable to her during our three-month stay at his home in 1948.

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Mother wanted to go to İstanbul and fetch her father, Cici Anne, and Zehra for a vacation in Samsun. She asked Uncle Cevat to drive her from Samsun to İstanbul, a day-long trip, and then drive everyone back to Samsun. And we would pay for their return trip to İstanbul on a passenger ship. Mother took Gülhis with her and a few days later returned with her father. We treated Grandfather, et al. like visiting royalty. Other than that, I remember nothing about their visit, though we grew closer to Zehra. And now that the ice was broken, we invited them again, once or twice, before we departed for America in 1958. I must admit that after this first invitation, Grandfather and Cici Anne played their part in our upbringing. They looked after me and Femsi when we were in school in İstanbul from 1953 to late 1957.

Cemal's Fate. Mother's uncle Rıza's first wife Nafiye dadı had five sisters and three brothers, one a handsome young man named Cemal. Cemal fell in love with a girl in the village and asked his yenge, his brother Rasim's wife, to act as an intermediary. Instead, his yenge persuaded the girl into marrying her own brother. Cemal knifed and killed his brother's wife, then he shot himself in the head. His wound was serious but not fetal. Under guard, he was sent to the hospital in Trabzon. Zekiye's father Dr. Haşim was also in Trabzon then (1937). Someone sent him a telegram from Arhavi, informing him that Cemal was wounded and in need of imminent care, that he would be arriving on such and such ship. There was nothing in the telegram about the circumstances. Cemal was Dr. Haşim's wife Safiye's family. So he took a surgeon and a nurse with him to the ship and, to his embarrassment, found Cemal in the custody of gendarmes.

Cemal was sentenced to 15 years in prison, though the sentence was shaved off for good behavior. On his way to Arhavi in 1953, he stopped by at our home in Samsun. Cemal was a relatively sophisticated man who had dressed well in happier days. He was also Father's childhood friend. So when Father saw him in the threadbare outfit he had been given upon his release from the prison, he went to his tailor and paid for a suit for Cemal, of the material that Father himself wore: gabardine in summer, British wool in winter. Then, Father went to Cemil and asked him to contribute underwear, socks, a shirt and tie from his store. They also got him a pair of new shoes.

One evening before his departure, Cemal wanted to talk about his life. He said that 15 years were too long as a punishment. Mother forgot they were talking about Cemal's life in particular and said amiably "but Cemal, surely there has to be some incarceration for murder." Cemal smiled and responded that while he agreed with her, somehow it did not seem fair that an insane act of a moment should have such severe consequences for the rest of one's life. Cemal returned to Arhavi and married a woman from another village. We did not hear from him again.

1953, Eyeglasses. The year 1953 was a turning point, for all of us. We were already part of the jet set in Samsun. I began to attend a private boarding school in İstanbul; Femsi came two years later. In the summer of 1953, Mother took me to the best eye specialist in İstanbul, an Armenian doctor. He detected astigmatism in both eyes and told Mother I needed glasses. Mother cried her eyes out by the prospect that the looks of her beautiful son would be spoiled by eyeglasses. (Talk about vanity.) The change affected Mother as much. By our presence in İstanbul, Femsi and I became a catalyst between Mother and her father. Mother wrote to us almost daily, called as often, and came to İstanbul frequently. She purchased us marvelous clothes and all sorts of things we needed at the school. These shopping expeditions, on which we walked endlessly, visiting every store in sight, became a ritual. Cici Anne, who could bargain better than an Arab peddler, accompanied us every time.

It took Mother many years to get over her father's desertion. When things were happening, I was either not in this world or still a child. But eventually I was old enough to comprehend the variables. Mother refused to renounce her father; instead, she blamed Cici Anne. I did not agree. Cici Anne did not owe Mother loyalty; her father did. Irrespective of how devilishly clever she might have been, she could not have succeeded if Grandfather had stood his ground and continued to be the father Mother thought he was. It was he who had failed her, not because of a higher IQ on her part or lower IQ on his part, but because he had been concerned only about himself. He had disregarded the fact that "himself" should have included also his daughter's fate.

Regardless of her ulterior motives, Cici Anne played an important role in my life from 1953 to 1958. As far as her treatment of me, I could not fault her. I also got to know Zehra, Mother's step sister, during this period. After our departure in 1958, I saw Cici Anne and Zehra again in İstanbul in the summer of 1961. Grandfather had already passed away. I stayed with them only about ten days and returned to Germany. During that interval, I had a brief fling with Zehra.

Weddings. In Turkey, a marriage is announced through a "nışan" (engagement), followed by the "nikâh" (marriage), and "düğün" (reception). (Note that "nışan" is engagement; "nisan" is April.) Unlike America, the groom's family is responsible for the "düğün." In an ostentatious country like Turkey, the reception can be a very elaborate, very costly, and often gaudy shindig, especially among the affluent and nouveau riche. The tradition has changed considerably in recent years, perhaps because people realized that cumbersome ceremonies did not promise happy marriages, even in Turkey where people generally do stay married. Now sensible young couples skip the engagement. The wedding ceremony is reduced to about 30 minutes, in a chain of weddings at the "nikâh dairesi" (marriage office). The bride and groom are scheduled to appear at a specific time there.

When the marriage office opens on a given morning, flowers from well-wishers, for all the weddings scheduled that day, begin to arrive. Couples, dressed in their costumes, and family and friends arrive about half-an-hour early. While the bride and groom wait for their turn, they interact with their guests who usually stand together in a group. Then the party, including the guests, is called in. The couple sign their names in an official book and hope for the best. It is over in 5 minutes and the next party is called in. The interaction that takes place here substitutes for the reception. After that, people go their way. Things were different in the 1950s. We had several marriages in the family.

Feriha & Necati. Arhavi, 1953. Mother has always been close to her Rıza dayı (her Mother's brother) and his children. She knew all of them since her childhood. Moreover, in 1953, Rıza dayı was one of the oldest Celâyirs. So the wedding of his daughter Feriha was an important event for the clan. For my sisters and me, this was the first (and the last) Lâz wedding we would attend. We drove in our Consul from Samsun to Arhavi and stayed with Rıza dayı's family.

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The house was a typical Arhavi home of that time. The first floor consisted almost entirely of a large entre that also served as an old-fashioned kitchen, dining area, center of activity, warm hospitality, and gossip. It had a hard dirt floor. One end was a stone wall with a large fireplace for cooking and heating. Large pots and pans hung on the walls. An imposing table in the middle of the room, with two benches next to it, served to prepare food, also as the dining table. There were several storage rooms and a bathroom at the other end. On the far side, across the entry, were the bedrooms. Steps from one corner led to a balcony-like open corridor on the second floor, with doors to the living room and more bedrooms along the corridor. The place looked very much like roadside inns depicted in movies about medieval Europe. Almost everyone in the clan was there, also many kids of our age. We played and played and did not want to go to bed.

There was a flurry of activity in the kitchen, and all sorts of Lâz dishes to taste, like the "Lu Du Dey" that is prepared of cabbage, beans, and crumbled hazelnuts. We knew some of these dishes from home, but here we saw them prepared in the old-fashioned way, and in large pots to serve many people. Some of the women folk prepared baklava and other sweets. The wedding was wonderful. About 50 people gathered on the front yard. Men and women danced to Lâz folk-songs, some of them dressed in special costumes. When men danced alone, the knives in their hands shimmered against the night sky. We heard many songs but one of them was especially charming: "Nayda Nayda Nanayda, Cilvelu Nanayda . . . Ferihanin saçlari, Cilvelu Nanayda . . ." (The "nayda" parts of the song are actually meaningless words which are uttered to create a rhythm; "saçlari" refers to Feriha's hair; "cilvelu" is the Laz way of pronouncing Turkish "cilveli" or vivacious.) Everyone spoke in Laz, with Turkish thrown in here and there. So we did not understand what the adults were saying. But judging from the accompanying laughter it all sounded happy and warm. (Mother says that Feriha speaks the Laz language better than anyone she knows, both technically and by the quality of her voice.)

Feriha and her husband Necati bey, a colonel, moved to İstanbul. Parents saw them there every summer. After Rıza dayı's death, his wife Saadet yenge moved in with Feriha, as it is the custom. Feriha's husband died late in the 1980s and was buried with military ceremony. Feriha now lives near her son Çetin and daughter Güzin. Both of them are married.

Selâmi & Semiha. Samsun, 1953. The "düğün" (reception) for Uncle Bahri's oldest son Selâmi was a large and elaborate one. Parents did not attend; they were angry with Uncle Bahri for pressuring them about something or another. I went with Saffet. Family members came from places as far as Arhavi. Uncle Bahri was one of the oldest Celâyirs in the clan. He had been a brave and fearless soldier during the occupation years after WWI, and he had been granted the İstiklâl Medal. And he was also a superb doctor. Everyone knew Uncle Bahri, and he knew everyone by name and family ties. He was an extroverted man with a robust physique and a rough voice that matched his personality and image. Like many Turks of his age, he had lost most of his hair and had a white moon-shape fuzz on the sides and the lower back of his large cranium. To complete the image, he drank "rakı" (a potent colorless alcoholic concoction that is flavored with anisette and usually mixed half-and-half with water) and chain-smoked unfiltered Turkish cigarettes. The wedding of the oldest son of such a man was an important event, somewhat like the wedding scene from the "Godfather."

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When they were in their late teens and early twenties. Selâmi and his younger brother Nesimi may have been the most handsome of all Celâyirs males. A photo studio on Park Street, across from Samsun park, had the portraits of Selâmi and Nesimi on display in its show window for several years. Both of them were in tuxedos and holding cigarettes. They had stylish wavy hair, Selâmi medium blond, Nesimi dark. Selami was and looked rugged, whereas Nesimi appeared more sensitive and romantic, though Selâmi, not Nesimi, had artistic talent.

Selâmi's rugged appearance had a foundation. He was powerful. We knew of the stories about how he went after the bully boys who bothered his brothers. Nevertheless, his fame paled next to his colorful father's. Because of the 19 years of age difference between Father and Uncle Bahri, Father and Selâmi had been almost like friends when they were younger. Selami had also the warmest personality of all of Uncle Bahri's offsprings. Mother and Father both felt closer to him.

After the wedding, Selâmi and his new bride Semiha moved into their own home. Their son Fetih Korkut was born about a year later. Mother was present at his birth. Their other son, Mehmet, was born in İstanbul or in Germany. Selâmi and Nesimi had only high school education. So Selami's life after marriage was a rude awakening. He and Nesimi formed a business partnership and opened an apparel store, but they could not make a go of it in Samsun. They thought they would do better in İstanbul. Selami and his family moved into a rental apartment in Fatih, the same section of İstanbul where Mother had helped Father to prepare for his final examination at the medical school 13 years earlier.

I remember visiting Selami and his family there once or twice with Saffet. (Saffet and I did not associate much after I started school in İstanbul in 1953. He may have been attending the university in İstanbul at about this time.) I remember Selâmi in his pajamas and a white tank top, walking around the house in a sober mood, his wife holding the baby. I was too young to interpret the mood of this scene then, but I understood later that I had seen a young family going through a trying time--though this bleak scene was probably nothing compared to the scene in our home in Erzurum in Jan. 1944, when Father was in the hospital, in a coma from typhus, Mother holding me; I must have been then about the same age as Fetih was then.

The business did not succeed in İstanbul. In 1959 or so, Selâmi and Nesimi both moved to Frankfurt, Germany. I saw him only once in Germany, when he and Saffet visited us in Zewen. Selâmi had lost his good looks entirely. He was bold, chubby, and had rotten teeth. The Selâmi I remembered from Samsun had been an adult man when I was still only a child. Now I was taller than him. I was not happy about their visit, for my memories of him in Samsun were replaced by this caricature of Selâmi in Germany. I never saw him again. He died in a car crash in 1967. Of course, this was a traumatic experience for the young Fetih, who was now the man of the household.

I met Fetih again in 1976 or so. He had become a wheeler dealer type of person. He, his mother, and his brother still suffered from the trauma of the accident. They were bitter about Uncle Bahri's family ignoring them after the accident, and Fetih wanted me to sponsor him in the States. Of course, I could not. I saw him again in late 1980s, when Parents and I visited them at their home in Tarabya, a quaint section of İstanbul on the Bosporus. Fetih had somehow made it, as a travel guide and through wheeling and dealing on the side. He owned two apartment units in the complex. He and his brother, both still unmarried, lived with their mother. The other unit was occupied by his mother's family. Fetih and his brother asked me again to sponsor them in the States, this time by arranging a marriage between Fetih and someone I knew in the States. Gülhis and I decided against such an involvement.

Necla & İbrahim. Samsun, 1953. Necla had been living with us since 1947 and Parents had treated her just like an older offspring. And she felt closer to Mother than to her own mother, Aunt Naciye. In 1951, Necla had to have her appendicitis removed. Parents took her to the hospital and asked our friend Dr. Kabalak to operate on her. When she was discharged, Father carried her in his arms up the stairs (two stories) to our home.

In 1953, it was time for Necla to start her family. When Father was working at the Municipal Department in 1951, he had met an engineer by the name of İbrahim Çavuşoğlu, who was originally from the village of Çayeli, thus a Lâz. One thing led to another and, in 1953, our Necla, who had the looks of a movie star, and İbrahim bey married. Mother was not present at her "nikâh" (wedding) because she was in İstanbul, enrolling me in school. However, before her departure, she had instructed her tailor to make two exquisite gowns for Necla.

Necla and İbrahim bey moved into their home in Samsun. Mother ordered for her a bedroom set. Her son İsmail was born a year later. Mother was present at his birth, as also Aunt Naciye. Necla was with a midwife in the adjoining room, having a difficult birth. When her pain grew intense, Necla called out "yenge, yenge" for Mother, the person she had been calling for the last 7 years. When Mother heard Necla call, she rushed to her. So did Aunt Naciye. The midwife let Mother in, but closed the door to Aunt Naciye's face. Humiliated by this affront, Aunt Naciye left in anger. Mother was also there when Necla's daughter Gülden was born in Samsun in 1957. Necla's second daughter, Emel, was born in İstanbul. I saw Emel in 1973 and 1976, only Necla and İsmail after that.

In 1968, when Parents decided to build our home in Tuzla, İbrahim bey, "enişte" to us, was an independent contractor in İstanbul. He and Necla and the kids lived in an apartment complex in Küçükyalı (Little Villa), a resort section of İstanbul halfway between Tuzla and the city. Necla's twin sister Neriman and her husband Dr. Sadi and older sister Necmiye and her husband also had apartments in the same complex; Aunt Naciye lived nearby. We sent to İbrahim bey the plans for an A-frame house, an entirely different style for Turkey, where the Mediterranean architecture is dominant. The house was completed in 1970, the swimming pool in front in 1972. Until our home was done, Parents used Necla's home as a base when they came to Turkey.

In 1973, when my wife Gayle and I came to Turkey, İsmail, who was about 19 then, became our guide in İstanbul. He had shoulder-length hair and an extroverted personality. We liked him. Gülden looked gorgeous then and she and Gayle turned heads wherever we went. Everyone was in a party mood. Indeed, Gayle and I danced in Necla's living room. (Gülden was almost as good-looking as her mother in her teens, but not later; alas, Necla also changed: she became anorexic a few years after her wedding.)

Early in the 1980s, İbrahim bey died. His death put an end to the coziness between Necla and us. There was a period of years when neither Necla nor her sisters visited us. Although Father had signed over our car, a Turkish Anadol, to İsmail, he stayed away too. Mother said that since the time Necla moved in with us in 1947, she was never again fully accepted by her own family, that the episode at İsmail's birth surely did not help. Her Mother and sisters knew that Necla had been closer to us than to them.

Lâz relationships can become volatile, but loyalty to the family is expected, regardless of what happens. Now that Necla was dependent and she lived with her family, she had to cater to her mother and sisters. Mother understood and never pressured or questioned Necla, but let her know that she was always welcome, that she would receive an extra warm hug from us. Necla knew, but Gülden and Emel stayed away. İsmail, his wife Süheyla, and their son Batuhan stopped by sporadically in the late 1980s. Perhaps because of the difficulties İsmail was having starting a business, İsmail and Süheyla separated briefly and then got together again. In 1994, I sent Necla a copy of our family video. She wrote back a warm letter and called us twice in 1996.

Attours of Amman, Jordan, 1954. In 1954, a year after I started school in İstanbul, there was an important occasion in Mother's life: she met her only uncle on her father's side. Süleyman Attour was the younger brother of Grandfather and he was visiting from Amman, Jordan. He came to İstanbul either on a business trip and/or to visit his brother. Mother heard that he was in İstanbul, boarded a passenger ship, and brought her uncle to Samsun. Mother says people on the ship were impressed with him, in his Arab costume, especially when he also performed all the prayers in public.

I contemplated the prayers. In 1923, Turkey had Westernized. Although this was still a Muslim country, in 1953, people no longer observed the lifestyle of the earlier days. Even for Muslim Arabs, prayers are not mandatory during travel. Therefore, his ostentatious display of religiosity on the ship's deck, not privately in his cabin, I surmise, was a message to the Turks around him. He wanted to remind them of all the wonderful things they had given up by converting to Western ways. He must have been in Samsun sometime in the summer, for I was also at home. I remember seeing him in his Arab costume. He stayed with us about a week and then departed on a ship.

This was the first and last time we saw him. However, his son İbrahim and several daughters stopped by in America and in Tuzla. I met İbrahim briefly at home in Waynesburg sometime in the 1960s. For me, the more meaningful encounter with the Attours happened in Tuzla in July 1990. We received a call from İbrahim's youngest daughter Rawan. She was visiting in İstanbul and wanted to see us. Mother and I drove to her hotel in Aksaray to bring her home with us. She stayed in Tuzla for three days. During her stay, I asked her to help me to start a family tree for Mother's side. Rawan and I had a Roman Holiday. She was very bright and could speak English comfortably. I dropped her off at her hotel on July 18, 1990. We continued to write to each other. She always addressed me as "My Naughty Cousin." On Oct. 3, 1990, she sent me the family tree on Mother's side. İbrahim had helped her with the details.

Then in December 1992, in Washington, I received a call from her sister Munifeh. She was with an Arab group at a hotel in Rosslyn and wanted to see me. I brought her to my apartment and we socialized for several hours. They had been invited by an Evangelical group, supposedly to discuss the common elements of the Moslem and Christian beliefs. Munifeh and her group were surprised that their hosts seemed more interested finding out subtly if they could be converted to Christianity. I smiled. We got along famously.

A year later, Rawan wrote to me to announce that both she and Munifeh were engaged to be married, Rawan to her architecture instructor at the technical university she attended in Jordan. I had misgivings about her marriage at age 19, but kept my thoughts to myself. For many Arab women who had no opportunities marriage was a way out. But Rawan was from an important family in Jordan. For her, marriage meant she would interrupt her education. She was too bright to waste herself in this fashion, when she could have married after a degree. It did not make sense, but the horse was already out of the barn. I thought as long as she delayed having babies, she could still finish her studies. In 1993, she and her husband Rami arrived in Austin, Texas. He was enrolled in a doctoral program at Texas A&M.

On April 1, 1994, I received a note and two wedding pictures from her. The note said she was pregnant and would be returning to Jordan in the summer. The envelope also contained a formal invitation for me. Her husband was arranging an expedition to Jordan, to study historical areas. On Apr. 7, I questioned them in writing about the details of the expedition, to ascertain that their plans were concrete, before I purchased my ticket. I also added a personal note to Rawan, expressing the thoughts I had kept private. I presume Rami saw the message too and the truth hurt. Rawan did not write again. In 1995, I sent her our family video. She will also receive this diary. On Oct. 9, 2000, a surprise email from Rawan connected us again.

Erol, 1955. Necla's brother Erol, Aunt Naciye's only son and youngest offspring, stayed with us for about six months in 1955. He was 19 then and had come to Samsun to attend the lyceum. Necla was married, but she was staying with her husband's family in Çayeli. So Erol came to us. Our friend Ülker Kabalak saw Erol going to school one day and told Mother, "this boy is too fashion-conscious for a student; I do not think he is interested in school." She was right. Erol never finished high school. I remember him faintly from those days. He was suffering from premature hair loss and had an anorexic look. I teased him sometimes to hear him say "yapma be" (hey, stop it) in a funny way.

We did not hear from Erol after we left Turkey in 1958. Then, after our home in Tuzla was finished in 1970, we saw him again. In 1971, Parents decided we should also have a garage. Because Erol lacked marketable training, he was doing odd jobs for İbrahim bey then. İbrahim bey was busy on another contract, so Father gave Erol 3,000 TL and told him to find someone to build the garage and supervise the work. Father returned to America. When Parents came back the next summer, they saw the new garage. It was 5-feet-5 tall and looked like a concrete cave. The ceiling was so low that even Father had to crouch to get in. Apparently Erol botched other things, for İbrahim bey let him go. In 1973, Erol found an opportunity in Germany and got married soon after that. We saw him again, and the last time, in 1982.

Metin & Güler. Samsun, 1955. Metin, the youngest of Rıza dayı's offsprings (Harbiye, Feriha, and Orhan's brother) stayed with us for about a year in 1953, right after Necla's wedding. Metin had no education beyond high school and no prospects in Arhavi. He came to us for an opportunity to make something of himself. Father found Metin a job through Necla's husband İbrahim bey. Like Münir, Metin joined the Department of Highways. On Aug. 7, 1955, he became engaged to Güler in our home. In 1982, at about age 50, Metin died of bleeding pancreas, while he was traveling with his friends from Ankara to İstanbul. Friendly, courteous, and trustworthy, Metin was beloved by everyone.

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The only episode I remember sharing with him from our Samsun days is that on one occasion while Metin was on the phone, I kept interrupting his conversation from the phone upstairs on the top floor. He was so angry that he stopped talking and ran up the stairs to catch me. I slid under a bed and hung on to the frame. Every time he shoved the bed to one side, I moved with the bed. Finally, he gave up and began laughing. His anger had passed and I could come out.

In 1972, when my daughter Belinda was in Turkey, she was treated very nicely by Metin's daughter Suna, who is a few years older. I visited Güler at her home in Ankara in 1986, and again when she came to Tuzla. Suna visited us in 1990 or so, a very attractive and flirtatious female. ("Alas, also married and family," I thought.) Mother says she dances the Çiftetelli rather good.

Harbiye, Hakkı, Tanju, Gülden, 1956. At Feriha's wedding in 1953, we met Harbiye teyze's son Tanju and his sister Gülden. Tanju was a year older than I, Gülden a year younger than Femsi. However, the few days we were in Arhavi were too brief to form a friendship. But Harbiye teyze and Mother had been friends since they were children. They were also first cousins. So the next generation, us, had an established foundation.

Mother and Harbiye had shared their lives through thick and thin since 1925. Harbiye married her husband Hakkı in Ordu in 1938. Her son Tanju was born there in 1941. When Mother arrived in Ünye on Apr. 22, 1943, after burying her Mother in İstanbul, Harbiye came from Ordu to offer her condolences. Father's sister Ayşe and her husband Servet bey, who was also from Ordu, also stopped by. On their return trip a month later, our pugnacious Aunt Ayşe saw that Harbiye was still there. She asked her snidely "sen halâ buradamısın?" (Are you still here?) Mother says her usually unflappable friend was very offended. (Apparently Aunt Ayşe did not notice that her own sister Naciye and her entire family were living with Parents then. Her tribal discrimination also projected on Mother, until years later.) Albeit, in June 1944, Harbiye came from Ordu to Arhavi to be with Mother when Femsi was born.

In 1945, Harbiye and her family moved to Samsun. Her daughter Gülden was born there the same year. Parents were living nearby in Bafra then. Harbiye brought her daughter to Bafra to show her off to Mother. When Gülhis' birth was imminent in Bafra on March 2, 1947, Mother was embarrassed that she had no ornate sheets and pillow cases to show off her baby to the neighbors and well-wishers. Harbiye came with a set she had stitched and crocheted herself, an enormous task considering the detail. Mother says she cried when she saw that Harbiye had ironed the set too.

Harbiye and her family moved to Pazar in 1947. A month or two after Feriha's wedding in Arhavi in the summer of 1953, Harbiye wrote to Mother, that she wanted to send Tanju to a boarding school in Trabzon. Mother sent to her 250 TL for Tanju's first year's tuition. We had a chance to get together with Harbiye and her family again three years later (1956), when we took Florence, the American exchange teacher in Samsun who was our friend, with us to Arhavi. On the way back, we stopped in Pazar and stayed with Harbiye's family. Florence had to fly back to the States; so Father took her to Samsun.

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The house in which Harbiye and her family lived in Pazar had an exquisite location. It was situated on top of a cliff overlooking the beach and the sea, the latter dotted with small room-size islands of rock. A path led down to the beach. We had a row boat at our disposal and many tiny islands to explore. Tanju and I dived for large crabs. We caught lots of fish and Harbiye teyze baked them in olive oil. I caught one oar in the rocks and broke the flat end of it. On another occasion, I made a bet with Tanju that he could not swim from one particular island to the next, about sixty yards away, while carrying his clothes out of water in one hand. He won. When Father came back for us, we brought Gülden to Samsun. We had three single beds for my sisters and me upstairs on the top floor, where we also took naps in the afternoon. I used to watch Gülden wistfully while she slept . . .

I do not remember seeing Tanju and Gülden after this visit. Our paths crossed again in the 1960s. Harbiye's husband Hakki had died sometime then and his government pension was not sufficient for the family to live. And Tanju and Gülden had no future in Pazar. We had just moved to our new home in Waynesburg. Mother offered Harbiye her apartment in Lâleli rent-free, also making periodic monetary contributions. Harbiye and her family struggled but did survive. Gülden says that while Tanju attended the university and acted self-important, she carried the real load. She became a seamstress and worked all night doing needlework. During the day, she took her work to shops in Beyazıt and Eminönü. She sold what she could and came back to prepare more. (Gülden has the most pleasant and musical conversational voice we have heard in Turkey. Having lived among the Lâz people for so long, she speaks Turkish with a Lâz flavor, as also her husband.)

Mother's generosity was repaid in kind years later. Necla's husband İbrahim bey had built our home in Tuzla. He also took care of the house while we were in the States, also paying the fees, taxes, and attending to the repairs. After his death, Tanju officially became our business manager in Turkey, with a full power of attorney. He was working as a manager at an import/export firm then and was doing well. Nazire's son Nafi also helped but generally when Father was there and needed assistance with repairs and purchases.

By then, Gülden had married a progressive Lâz businessman, Ayhan, who operated an auto parts store. His business was doing well and they owned several properties. (Since the Turkish Lira is unstable, the Turkish people have traditionally invested in real estate. Many upper-middle-class families in İstanbul own a winter home in the city, a summer home near the water, and as many other homes as they can afford here and there.) Gülden has raised their two sons, Kan and Can, both engineering students, like princes, also enrolling them in private schools. Kan was working in Germany, before he got married in Jan. 1997, Can in Moscow.

Tanju is also married and has been employed as the business manager of an import/export establishment since mid-1970s, though he has a degree in engineering. He and his wife Hanife have two wonderful children: daughter Gamze (Dimple) and son Gökhan. They live in Fatih in winter and in Küçükçekmece, a resort section of İstanbul, in the summer. Harbiye stays with them. In August 1992, it was Tanju who talked to Father's friend Dr. Sami Akdağ about Father's medical condition and then appealed to me to come and take him to America. We call each often.

Samsun Jet Set, Friends. From (especially) 1952 to 1958, Samsun must have been the friendliest city in Turkey, or the mood in the country was so optimistic that all towns were this way. Or it was happenstance, not to happen again. The people we met in Samsun became lifelong friends. Our families were extensions of each other. The women were our "teyze" (mother's sister), the men our "amca" (father's brother). We did things together, the children grew up together. Some of our fondest memories in Turkey date from this time.

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If not yet in 1951, then by 1952 we were part of the high society in Samsun. We had a car, traveled, drove to picnics, went to movies, clubs, parties, and dances; Parents attended "gala" parties. We watched Father put on his black tails over a white silk shirt, Mother adorn herself in a beautiful evening gown, tailor-made specifically for the occasion, of course of the best material. They were in style; Necla too. She had reached the age when girls were deemed ready for marriage. Mother dressed her as our debutante and took her to their parties. The "doctor wives" arranged periodic informal "toplanti günü" (social day) in their homes, at the art gallery, the library, etc. and discussed their children, plans, whatever they deemed important. Often, they arranged family outings and camps, their husbands complied. Father hired Bedri bey, a violin instructor, and practiced his violin. Although Mother liked full musical pieces, she complained about the repetitive "giy giy" sounds of the practice sessions in our home. However, soon Father was advanced enough to perform excellent renditions of Paganini, Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen, and other difficult pieces.

During my last year in grade school Father also signed me up for violin lessons. But like Mother, who had taken piano lessons in Giresun without results, I had neither the personality, nor the discipline, nor the coordination. Father had talent. He thought he was good with the violin only because he practiced. In his mind, everyone could be a violinist, if he or she practiced, practiced, and practiced. He thought this would also keep me from mischief. Of course, I rebelled and did not come to the lessons, putting an end to my future as a violinist. Femsi did have Father's coordination and interest. When we purchased our piano, Femsi began to take lessons. She had been playing the mandolin in grade school and progressed rapidly on the piano. Father and Femsi began to offer piano-violin recitals, entertaining our many guests.

"Düldül," our Family Auto, 1952-1957. Father must have been very secure about his earning potential in 1952, for in addition to the 55,000 TL he spent for his new X-ray machine, he purchased (for 8,000 TL) a brand new olive-green automobile, a British-made Consul from Süleyman Balkan. He was passing by Süleyman bey's car dealership when he saw the car. He stepped into the showroom to inspect it. Süleyman Balkan was talking to two men who were seemingly also interested in the car. When Süleyman bey noticed Father, he told to the other men, "here is the owner of the car." Father, who can also talk in riddles, liked this impetus and purchased the car on the spot. He named it Düldül, the name of Prophet Mohammed's horse.

Father spent two hours with one of Süleyman Balkan's drivers, taking driving lessons, and left with the car. Even before we purchased our Consul, we were traveling to all sorts of places in northeastern Turkey, on our own or accompanied by friends. Some of these places were two or three hours away. Others, like Ankara, took a day to reach, some, like Arhavi or Erzurum, even longer. I was allowed to drive on the road when I was 10 or 11. So we were already a restless bunch; now we had unlimited mobility, at any hour, on the spur. The car drove us to everywhere. One of our first trips was to Ankara. Mother sat in front next to Father and the rest of us, including Necla, took the back seat. It was already getting dark when we reached Çorum, a town on the way. Apparently Father fell asleep. The car was in motion, off the road on grass, heading toward a wall. All of us woke up immediately when we heard Mother stutter rhythmically, "Cavvitt Cavvitt Cavvitt . . ." Father finally stopped the car.

Turkish driving habits then and now would terrify even the Italians. Every driver views the road as his personal property and other drivers as trespassers who chose to be on the same road only to annoy him. (Women rarely drove in those days.) So the highways are essentially race tracks with hurdles, on which every other vehicle is someone to be passed, even if on the fringe of a wheat or corn field, on the right or left. In those days, the highways were usually flat dirt roads, though some parts, usually near the cities, were paved with asphalt. The lanes were not separated. So until the opposing vehicles came about even, a bird's eye view of the traffic probably looked like a demolition derby. Even so, it was always fun to be on the road. We stopped when we felt like it. The stations almost always had an open-air restaurant or "çaylık" (tea house) attached to it. We usually took a table in the shade under the trees and refreshed ourselves.

Picnics were very popular on summer weekends, usually on Sundays. We had done this even before we owned a car, by taking a taxi. Now we could be more spontaneous about how long we stayed. We joined several family friends and drove to the "Top Tepe" (Ball Hill) in Derbent (a wooded hilltop, about 10 miles to the east of Samsun) or Matosyon (a reasonably flat area with trees, about 10 miles to the west of Samsun). These were our two favorite picnic spots. While the kids played, sang songs, and explored the woods, Father cooked our favorite meal in a wok-like pan: "saç kebap," a very tasty meat and vegetable dish that is cooked until the ingredients blend. The aroma was so addictive that often we interrupted our play and formed a circle around the fire, impatiently waiting for our portion. We chased this delicacy with "gazoz" (Sprite or 7-Up) and followed up with "karpuz" (watermelon), "kavun" (cantaloupe), and other fruit. By sunset, it was time to return. About an hour before the departure time, we collected wood, loose branches, and dry leaves for a huge bon fire to commemorate the passing of a fine day.

In 1956, Florence, the American exchange instructor whom we befriended in Samsun in 1955, accompanied us on one of our longest journeys, a trip along the Black Sea coast. On the way, we came to an attractive escarpment near Ordu. Father stopped the car and we stepped out. A few yards down the cliff we saw a small bird fluttering on the rocks. It had a broken leg. Father improvised. I held the bird while he gently straightened the leg. We did not have a first aid kit with us. So Father smeared a little tooth paste as disinfectant around the break. Then he tied a piece of wooden match stick to the leg and let the bird go. It flew away.

Our trip continued to Pazar. We spent the night with Harbiye teyze and her family and continued to Arhavi. Since there was an American guest with us, we arrived to a royal reception by Arhavi standards, and fine Turkish hospitality, regarded as perhaps the warmest by people who know of such things. After enjoying Arhavi for two or three days, we returned to Pazar. Father drove Florence to Samsun; we stayed. When he returned, we took Harbiye's daughter Gülden with us and embarked on a long trip of northeastern Turkey. Parents wanted us to see the places they knew before my sisters and I joined the family. Our trip took us along the coast to Hopa, a town to the west of Arhavi. There we turned south and drove through Borçka, Artvin, Ardahan, Kars, Sarıkamış, Erzurum, Bayburt, Topdağı, Gümüşhane, Hamsiköyü, and Maçka. Along the way, we stopped at a steep cliff near Artvin and viewed the cobalt-blue Çoruh River. In Kars, we spent two days with the mayor of the city. I remember flirting with two girls there but otherwise I have only blurred memories from our stay. From Maçka we drove north to Trabzon, where we turned west on the coastal road, heading for Samsun. We passed through Giresun, Ordu, and Ünye, each a homecoming for Parents.

In Dec. 1957, when we were packing for America, Father put our car for sale. Several men from Tokat (a town near Samsun) stopped by at Father's office and told him they wanted to purchase it. Father told them the car was at a repair shop. The men did not care and said they would also pay the repair bill. Father sold the car for 16,000 TL.

Dr. Ali Kabalak, wife Ülker. The Kabalaks were one of our closest family friends in Samsun, and until our departure from Turkey in 1992. They arrived in Samsun after us. Father had met Dr. Ali in Ankara when they were doing their residencies. Ülker hanım was a lawyer but did not practice. Their marriage had been arranged, as many marriages were in those days. They were first cousins, the son and daughter of two sisters. Dr. Ali was about fourteen years older than his wife, about thirty when they were engaged. Ülker hanım agreed to the marriage, but she had just started the law school. She was adamant about delaying the marriage until her graduation five years later. Indeed, she did not see or talk to Ali bey for the duration of her studies.

Sometimes her determination frustrated Dr. Ali so much that, as he told Parents, he pranced in front of her house, accompanied by one or more women at his arm. When we arrived, Ülker hanım had not yet decided if she wanted to live in Samsun, though Dr. Ali was there. She is a private person and can be somewhat formal and distant. Perhaps she needed a little persuasion. This Dr. Ali achieved by telling her that she would have at least one wonderful friend in Samsun: Dr. Cavit's wife Zekiye. So she came. We grew up with their son Cavit; the twins, Orhon (son) and Semin (daughter), were born in Samsun in May 1955. Parents met other friends through the Kabalaks. For example, when Femsi and I were in school in İstanbul, the Kabalaks introduced Parents to Dr. Rüstem Zaloğlu and his wife Muallâ hanım from Bafra, who had arrived there after our departure on Apr. 22, 1947.

The Kabalaks accompanied us on many trips. In 1952, we embarked on a trip to Gerze and Sinop, two towns along the Black Sea, to the west of Samsun. Somehow we managed to fit in our Consul 9 people, 5 of them adults, including Ülker hanım's older sister Nigar hanım, who was a Federal judge then. It took us a full day to reach Sinop, also stopping in Bafra, where we had lived from 1944 to 1947. After the village of Hümenez, the road turned inland and continued through scenic mountains. We came to Gerze. Ali bey had served there as the chief doctor at the Department of Health. This was his homecoming. Ali bey introduced himself as the doctor, Father as his driver.

We arrived in Sinop early in the evening, to stay at the home of a friend of Ali bey's, a congressman. He was away. First, we needed a bath. Instead of taking individual baths in the house, we decided to reserve a bath house for ourselves, of course, the women in a separate section. After we enjoyed Sinop for two or three days, Nigar hanım took a passenger ship to İstanbul; we returned to Samsun.

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Public Bath Houses. Public bath houses in Turkey have survived since the Ottoman days. People who have baths in their homes and those who can afford to stay in hotels with bath and shower facilities no longer use public baths. But they are there, even in small towns. Like ancient steam rooms, this is where men and women (separately) can bathe and congregate among themselves. People check in, undress, and leave their clothes hanging on a hook. Like mosques, these places are generally safe. They walk into a large salon surrounded by units of wash basins that are essentially sinks enclosed by seats. The salon is steamy hot and humid. Everything inside is of marble and/or stone. There are also one or two large marble or stone blocks and tables where people sit, chat, and eat steamed chestnuts, a favorite snack in Turkey, that are sold drawn on strings.

As with eating, bathing in a bath house is considered a ritual and several hours may be devoted to it. To bathe, one finds an unoccupied sink, sits on the seat next to it and pours water over the body with a "tas" (cup). Bathing by pouring water over the body obviously saves water. The "tas" may be of wood, metal alloy, or a dried and hollowed-out gourd. They are about 4 to 6 inches in diameter. Turkish wash clothes are elaborate hand-knit woolen artworks. Some of them are the size of American wash clothes, others are loose mittens. A clean "kese" (hard cloth) is used to remove dead skin. It, a "sabun" (soap), and wash cloth are on the house; thick Turkish towels are handed out at the exit.

After we left Turkey in 1958, Dr. Ali took care of Father's office, which Father had leased to another doctor. In 1966, Ülker hanım came to America to attend Femsi's wedding. Dr. Ali died sometime in the 1970s. Ülker hanım did not remarry. A sharp property investor, she purchased several villas in İstanbul and Ankara, including a summer home in "Ankara Mercan Yuvası," near our villa in Tuzla. She spends the summer there with her older sister Nigar hanım, a retired judge who has never married. Their oldest sister, Hacer hanım, is also near them.

I visited them on every occasion I was in Tuzla and had some of my most enjoyable moments and conversations in their company. In the early 1980s, Orhon and Semin opened the Meridien Club in Ankara and made it very successful. I visited them several times and met Semin there the first time (as an adult) in 1984. (She now owns the entire building and has her own flat above the club on Tunus Street.) Cavit and Orhon are married, but Semin remained single. (We have been eligible for each other since her teenage years.)

Dr. Hüseyin İçden, wife Halime. These (still) close friends included their oldest son Önder, daughters Ülker and Ülke, and son Özer. In the Summer of 1956 and 1957, Önder, who was several years older than I, taught us many popular dances, including the Mambo. When we were in United States, we heard that Önder had been knifed and killed by a woman he had been dating. Hüseyin bey and Halime hanım never fully recovered from this incident. Ülker met and married an American soldier in Turkey and has had a fine marriage.

When we were children, Ülke, who is a few months younger, and I played together. We had a mild crush on each other since then. After 1958, I saw her again in 1973, when my second wife Gayle and I were in İstanbul. We wrote to each other briefly after my divorce from Gayle. She remained single and is presently employed by the Turkish Government. I saw her again in Ankara in 1986 and we had a fine time together. Her younger brother Özer, who was a baby in 1958, and his wife stopped by in Tuzla in 1992. To commemorate the occasion, we called Dr. İçden and Halime hanım in Ankara and had a wonderful chat. According to Dr. İçden, Ülke and I should have been married to each other since our childhood. We did better: we are friends instead.

There is a humorous anecdote about Dr. Hüseyin. He was originally from the village of Sürmene near Trabzon. His mother and a few siblings lived there together. In the early 1950s, Dr. Hüseyin's mother decided to visit his son in Samsun. There was either no notice of her arrival or it did not reach Dr. Hüseyin. Albeit, when the lady arrived, there was no one there to greet her. The resourceful old lady hired an "el arabası" (a flat cart of about 4 square-feet, set on automobile wheels, with two long handles for pulling) which was used in those days to carry heavy loads, like furniture and equipment, over a distance. She arrived in this fashion at Dr. Hüseyin's home in broad daylight.

Dr. Sami Akdağ, wife Mebrure. Dr. Akdağ is still one of Father's closest friends. The family included daughters Sema and Semiha and son Cem. In addition to sharing with us frequent trips to Derbent, Matosyon, Alaçam, and Çarşamba, Dr. Akdağ introduced us to his favorite place, his hometown Kavak. On several occasions from 1953 through 1957, we drove there to have picnics, passing through the town of Havza. I do not remember Dr. Akdağ's children from our Samsun days. However, I do remember the empty lot with dirt piles across the street from Dr. Akdağ's home. In 1951, this was my favorite place to practice daredevil routines on my BSA bicycle. Apparently Mebrure hanım watched over me from her window and called Mother to warn her that surely I would have an accident.

In 1992, Dr. Sami Akdağ told Father that he would soon need dialysis, that he should return to America and stay there. Thus, 40 years later, this friend from Samsun resolved for Father the dilemma about where, in Turkey or America, he should retire.

Dr. Celal Cansunar, wife Semiha. The family included daughter Tülin and son Emir. Tülin had a powerful musical voice and practiced foreign songs since childhood. She grew up flamboyantly, almost with a singing career in mind. I saw Tülin only occasionally in Samsun. In 1956 or 1957, I was on the train from İstanbul to Samsun. It was school break and by coincidence Dr. Celal's daughter Tülin and Dr. İçden's older daughter Ülker, both of whom attended a French boarding school, were also on the train. We shared a happy trip.

Dr. Celal died in the 1980s. Semiha hanım moved to İstanbul and had a difficult life taking care of her bedridden mother. I saw Tülin and Ülke in Tuzla in 1973. Tülin married and divorced twice and has a daughter, Elif, who married early in 1991. Semahat hanım, Tülin, and her daughter visited us every summer. Since the late 1980s, Tülin and I became friends. Fluent in several languages, Tülin became a translator of books, primarily from English. And she sings in nightclubs.

Dr. Halet Onay, wife Ferhunde. The family included sons Ümit and Can. I have no memories of this family in Samsun, until the Summer of 1957, when Ümit and I became friends at the summer camp in which our families participated. I did not see Ümit again after 1958. He died of heart attack in 1989 or so; Dr. Halet died in 1990. Until then, he and his wife frequently visited us in Tuzla.

Dr. Adil ?, wife Belkıs. The family included son Bertan and daughter Günsel(?). Bertan was about my age and we were close friends in 1952 and 1953. Our families used to go to the movies together. We watched many swashbuckler movies and liked especially the ones with Errol Flynn. Bertan and I imitated, with sticks, the sword play we saw in the movies and became very good at it. We practiced especially on weekends, when our families went to picnic. These were some of the happiest times for us all. Our friendship fizzled out by about 1954, when both of us outgrew sticks and moved on to other friends.

Dr. Mustafa Viter, wife Hediye. The family included son Seçkin, who was about a year older than I, and daughter Semra, who was about Femsi's age. They lived a block away from us, on the same street. During the summer in 1951, when I was on my religious kick, Seçkin was impressed. Soon he joined in, until both of us quit at the end of the summer. We had a wonderful time together in the summer of 1956 and 1957, including new friends Kaya, Oya, Meral, and others. We arranged and attended parties together, where we practiced Latin dances under the able guidance of Dr. İçden's son Önder.

Dr. Lütfü Tat, wife Dr. Feriha. They were both classmates of Father and had no children. When Parents were having financial difficulties in Samsun in the early years, Dr. Feriha lent Father 3,000 TL. Parents stayed in touch with them, on and off, until 1992. Dr. Lütfü attended some of the outings of the 1940 medical graduates. Alas, he came alone, for Dr. Feriha has been blind in both eyes since about 1985.

Dr. Mustafa Dura, wife Nahide. They did not have children. Although our families were close, we did not stay in touch after we left Turkey. Dr. Mustafa died soon after that; Nahide hanım was burned to death while she was washing a blouse in gasoline.

Dr. Hüsnü Kansızoğlu, wife Yegâne. The family included daughter Nilgün, and another whose name we do not remember. Although our families were close, their children were younger than us and we did not play together. I have no memories of them. Dr. Hüsnü died after we moved to America. Parents saw Yegâne hanım at the beach in Samsun in 1968 and again in 1979 or so.

Dr. Suavi Arkayın. He was a bachelor. I remember him as a stocky person. His father was a classmate of Grandfather Dr. Haşim at the medical school.

Muazzez and Feriha. Mother knew Muazzez and Feriha, both Samsun girls, from the school in Merzifon. They were classmates, three years ahead of Mother. Feriha halted her education after Merzifon, whereas Muazzez continued to Üsküdar. Mother says Muazzez' family was going through financial difficulties and could not afford to send her to Üsküdar. Nevertheless, she came in 1935, the same year Mother started. Muazzez was educated by American missionaries under a 2-year program. During the first year, she took classes from both the 9th and 10th grades, the next year from 10th and 11th grades, sharing some classes with Mother. Because of this conflict, sometimes Muazzez missed classes and Mother helped with her notes, also explaining the topic(s) covered that day. After graduating from Üsküdar, Muazzez continued to the university and obtained her high school teaching certificate. When Florence came to teach English at Samsun College in 1955, Muazzez was the English teacher at the high school.

In the Summer of 1956, Muazzez' brother Lütfü Deveci, who owned the Deveci Çiftliği (orchard) a few hours from Samsun, invited Muazzez and our family for an outdoor banquet, the Turkish equivalent of the American "backyard barbecue." Florence, Paul, and Carl, the American exchange teachers in Turkey, with whom we were friends, were also invited and Parents drove the entire party in our Consul. The Çiftlik was several hours inland from Matosyon. In this fruit orchard Lütfü bey raised the best - called "yarma" - peaches in Turkey. These were almost the size of small melons, juicy and very tasty.

Lütfü bey visited us in Tuzla in the 1980s, the last we saw him. Muazzez was single. Years after we arrived in America, she met a retired General and married him. They lived in Ankara until his death. Mother has not seen Muazzez since the early 1970s. We heard that Muazzez was in a military hospital, suffering from some sort of ailment. In 1997, Mother's friend Asuman wrote to us that Muazzez came for a visit and said "Hello" to Mother.

Feriha was married to Kemal bey who operated a radio shop on the Şafak "sokak" where we lived. They had four children: Ülkü (daughter), Ünsal, Duygu (a daughter), and Tuğrul. We spent the New Year's Eve (1956/57) with Feriha's family at our home and greeted the New Year playing bingo part of the night. My cousin Saffet was with us. Both of us were infatuated with Feriha's very attractive daughter Duygu (Feeling) that night.

Mother says Feriha was an idealist, a missionary of sorts. She gave private lessons in English. Her husband's business went bankrupt and Feriha's life was not easy. They lived in Samsun for a few years. Parents saw Feriha there in 1980 or so. Later she moved into a retirement home in Bolu, a beautiful small city in the mountains southeast from İstanbul. Common friends told us that she was teaching English classes to high school students.

Ülkü married twice and is working as a nurse in the United States. (Mother says in the 1950s, she considered marrying Ülkü to her cousin Orhan.) She has been sending Parents a New Year's card every year. Duygu married a Turk and lived in Sweden for several years. Feriha's older son, a civil engineer, died in 1973 or so, during the construction of the first Bosporus bridge. Her younger son is married and lives in California.

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6. America and/or\and Turkey

Parents had been thinking of moving, though not necessarily migrating, to a foreign country even before they met Florence. Mother had studied in American schools and obviously life in Turkey was not going to be sufficient for us. They had considered England as the likely destination, because of its proximity. Indeed, they had already initiated formal inquiries in that direction. However, their efforts had led to nowhere. Meanwhile, Femsi and I had been attending an Austrian school, learning German. So rather than following a well-formulated plan, Parents were probably hearing the call of indelible restlessness. By 1957, they were in the mood to jump at any chance. So they regarded Florence as something of an anointed emissary of karma.

And Florence still believes that her trip to Turkey had been preordained. She had told us the circumstances that brought her to Turkey in 1955, but we did not attach a special significance to the story then. Forty years later (1995), I visited Florence in Sarasota and asked her to repeat the history, this time officially. (At age 96 in 1997, Florence is my "oldest" continuous friend.)

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Florence E. Sutphin. During the war years from 1941 to 1945, every Thursday night, Florence and four other women with sons in the military met at the home of their friends George and Veda Wert in New Jersey. George and Veda were Christian Scientists. Since the husbands worked during the day, they did not participate in these meetings, except for George. They talked about common concerns and prayed for their sons' well-being. (Indeed, all six sons returned unharmed from the war.)

On one of these occasions, during a prayer session, Florence dozed off into a dreamlike vision. In it, she passed through several foreign lands and saw people in different costumes. At the end of this experience, one thing stood out: a prominent two-story building of whitish color. The building was seemingly of Cape May architecture and included a widow's walk. When she woke up from her vision, George joked with her amiably that she had passed out. Florence responded: "no, I did not; I was traveling." She related her vision to her friends. They listened passively, not sure what to make of it. The white building made an imprint. Over the years, Florence retained every detail of it, periodically asking herself what significance it might have.

In 1920, after Florence (hometown Neshanic, NJ) graduated from high school at the age of 19, she enrolled at Rutgers. She started to teach even before she received her degree. Later she joined the NJ Department of Education and eventually evolved into a troubleshooter in education, identifying problem areas and tailoring solutions. In 1950, she became the principal of the Harlingen School in NJ. In 1951, Florence's husband died at age 54. Their son Chub was already married and had his own family. So Florence was free to pursue whims. She enrolled in the master's program at Rutgers, taking evening classes there while she attended her position during the day.

On the first week of August 1955, Florence took her granddaughter Barbara for a walk on the campus in New Brunswick. She decided to go to the office of the registrar to get a catalog of classes for the next term. Apparently an administrator there had been waiting for her, for as she walked in, a secretary in an office on the second floor announced to him "Florrie is here." The secretary asked Florence to come upstairs. The administrator told Florence that the school had received a request for a teacher of curriculum from the Department of Education in Ankara, Turkey. After discussing with her some of the details of the request, he asked her if she was interested. Florence replied "who wouldn't be?" The administrator told her to contact the Turkish official in New York who was in charge of the placement.

In those days, Americans knew nothing of Turkey. Florence was from a middle-class family that had not displayed adventurous inclinations. When she announced her plan to her family, her sisters and friends objected vehemently to the choice of her destination. Their visions of Turkey were borrowed in part from American movies about the Mid-East. They thought it was "an exotic place." Florence thought this was their way of politely dismissing Turkey as the boondocks.

Since her information about Turkey was not superior to her family's, Florence decided to discuss this matter with her advisor first. The professor told her "will you accept the position and go, for me?" Florence did not need to contact the Turkish official in New York. He called her at home that night at 7 p.m., at about the same time as Florence returned home. The man urged her to come to his office immediately. Florence replied that the time being so late she could not possibly drive all the way to New York, and not at night. The man demanded "I will see you at 10 a.m. tomorrow." They met the next morning. The official had her contract ready for her signature. He did not ask any questions. Florence tried to object, stating that he did not know anything about her. The man replied that he had already discussed her with her advisor, that she came highly recommended. Florence was still not entirely sure that she was on a prudent track. So while she seemingly pursued the matter on the one hand, on the other she was also hoping for heavenly guidance. The signal came to her almost immediately. She noticed that at 54 she was above the age limit stated on the contract. But the man told her to sign the contract, never mind her age. She did, and then resigned from her position as the principal. Samsun was one of the 5 choices for appointment. She accepted the position there upon his urging that he was from Samsun and would like her there.

Florence left for Turkey on her birthday on Sep. 15, 1955. She was an attractive woman with medium-blond hair and chiseled British-American features. Her flight (BOAC) had a long delay in Paris and she almost missed getting on the plane. (Indeed, the plane came back to collect her.) After stopovers in Rome and Athens, finally she arrived in İstanbul, at about midnight. The people who were supposed to meet her were not there. She decided to take a bus to the Pan Am office in Taksim. The bus arrived there at about 1:00 a.m. (The office used to be on the left corner of the driveway leading to the Hilton.) There was a curfew in effect and Florence was the only passenger on the bus. The driver dropped her at her destination and moved on. Florence found herself on an empty and dark street. Near panic, she started to yell "imdat" (emergency, help).

Eventually two young men in a car stopped by and took her to a hotel. Florence's contacts located her the next day. She was taken to a boys' school and given a place at the infirmary. The school year had not started yet and Florence was alone with the night watchman who ogled her at every chance. About a week later, a British teacher and then another woman teacher joined her. The three women stayed at the infirmary for about three weeks during which Florence had a severe case of dysentery. An American couple at the Robert College heard about her situation and moved her to an apartment across from the Florence Nightingale Hospital. She recuperated there for several weeks. Meanwhile, all foreign teachers were idle, waiting for directions from Ankara. It seemed the fears Florence's family had expressed before her departure were coming true.

Sometime in October 1955, Florence, together with two other American exchange teachers, Paul and Carl, arrived in Samsun, her destination in Turkey. They were told to check into a hotel and wait for further instructions. The delays and idle waiting began to unnerve them, especially Paul and Carl who contemplated returning to the States. They stayed, in spite of themselves. (Curiously, after his mission in Turkey was over, Carl settled down in a village in Turkey, to live there like a native.) Meanwhile, Florence's contact in Samsun, a woman by the name of Ayten Kefelioğlu, was looking for her. (Ayten is from a wealthy family in Samsun who also owned the building in which we lived. After she graduated from Robert College in İstanbul, she married a doctor.) Ayten found Florence and asked her to move in with her family until they found a suitable apartment for her. Florence lived with them for three weeks.

Thinking that all Americans liked parties, Florence's hosts arranged a party-life for her. While Florence appreciated the effort, she was essentially a reserved and private person. She could not wait to move into her own place. An apartment was finally found and Florence moved in. Next, she contacted the director of the Samsun College. The man listened to her plans about the curriculum but suggested a different plan of his own. They reached an impasse. Mother's friend Muazzez, also a Merzifon graduate, who was teaching English at Samsun Lisesi (high school) then, was called in. She helped Florence and the director to iron out their differences. Later she also introduced Florence to Feriha, her classmate from Merzifon. Unknown to her then, Florence was a major topic of discussion in this circle of Turkish friends who felt responsible for her tenure in Samsun, asking themselves "what are we going to do with that American woman?" And so Feriha's husband Kemal bey had already decided to become a protective brother of sorts and advisor to Florence, which position came handy later when Florence was introduced to Ziya bey, the wealthy owner of the noodle factory in Samsun.

It so happened that Ziya bey was either divorced from his wife or she had passed away--Florence is not sure which. He was living alone at his villa, his two daughters away in college learning English. Probably also urged by his business sense that a connection to America might be good for the future of his business, Ziya bey viewed Florence as a wonderful prospect for himself. He tried to persuade her to stay at his villa, adding that she would have a maid and his Cadillac at her disposal that he wanted to learn English and surprise his daughters . . . Florence mentioned this offer to her protector Kemal bey who dismissed the whole thing abruptly with "kat'iyen" (absolutely no!). Apparently later Kemal bey also confronted and rebuked Ziya bey about the latter's unseemly intentions with a lone woman and a foreign guest in their city. (In May 2000, Florence told us that Feriha's older daughter had called and told her that Feriha had passed away some months ago, and that (Florence felt) Muazzez, with who she had corresponded frequently over the years, might also have passed away, because her last letter to Muazzez 2 years earlier had been returned as "unknown addressee.")

In addition to her teaching position at Samsun College, Florence also designed the curriculum for six other schools that wanted to emulate American education. And for three nights every week, Florence offered a free seminar to local business and professional people and helped six of the attendants to come to America later. She was especially close to two of them: a man, Tahsin Tuncalı, and a woman, Süheyla. These two doctors wanted to do their residency in America. Florence wrote to several universities and helped them to get accepted. Tahsin did his residency at the Albert Einstein Center in Philadelphia. He stayed there 8 years and won the doctor of the year award for discovering a method by which to diagnose a particular heart condition. After Tahsin returned to Turkey, he became the chief of the Heart Institute at the university in Trabzon. Süheyla specialized in the diagnosis and treatment of tuberculosis and eventually also returned to Turkey.

One morning, around Christmas 1955, while walking to the college, Florence came to an intersection on the İstiklâl Caddesi (Street), a commercial thoroughfare in Samsun. She stood in front of a white building, waiting for the masses of women, all dressed in striped aprons, to pass. After she crossed the street, she felt an urge to turn around, perhaps to glance back at the women. She froze. The white building was in her view again, but from this vantage point the scene suddenly rang a bell. This was the same white architecture from her dream 15 years earlier. After she came home, Florence asked Feriha who these women were. Feriha said they were the girls who worked at the tobacco factory down the street from where Florence had seen them. Florence says that but for these women blocking her path she would have walked to the college as she did on other days, without turning around. Soon after this incident, Florence met Parents at the "Doktorlar Balosu" (the black-tie gala party for doctors) on the New Year's of 1956.

Florence worked for us immediately after she arrived in the States in 1956. However, unlike the Turkish students she had placed in American universities, our situation demanded much more time, effort, and initiative, because we wanted to come as immigrants. In 1957, the quota for immigrants from Turkey had a 15-year waiting period. So the normal channels were blocked and it looked as if we would never make it. Florence wrote to several senators and congressmen. One of them, a senator from New Jersey, suggested an interesting idea. He advised Florence to find a hospital that was willing to express a need for a doctor like Father. After contacting many hospitals, Florence found such a hospital in Lakewood. The administrator was willing to go along with what Florence had in mind. She obtained a letterhead from the hospital and wrote a letter of need. The administrator signed the letter and Florence mailed it to the American embassy in Ankara. This is how Florence came through for us and found a position for Father. By the end of 1957, we could not wait to be in America.

While she was working on our behalf, Florence joined the NJ Department of Education and also continued her master's program. Years of troubleshooting in education gradually evolved to a new technique in teaching. Her method, which Florence called "Learning to Learn" also catered to kinesthetic students who learned better by touch and feel, rather than by the regular methods that stimulated only the visual and auditory senses. She persuaded the administrators to give her method a try. Florence was placed in charge of a program which she officially called YOU, Youth Opportunities Unlimited.

Over the following summer break, she trained 12 first grade teachers to apply her program in their classes. The next summer, she trained 12 second grade teachers for the children who graduated from first grade using her program. The third summer, she trained 12 new teachers for the same students in third grade. At the end of the third year, the children were given a reading test. Indeed, most of the children could read at higher grade levels, and their average score was significantly higher than the score of children educated in regular classes. The program was deemed so successful in New Jersey that the State Department of Education of Connecticut decided to give it a try too. In 1964, the department hired Florence for a trial period of one year, doubling her salary. In fact, Florence stayed there until her retirement in 1971 and completed a doctorate in education.

Since then, this courageous pioneer woman, now a great-great-grandmother, has lived in her own cottage in Sarasota, FL, near her son Chub, granddaughter Barbara, Barbara's daughter Michele, and Michele's two children. Her other granddaughters, Sue, Denise, and Diane visit her often from the northeast. (We knew Barbara and Sue from Lakewood, NJ in 1958; I hugged Barbara in Sarasota on Feb. 22, 1990.) Florence's mind is sharp as ever. She is family to us. Mother calls her often and sends her Turkish delicacies she prepares at home. I have visited her often, especially since the 1970s. This fantastic lady was my first English teacher in Samsun in 1956 and again in Lakewood in 1958. Florence is a universal person whom every nation would proudly have as a citizen.

Turkey has had a special place in Florence's heart, perhaps also because a white building in Samsun answered the question she had been asking for 15 years: "what does it mean?" In addition to enriching us in Samsun, she helped 6 Turkish men and women to self-actualize, to significantly contribute to their country. However, we are the only family whom she helped to migrate to America. I wonder occasionally if we were the main course of her mission, if her trip had been more than coincidence. I have no answer. We have lived average middle-class lives in America. Despite the enormous difficulties, we, especially my sisters and I, have undeniably benefitted from being in this country. However, I am not sure how America benefited from our presence, aside from the fact that we and our offsprings have been tax-paying citizens.

Perhaps karma is not yet ready to reveal the answer. However, Florence feels she may have part of the answer, at least how our presence here helped her. Sometime in the early 1980s, she was diagnosed with an ominous growth behind her stomach and was faced with an exploratory surgery. Being allergic to a variety of medicines, she was worried and also did not quite trust the diagnosis. She called Parents in Annandale, Virginia, where they were staying with Femsi, just before their summer trip to Turkey. Fully trusting Father's competence as an x-ray specialist, Florence wanted Father to see the x-rays and confirm the need for this surgery. Parents jumped on a plane and arrived in Sarasota, on the day before the scheduled operation. The chief surgeon was confident that the diagnosis derived from the 25 x-rays taken of Florence in various positions was correct. Then Father took over and examined each x-ray as he described his diagnosis, concluding that the dark growth seen behind the stomach was not an ominous tumor but only the shadow of the stomach itself, which some x-rays confirmed in that the growth was not visible on them. The chief surgeon who had been sneering at father during his presentation in a "what would a doctor from Turkey know about x-rays and diagnosis" look on his face, finally had to take notice. He exclaimed, "doctor, I have to agree with you." With that Florence was rescued from an unnecessary surgery and feels that Father may have saved her life that morning.

Passages. The year 1968 marked a turning point for us in America. That year, Mother and Gülhis visited Turkey for the first time since 1958. Although Father had traveled to Turkey briefly in 1965, the trip in 1968 was different, for Parents were thinking of establishing a base in Turkey. By the time I made my first visit in 1973, we had a summer villa in Tuzla. For all of us, the first visit to Turkey also showed how much we had changed. We were no longer a Turkish core in an American shell, as we thought; it was the almost opposite. This was especially true for my sisters and me, but in some ways also for Parents, in spite of them.

Matilda and our Anadol Car, 1975. Matilda came to Merzifon a year or two after Mother, perhaps in 1932. She was an Armenian from Mardin, a town near the border with Syria. (The Armenian population in that area is referred to as "Suryani.") In the early 1970s, Matilda and her husband, a congressman from Mardin, came to America. They visited different parts of the country, staying with friends. When they were in Columbus, OH, Parents drove there and brought them to our home in Waynesburg. They stayed with us for a week.

In those years, the Turkish Government allowed a minuscule amount of foreign exchange for personal use. So the Turks who traveled abroad, on a real or invented reason, had to be creative with finances. A few years after Matilda's visit, perhaps in 1974, Matilda called from Turkey and informed us that a friend and her husband would be arriving in America, that they would need additional funds for some sort of medical treatment. The man owned a car dealership in İstanbul. Since we visited Turkey every summer, Parents agreed to give them Dollars in America and collect its equivalent in Turkish Lira (TL) in Turkey. This is how most people skirted government restrictions in those days: everyone knew someone who knew someone in America or Europe.

In the summer of 1975, Mother arrived in İstanbul before Father. Since we did not own a car, instead of collecting the debt in kind, Mother decided to purchase a car from the man's dealership. The car was priced at 55,000 TL. This is how we got our first car, a 1975 model Anadol, named after "Anadolu," Turkish for Anatolia or Asia Minor. We used the car until 1985. (I had an accident in it in Küçükyalı in 1976.)

The car left us the same "Turkish" way it came. In 1985, İsmail, Necla's son, came to Tuzla and asked Parents if they would be willing to sell him their car. This was highly inappropriate. Turks, especially Parents, rarely charge money for things to members of close family, especially when one side is well-to-do and the other is not. In effect, İsmail was asking for a gift. He had married recently and was not doing well financially. Then again, from 1968 to 1970, Necla and İbrahim bey had allowed us to use their home as a base when Parents and Gülhis were in Turkey. In fact, İbrahim bey had given his car to İsmail to drive Parents around then. He had also built our home for us. Although Parents had reimbursed them for all expenses, in view of these favors over the years, Parents decided to give the car to İsmail. We purchased a 1985 model French car manufactured in Turkey, paying 75,000 TL for it. It too left us in a Turkish way: Parents signed over the latter to Nazire's son Nafi in 1992.

Semra, 1976. In July 1973, Gayle and I decided to visit Turkey for three weeks. This was my first trip after 15 years, 12 years since my brief visit from Germany in 1961. I had left Turkey at age 16; now I was 31. We were hugged by the entire family. The warmth of the family members, cousins, and friends was such that for the first few days I regressed to the Sirman I remembered from an earlier incarnation, savoring the experience and the company of so many animated people around me. However, within a few days, I began to have second thoughts. I had attempted to match the mood of the people around me, who seemed to be genuinely delighted to see me. Surely I should enjoy this and respond in kind, I thought. But this seemed too much coziness: one scoop of ice cream was never enough, two scoops still wonderful, three scoops OK, but soon one would have diarrhea.

Many guests stayed at our home and there was something cozy planned every day. From the time Gayle and I woke up, there were people around us, seemingly constantly chattering in the very warm manner only the Turks can. This continued until we went to bed late at night. I wanted to have a few hours with Gayle occasionally and I knew she wanted this too. Gayle was a vivacious young woman, but I suspected that the scene bewildered her. Of course, she was polite, also on account of me, thinking this was my homecoming and I was enjoying the attention. She knew me, but she could not be sure she knew me then, for we were in my former world. Meanwhile, I made a conscious effort not to seem "yabani" (antisocial), to avoid creating the (false) impression that years in America had made us snobbish. Be as it may, it seemed the Turks had mastered all aspects of being sociable, except how to enjoy also their own company.

One afternoon, Gayle and I were in a cozy mood and escaped to our bedroom. A beautiful 18-year-old girl, the sister of İsmail's girlfriend, was stretched on the bed next to ours, semi-naked in a bikini. Since the Turkish people really bloom at night, they generally take an afternoon nap. This is what this girl intended and she was not about to leave. In fact, she gave us slumbering smile and rolled to her side facing our bed. So be it, but her presence served as an aphrodisiac. I was turned on as much by her, three feet away, as I was by Gayle's naked body under the covers. I whispered to Gayle not even to peek at her, to avoid embarrassing the girl in case she was watching us under her eyelashes.

Soon it did not matter that someone was in the room. I locked the door and Gayle and I really went to work, throwing away the covers. For the entire hour or so we were busy passionately, the girl did not move. However, after this experience she openly and daringly flirted with me for the rest of our stay in Turkey, Gayle or no Gayle. Because of the lack of privacy, I could not wait to be in Washington by the time the three weeks were over. I did not know then that in 1976 a girl named Semra would remind me of all these thoughts from 1973, vehemently.

One afternoon, Gayle and I were stretched on the sand at the club when a young woman ambulated slowly before us. Naturally olive-skinned, she was deeply tanned and wore a white wide-brim straw-hat over a yellow bikini that displayed a few inches of her rear cleavage. She had also a carefree and infectious personality. This was my homecoming in many years and the sight of this ripe and delectable 19-year-old Turkish girl made an imprint. I learned later this was Semra, the younger daughter of our next-door neighbor. Semra was born in Austin, Texas, while her (Turkish) parents were employed in United States. She had dual citizenship. Since that first encounter, I always felt that only karma could have brought together a Sirman and Semra with dissimilar-similar personalities and congruent backgrounds next door to each other. We might have made a passionate, perhaps explosive, combination, one that I would have liked. I saw her again in 1976 and every year after that until 1981.

In June 1976, I left Riyadh to attend the Western Economic Conference in San Francisco. My daughter Belinda (9) came with me. On the return trip to Riyadh, on June 30, I stopped in Tuzla to spend a few days with Parents. Indeed, Father and Gülhis had arrived a day earlier, Mother was already there. I was single then and these few days marked the beginning of a frustrating romance with Semra. We exchanged several letters between Riyadh and İstanbul over the following two months.

I stopped in Tuzla again on from Sep. 2 to 6, on my way to Accra, Ghana. Parents had already left for the States. Under similar circumstances in America, or any other place for that matter, these few days would have been an ideal opportunity for a budding romance. However, Semra and I were constantly chaperoned, by her sister "Pisces," girlfriend Serap, friends, and more friends, and a watchful community of neighbors and parents. I felt as if we were puppets on a stage, with others pulling the strings. At age 22, apparently this did not bother Semra, or she was in her environment. But at 34, I was annoyed, then angry. The idea that I was wasting this wonderful opportunity added to my anger, so much so that sometimes I withdrew from the group, sat on a lonely rock at the shore and cursed the odds.

On Sep. 6, I left for Geneva, from there to Ghana, with Semra and frustration still in my system. My companion and hostess Yaa Ofriwa, a gorgeous 6-feet Ghanian from Kumasi, made my stay in Accra a Roman Holiday. Rejuvenated by her, I returned to İstanbul on Sep. 17, to try again for 10 days. In retrospect, I would have done much better anywhere in Europe or in Accra. But this was not Semra's fault; it was the environment. For a few days, things seemed promising. But again I became annoyed by the fact that we were under constant supervision. The girls were congenial and fun to be with, but I was not used to being managed like this. Friends were fine, but being alone was fine too, also being with a woman, doing things one to one, holding hands, experiencing the osmosis of romance.

Semra and I had a date on Sep. 21, to visit one of her relatives on the Sedef (Mother-of-Pearl or Nacre) Island. But I had enough of relatives and friends. Instead, I took Father's Anadol and drove alone to Şile, a resort village at the confluence of the Bosporus and the Black Sea. After an overnight fling with two European girls (sisters), who were leaving that morning, I returned to İstanbul and came to Necla.

Already in June, it had dawned on me that the romance with Semra was doomed. This realization was perhaps the real cause of my anger, anger at the circumstances, karma. Semra was not a casual encounter at a beach resort with whom I could share a few wild days and then part. She was our next-door neighbor. Even if my devil-may-care personality took charge, there were insurmountable blocks. Suppose I asked her outright "let's elope somewhere for a week." OK, she might not have been allowed, or willing, to respond to that kind of invitation. This outcome would have been easy to deal with. "Win some, lose some," as the saying goes. But what if she accepted? Regardless of what she or her entourage had in mind, it did not seem right to take her some place merely to enjoy her, under a pretended romance, and then drop her at her home with a "thank you darling" and take off to Riyadh. This was the only possible outcome, because my circumstances did not allow me to consider asking her for anything more, which, I thought, she would have accepted then.

Riyadh was no place to start a marriage with anyone but a Saudi woman. Many married (Western) couples I knew there were having marital difficulties. And these couples had been acclimated to each other before Riyadh. So even if there was a chance with Semra, I would have doomed this very sociable young woman to spending many lonely days staring at the walls while I worked. Things would have been wonderful for me, to have an attractive young woman waiting for me at home, but terribly unfair to her. The environment in Riyadh was a romance tester, if not a killer. So knowing that all avenues were blocked, I did not pursue her. Yet, I had come to Tuzla to be with her. So I spent my vacation smoldering and vacillating. I was not really angry with Tuzla, Semra, or the girls, but at my stars, because I liked this spunky Turkish girl . . .

I did not regret my decision not to pursue Semra then, but I did lament something else. Perhaps no irony is complete without stupidity in addition. This one was on me. Then again, I was the one who had squandered two precious weeks away from Saudi Arabia on a doomed romance, who was going back to Riyadh, to be "alone" again. The day before my date with Semra, I asked Semra's friend Serap for a date, not because I liked her more, but because I was angry and felt like lashing out at the source of my frustration. Fortunately Serap turned me down.

Until 1980, I looked forward to seeing Semra in Tuzla in the summers. Then she moved to California. We met again in San Francisco in 1981. Indeed, my job offer from Stanford Research Institute came within a week of an unexpected call from her. For a moment it seemed that the stars would be supportive this time. It was not to be. By then, Semra had decided that I was a "yabani" and "acaip" (weird) person. In 1976, she had complimented me for being intelligent, though apparently without expecting an intelligent act from me. It never dawned on this lovely girl that (in 1976) I might have sacrificed us for her well-being. The spontaneity was gone; the irony was complete.

I could not warm up to Tuzla after 1980, though new friends, like Lucienne, Erol, Serpil, and a few others, made some days enjoyable. I went to the club when I was bored at home; I came home when I was bored at the club. Indeed, I came to Tuzla to brighten Mother for a few weeks, for she was bored there too. The year 1995 marked the 20th anniversary of the summer of 1976. That year, I had sent Semra and her sister many postcards from Africa. I did the same in 1995 and 1996, every month I traveled, this time only to Semra, scribbling just her first name and address, as a last greeting . . .

İbrahim bey, Sep. 24, 1976. I saw Necla's husband İbrahim bey the last time before my flight to Riyadh on Sep. 27, 1976. The congeniality between us ended in the morning of Sep. 24, by a combination of peculiar coincidences. Still annoyed about the situation with Semra, I did not want to be alone after I returned from Şile. İsmail, whom I knew since his birth in Samsun in 1954 (two months after Semra), decided to go out for a ride. While crossing the main street in Küçükyalı, a car came from behind a bus and hit my car violently on the side. İsmail left and came back with İbrahim bey to help out with the red tape.

In the morning of Sep. 24, while we were having breakfast, İbrahim bey started to badmouth America, and me for "acting American." Tired of listening to these hackneyed complaints about America, and attempts by others to define my identity, I told him somewhat abruptly that in the end it would best for Turkey to get its own house in order and not be at the mercy of America or any other country. I was not so much defending America. I had heard similar talk in other countries too, also from Europeans. Some of the allegations were probably true and the complaints were warranted. And our own experiences in America had not been all rosy. On the other hand, it seemed that, as often as not, these people blamed America arbitrarily for systemic deficiencies that had nothing to do with America. As if Turkey would have no problems if America did not exist, or did only good things. In this case, İbrahim bey was going a step further: he was seeking my concordance. Having heard similar criticisms from Father, he probably assumed that I would also jump at this chance to pile on America. Nevertheless, as far as I was concerned, this was a mild disagreement.

Things were never again congenial between us after this interaction. In fact, İbrahim bey and his family began to avoid Parents too. Apparently he was an orthodox Lâz and I had offended his ego. In his world of narcissistic vanities, where men, forget women, did not smoke in the presence of their (male) elders, some of whom older by only a few years, I had committed the ultimate disrespect by openly disagreeing with him. As far as he was concerned, I was no longer a Turk, certainly not a Lâz.

What surprised me was not that Lâz men saw the world this way, but that İbrahim bey had been all along an orthodox Lâz under his mild-mannered demeanor. (A chat with Necla in 1992 confirmed my thoughts.) I was reminded of another--to me inconsequential--altercation in Germany in 1959. Münir was so offended that I lit a cigarette in his presence that he stormed out of the house. It took Mother and his sister Emine an hour or two to calm him down. Though we were seemingly congenial again years later, I sensed that we were not as close as we had been when I was growing up in Samsun. Albeit, I returned to Riyadh on Sep. 27, 1976, pissed off at the world . . .

Necla: the Lâz Ways, 1992. Just before we left Turkey permanently in 1992, Necla came and stayed with us for a couple of days. She had married in 1953 and seemed all right when we left for America in 1958. The next time we saw her, ten years later, our Necla, who had the looks of a movie star, had turned into a skeleton, the way she was now. İbrahim bey had passed away several years ago. I thought she might talk freely. The two of us were sitting alone at our dinner table, when I asked her outright, "Necla, why did you lose so much weight, what happened to you?"

She must have wanted to chat, for she responded readily: "my marriage and İbrahim." She told me that while İbrahim had been very caring and a good person in so many ways, he was what he was: an orthodox Lâz man. She said that, without even intending it, he was abusive in underhanded Lâz ways. She cited several examples, but only one stuck to my mind. İbrahim bey had built a home and then put his and a Lâz friend's name on the title, refusing to include Necla. Of course, if something happened to him, the property would be Necla's. But the idea that he would do something like this, combined with other episodes of Lâz mentality, gradually eroded Necla's zest in her marriage.

This hit home. After building our home in Tuzla, Father had put his name only on the title, not Mother's. Now I knew that what I had thought to be an oversight had been a Lâz conspiracy all along. It was not that Lâz men denied anything to their families. It was a matter of ego, a face-saving gesture: a "real" Lâz man did not outwardly recognize a woman equal to him, not even his wife, not even a wife like Mother.

My mind flashed back to our Samsun days. I remembered Mother's rage over the Dionysian excesses peculiar to the Lâz. After Necla left the next morning, irately I confronted Father about this. Mother listened for more than an hour but did not say a word to stop me. She had grown up as an only child in a well-to-do and stable environment. There was no one there to whom she could have turned to when her father deserted her, when Father sacrificed her feelings to his and his family's whims. This was the first time in Mother's life that a friend stood by her, and said the things she kept inside all those years. I told Father that by not including Mother on the title he had forever denied himself the chance of even being in her league, never mind equality.

End of an Era, May 26, 1993. After Father's stroke on Dec. 4, 1989, we put our home in Tuzla for sale. Although we had one of the best waterfront properties in the complex, it seemed that some people thought they could purchase our home under a "forced sale" situation. They refused to make a bid, telling Mother that if we decided to lower the price, we should let them know. In May 1993, Tanju called to let us know that he had an offer for $255,000. We readily agreed to the sale, knowing it was cheap. The house sold on May 26. A month later, our former neighbors arrived to find out that we were no longer there, that an old traditional couple had purchased our home at a price that was probably less than some of them would have paid. We heard that some neighbors were angry with us "for not letting them know" that we had lowered the price.

They did not appreciate our situation. For a Turkish family in Turkey, the relocation to their summer home in Tuzla meant only a minor expense. For us, the round-trip ticket alone was $900 to $1,200 per person. Moreover, the Dollar appreciated faster than property values in Turkey. (One Dollar was worth about 10,000 TL in 1992, 62,000 TL as of January 1996, 112,000 TL in Jan. 1997.) Since we lived in America, obviously we would convert the sale proceeds into Dollars when the house sold. Thus, it did not make sense to wait, even if this led to a significantly higher offer in Turkish Liras, a doubtful prospect. So we sold and never looked back.

Mother. For most of her life, Mother could not decide if her generosity was real benevolence or gullibility. This inner debate did not put a pause to her generosity. The debate continued in her, while she continued in her ways, being benevolent and generous. Her generosity had both pecuniary and spiritual dimensions. Having gone through an awfully difficult time during the early years of her marriage, Mother virtually anticipated other people's difficulties. Knowing how difficult it was for people in need of help to ask for it, often she offered help and monetary grants based upon her assessment of someone's situation, without being asked.

I thought Mother's inquiry was a worthy philosophical debate for anyone. Of course, a benevolent person could not discuss this question with a miserly person and hope to find a meaningful answer. Miserly people saw the world from their perspective, thinking themselves as awfully smart, benevolent people as gullible, perhaps even stupid. To be sure, one was not smarter than the other. The miserly person was miserly; the benevolent person was benevolent, not as a result of high or low IQ on either side, but in response to an inner calling based on their genes, personalities, upbringing, environment, etc. In other words, intelligence versus gullibility was not the issue.

I did not agree with Mother that she might have acted foolish sometimes, allowing some people to take advantage of her. Looking at her dilemma from the context of her Turkish origins, I understood why Mother was having this debate in the first place. The Turkish people had a paradoxical nature. They could be most caring and very sincere, but they also had a distinctly "menfaatçı" (self-centered) streak, blended with acute survival intelligence. Thus, their sincerity, friendship, even warmth was often expedient and sycophantic. Whether this was a congenital cultural trait or a characteristic brought about by wars and social upheavals was irrelevant.

To drive home my point, I reminded Mother that by the norms in Turkey, Mother Theresa and many philanthropic men and women around the world would be utterly stupid. For the charity and goodness of these people surpassed any yardstick of generosity known in Turkey or in any Muslim culture, including Mother's. If instead of expressing appreciation and gratitude, some of the people Mother helped felt they had outwitted her, the deficiency was in these people, not in her. They were probably miserly people who would not have done for others what they got from Mother.

Indeed, I saw Turkish "Survival Intelligence" as self-defeating for Turkey, why, I thought, Turkey would never recover from its "developing country" status. After WWII, Germany and Japan had risen rapidly not because everyone tried to outsmart everyone else, but because the citizens put together their resources to serve a national sense of mission. They elevated their nations, and so themselves. So unless the Turks learned to apply their intelligence for a higher purpose than self-survival and only for their own "menfaat," there could be no better future for Turkey. Some people would rise above others, in a sinking country, which was happening. Therefore, I reiterated to Mother that rather than feeling foolish by the yardstick of the "ah-so-smart" miserly, she should celebrate herself as a superior and civilized human being who cared. The world needed more like her, not more of the miserly, the expedient.

As to Father, always a decent and honest human being, he became a superb and respected medical doctor. He could play the "Zigeunerweisen" on his violin, speak several languages. But neither he nor 40 years of America could change his ingrained identity. He had his views, values, and philosophy of life, they were carved on stone, and he remained a prisoner of them. The decades he spent in America seemingly only strengthened his beliefs. Because of his "my way or no way" beliefs, Father grew spiritually unhappy when things did not evolve the way he envisioned them. We adapted to him to a degree, often sacrificing our own happiness in the process, but eventually we chose our own way. For (paraphrasing Kahlil Gibran) Father never understood that "your children are by you and of you, but they are not yours. They are not there to live your life for you, but to find their own way. Your obligation to them is to help them find their way, not to demand that they follow a particular 'your' way."

After her marriage, Mother, the spoiled, blithely trusting, infinitely loving, kind, generous, tolerant, fair-minded, proud, intelligent and upbeat child-woman with a weak constitution and wan complexion, who was more emotional and intuitive than purposeful and disciplined, showed the kind of backbone that "strong" individuals would have envied. She did not allow her inner rage, that began in 1943, to defeat her or us. Instead, she became a profile of dignity under adversity. She resolved to remove the obstacles and mold the circumstances, and she succeeded. Ours was not an unhappy family, primarily because of her. She held us together.

Life could not defeat Mother, though sometimes it tried hard and came close. How do I know she is not defeated? From her warm, hospitable, and caring demeanor, spunky personality, ebullient and musical voice, and infectious laughter, which is as happy and "all out" in 1997 as (she says it was) in 1940. She is truly one of a kind. We cater to her wishes and whims not because she demands obedience, but because they are important to her.

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Sirman A. Celâyir, "Diary of an Immigrant Family" (3 Volumes, 675 pages, July 4, 1997) Volume 2 Ottoman & Our History, Karma, Immigration /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sirman A. Celâyir, "Diary of an Immigrant Family"
(3 Volumes, 675 pages, July 4, 1997)

Volume 2
Ottoman & Our History, Karma, Immigration
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