Istanbul Again - Part Two

Nahil - a gift shop that supports women and children

As an American woman living abroad, I need a touch of home now and then, a support system of people who understand my situation.  I have found support again and again from the American International Women's Club of Cologne.  There is always someone there to offer kind, concrete help to me when I've been in need.  But the Club doesn't stop here.  One of the amazing things about this women's club is that the Club exists, not only to be a place where Americans and others interested in the United States can gather, socialize and make contacts.  It's all about serving.  I have a writing friend there who's a singer/songwriter.  Each year she does a benefit concert, donating all the profits to causes she carefuly chooses in Cologne and abroad.  The Club uses countless events, whether it be a sponsored cancer walk, a gala ball or a class in Japanese cookery, to collect money and sometimes clothes or blood, for someone in need.  The Club has sponsored everything from water projects in the third world to aid for victims of the Fukushima nuclear reactor disaster.

This attitude, as a raison d'etre, inspires me and sensitizes me to other projects dedicated to the cause of women.  The last time I was in New York City, I was browsing through shops in Williamsburg and came upon a cute vintage clothing shop, Lavai Maria.  I couldn't wear these clothes unless I were about thirty years younger 

Lavai Maria - a vintage clothing shop in Williamsburg, Brooklyn

and at least thirty pounds lighter, but I found a nice shopping bag there, and asked about it.  "Oh, the owner buys these bags from a women's cooperative in India to support their work.  Every penny you spend on this bag will go to this group in India," said the sales clerk.  I bought the bag, even though I had to pay $25 for a thin printed cotton bag.  I could get a sturdier one in Germany for $2, but it wouldn't have supported women's work.

Now, six months later in Istanbul, after finishing a delicious, filling breakfast at the hotel where we have to walk up a steep hill for our meal, we stroll along one of the side streets between the hotel and the Istiklal.  I spot a shop window with cute items like lacy doilies, and everything looks handmade.  "I've got to go in," I tell my family.  "I'll just be a few minutes."  But I am entranced by practically everything I see in this shop - attractive lace-packaged soaps, hand-made dolls, clothes, Turkish food items, bags, lace Christmas ornaments.  I pick two lace angel Christmas tree ornaments to bring back as gifts to Germany, and a glasses case in the shape of a cat for Peter.  He will like that, I think.

I am in the shop so long, the rest of the family comes into the shop and joins me.  They are also enamored.  By now, I have paid for my purchases and learned about the shop.  As I suspected, it is run and operated by women, and supports Turkish women in poor parts of Turkey.  It is these women who make all the products.  We gaze at the photos on the wall showing women in rural areas making the items being sold. 

I tell the shopkeeper that I'm interested in women's work, and she hands me a brochure in English.  This shop, Nahil, at Bekar Sok. 17 (near Taksim Square), was started by the Foundation for the Support Women's Work (FSWW) in 1986.  As the brochure says, it is a non-profit, non-governmental organization, whose aim is to support low-income women's groups to improve the quality of their lives, their communities and to strengthen their leadership.  The FSWW helps to establish and run women's and children's centers all over rural Turkey.

Women making gifts to sell

        

I hope many people will support these women.  I have heard that women in these rural areas, where traditional, conservative values tend to dominate, have it especially hard.  Some conservative ideas are, of course, helpful, but others are deeply oppressive and damaging for men as well as women.  It is a good thing when these women are able to gather together to work and talk, all the while helping to support their families.  As they meet and talk, they grow in self-confidence as well as add to their income.

I am reminded of something I read about women in Elik Shafak's novel, The Forty Rules of Love.   Elik Shafak is a Turkish novelist I have discovered on this trip to Istanbul.  This novel is partly about Rumi and his mentor Shams, and partly about a modern American woman.  Shams has finally found his spiritual companion, Rumi, in Konya, a conservative rural part of Turkey.  One of Rumi's disciples, a young woman, is having a discussion with Shams about the role of women in the Koran.  She is greatly disturbed by this passage, which she well knows, and therefore asks Shams to explain.  He quotes:  Men are the maintainers of women because Allah has made some of them to excel others and because they spend out of their property; the good women are therefore obedient, guarding the unseen as Allah has guarded; and (as to) those on whose part you fear desertion, admonish them, and leave them alone in the sleeping-places and beat them; then if they obey you, do not seek a way against them; surely Allah is High, Great." 

As I read this passage, I am both shocked and also not surprised in the least.  This passage verifies the worst of what I have heard about Islam.  I am intrigued, and can also imagine the disappointment this disciple must feel, having the most troubling passage of all in the Koran being quoted back to her.  How often I have been dismayed when Christians have quoted the verses in the Bible by St. Paul in Ephesians 5:22, "Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church,."  And the passage in 1 Corinthians 14:33 forbidding women from having speaking functions, including pastoring a church,  "Women should remain silent in the churches."   These ring very harsh, and it has taken a lot of searching before I have been able to find people enlightened enough to explain the real meaning of these passages.  In the first, I have been told that it means that women should honor their husbands.  It is, in fact, about developing a culture of honoring one another.  This passage, in fact, begins by telling both husbands and wives to submit to one another.  How very different from the first reading.

The same applies to the second passage about women remaining silent in church.  There are still many churches that refuse to let women even serve communion, let alone preach or run a church.  What Paul really meant was that women, who sat in another part of the synagogue from men, shouldn't yell across the synagogue during the service to discuss things.  They should wait until they were at home.  I learned that later church "fathers" changed names of people in the Bible such as Junia, who was a female bishop, to Junius, a name which didn't exist, to neutralize the gender so that no one in future generations would read about a female bishop.

These memories shoot through my head like a bullet, as I read this passage from the Koran that Shams quotes.  But then, he goes on, surprising both the disciple and me, the reader, by quoting a different translation of the same passage:

"Men are the support of women as God gives some more means than others, and because they spend of their wealth (to provide for them).  So women who are virtuous are obedient to God and guard the hidden as God has guarded it.  As for women you feel are averse, talk to them suasively; then leave them alone in bed (without molesting them) and go to bed with them (when they are willing).   If they open out to you, do not seek an excuse for blaming them.  Surely God is sublime and great."

What a difference between the two versions!  My heart goes out to women in Turkey, in the US, in Germany, to women everywhere who have suffered and who continue to suffer under ignorant, misguided male domination, unable to fulfill their God-given destinies.  May they come out of that heavy, oppressive place.  Both they and men will be better off for this.  I hope the women in rural Turkey, creating these beautiful gifts, are discovering their own value as they share their beautiful wares with others.  

     

Istanbul Again - Part One

This balloon climbs over Istanbul with a lot more ease and speed than we could.  We can only view the Galata Tower from a distance today.  We, weighed down by injury and pain, are not equal to the climb.

Things are not going as planned, and this is not helping Peter's mood.  Peter is often cranky today.  He has much less tolerance than in past trips.  This troubles me.  Is it his broken rib?  

Our shuttle brought us to a different hotel than the one we booked in.  "There is a problem in your hotel," the manager told us, "so you are staying at this Collage hotel tonight and possibly tomorrow night as well.  Something needs to be repaired, and since tomorrow is Sunday, it is doubtful whether a repairman will be able to come.  You will probably be staying at our hotel until Monday."  

I'm not too unhappy about this.  We have a nice, large room, and Jon has a room of his own in our suite.   There are problems, however, with this hotel, located in the Cihangir part of Istanbul.  I read on the plane that Cihangir is a really cool, trendy part of Istanbul.  The writer called it the "East Village" of Istanbul.  It sure doesn't look it, though.  The buildings don't look like anything special at all, and to get to Taksim Square, you have to climb the steepest hill I have ever seen.  They don't have breakfast for us in our new hotel, either.  "You'll be there in three minutes," promises the manager.  I doubt it.  We have to climb this steep hotel to get to another Collage hotel for breakfast.  Oh, well.  I am determined to take this in stride.  I want to learn lesson four.  I am going to accept what is, and adapt to it.  I won't let a steep climb spoil my mood.  But Peter sees it differently.  I'm going to have to adapt to him, too.  

The manager of our new hotel, who looks like he's still in college, sprints up the hill with us to the Collage hotel at Taksim Square.  He chats with me about Cihangir, the neighborhood the hotel is in.  "This is where the movie producers, movie stars and soccer stars live.  Here it costs over a million euros to buy an apartment."  Unbelievable.  

By the time most of us reach the hotel, ten minutes later, I am huffing and puffing.  Jon and the hotel manager are relaxed.  The manager is used to the climb, and Jon works out each day.  Peter is a block away and seems to be groaning with each step.  His mood picks up, however, when he views the the breakfast buffet.  It is a beautiful buffet visually, with cheese and meats cut into triangles and cream cheese in balls coated in things like coconut and sesame.  There are sauces like tahini, yogurt and honey.   Little crisp cucumbers and tomatoes with mint leaves explode with flavor in our mouths.   

Peter is so exhausted after breakfast, especially after that climb, which must be excruciating with his broken rib, he has to have a break.  About a half hour later, we start out, intending to climb the Galata Tower, where we can have a look from it over the city.  We walk all along the Istiklal, discovering different things than what we saw the last time in Istanbul.  Today we stroll through old shopping arcades, several of them with stained glass.  They have seen better days, but they are still charming. 

A "passage" on the Istiklal

We look for a Sufi school that features sufi dancing at 3 pm, on the last Sunday a month, which happens to be today.  The walk there winds downhill, less strenuous for Peter.  We pass a café featuring chocolate and candles and a building with very peaceful flute music coming out from the window.  Funny how music can transport me, putting me into a peaceful mood.  The walk is pretty, past lute and other music instrument shops and boutiques.  The streets are narrow, hilly, and winding.  We later buy lute - oud  music CDs at a really nice CD shop along that street.  Peter loves the sound of the oud.  He tells me he would love to try and play one. 

The afternoon performance of the whirling dervishes is sold out.  We have to buy tickets for this evening, which means a change in plans.  Another problem - the lines for the Galata tower are so long, we decide to try that another time.  Jon and I walk while Peter limps along to the Galata bridge.  We stop at a fish market, looking out over the water and boats leaving, families out for tea and coffee in the cafes.  There are lots of tourists out there, but also many Turkish families for a day out.  Men fishing on the bridge are later joined by their wives, heads covered, and children.  I see a little kid of about two sleeping in the shade, near his father. He is oblivious to the crowds, to the noise, completely at peace.  He has no difficulty adapting to the day.  Is it because he feels secure?  

Fishermen on the Galata Bridge

We stroll through the Egyptian spice market.  I get ripped off, buying a “sinus” tea – probably 20 grams for 20 lira, which is about €8, or $12.  It is so crowded and I, like Peter am tired, so I don't bother questioning his price.

Coffee and tea at the café where the Orient Express leaves from, the train featured in the Agatha Christie book and film "Murder on the Orient Express", then back across the bridge.

Finally a chance to sit down, during the sufi dancing.  I try and get into the mood, reading about the stages of this dance.  They call this ceremony "Sema", which was partly inspired by Rumi, the most famous sufi master of all.  Here in Turkey they call Rumi "Mevlevi".  

In the first part of this mystical journey, the dancers are dressed in black, to symbolize their original state.  These clothes, our natural state, will have to be shed.  Underneath the black they weare white robes.  The black shows us that we have to shed/submit our natural selves to God, in order to enter into God, who is love.  Before they shed their garments, though, they greet one another and their master.  We need to accept - to greet and welcome ourselves, each other and our darkened state before we can shed them, receiving love.  And then, now transformed by, they can again reclothe themselves in black, joining the rest of creation.  Yes, I agree.  Much of this sounds like the zen journey I once traveled.  It sounds like our Christian journey about returning to life after being born again.  This all sounds very nice, but the music lulls me into sleep.  My soul is not touched by this symbol of a profound spiritual journey.  For me, it is sad to be touched only slightly, in the aestheitic, cerebral part of my brain.  

Sufi dancers begin their "journey" in black.

As I review my day, however, I see that I have been on this journey all day.  What else have I been doing but attempting to submit my natural desire for comfort to the greater need to adapt and grow?  With each climb, I tell myself that I will get stronger, the more I climb this hill.  Discipline is definitely a virtue, and so is adapting to the situation.  We adapted by coming to a later performance, and by walking all over old Istanbul, a very difficult thing for Peter in his state.  We had to put off viewing Istanbul from the Galata Tower.  I blessed myself, even after having been cheated while buying tea.  I have submitted to the day, and Peter has endured it, painfully walking every bit of it

We eat a delicious, authentic Turkish dinner at the Haci Abdullah restaurant, where we ate last time we were in Istanbul.  It’s so nice to hear Jon, who is experiencing Istanbul for the first time, exclaim, “Is this ever a beautiful city!” 

A Taste of Turkey - Day Six

A rug weaver at a carpet manufacturer in Istanbul

Today we pay a visit to the beautiful showroom of the Nakkas carpet manufacturer and dealer.  We're greeted by a representative of the firm who speaks excellent German, and who shows us a woman weaving a silk carpet.  The threads are dyed with dye produced by Bayer, the company I get most of my English students from!  The dyes are weather and color-fast.  He tells us that these weavers have to be trained, but that any young woman who weaves carpets will have received training in her home.  The progress she makes is very slow – it would take a year and a half to weave a 1x1-1/2 meter carpet with ten knots per centimeter.  Carpets vary, we learn, by the knot technique and by the number of knots per centimeter.  The higher the number of knots, the finer the carpet.  Silk threads make a more lustrous carpet with more sheen, but wool can also make a beautiful carpet.  He shows us angora wool gathered in the warm months, when the sheep is outdoors and not lying in a muddy stall, dirtying his fleece.   He says that the term “angora” for the goat that provides this wool comes from “Ankara”, the origin of this goat. 

We learn about the different regions these rugs come from.  Armenia rugs are geometric, with stripes or angled patterns.  Hereke rugs have pictures, like the “tree of life”, which he shows us.  We meet the designer of one of these beautiful carpets – he has won an award for his design, which include a river and the tree, a typical Muslim theme which we’ve seen in paintings, wall hangings and in mosques.  Some of the rugs we see have been made with natural dyes such as saffron, indigo and pomegranate. 

The government of Turkey is actively promoting this handicraft.  It gives many women otherwise unemployed an occupation and it also helps an ancient craft to survive.  More and more carpets are being made industrially today, in Turkey too, and fewer and fewer handmade carpets are being made.  It would be a shame for this handicraft to die out.  But – the price of a nice rug is astronomical!  We see a beautiful silk rug only about 50x 80 cm in a beautiful pattern in turquoise and beige shades, more than twenty knots per centimeter, which would normally cost over €2000.  Two couples in our group buy carpets – one purchases this small rug for €2000 and another a rug about 1x1-1/2 meters, for over €3000.  The salesmen are aggressive in their tactics, but willing to go down if one is persistent.  One of them attacks me in the short period of time I'm separated from my husband to go to the toilet.  After Egypt, I'm much more on guard.  I use the broken record tactic - keep saying no, but tell him they’re really beautiful.  He finally asks me directly, “What is making you shy about buying a rug?”  

 “It’s the money,” I reply.  “I simply can’t afford one of these carpets.”  Which is the truth.   

I’m not sure all the carpets they sell have been made with double knots, but I learn that all Turkish rugs are made this way.  Double-knotted rugs last forever and don’t fray.  If I had loads of money, I would certainly buy a large double-knotted silk rug.

The Blue Mosque as seen from the roof of the Nakkas carpet manufacturer

After our salesman is satisfied that I don't intend to buy, he suggests that I go upstairs to the terrace, where I can enjoy a stunning view of Istanbul.  I follow his advice,and am overwhelmed to see the blue mosque so close-up.  “Don’t miss the basement,” says Harun as he sees me head upstairs.  “The building is built over a Byzantine cistern.”  So after gazing at the brilliant Bosphorus and admiring the best views yet of the monuments we have been admiring, I walk down to the basement, where there are the same Corinthian columns lined up in straight lines, exactly like what we saw before at the Basilica Cistern.  Here, you can smell the mold, though, and there is very little water in the cistern.  I read that this cistern stems from the sixth century A.D. 

Interior of the beautiful Rüstem Pasha mosque

A tile in the Rüstem Pasha mosque

We ride in the bus a short distance after our carpet exhibit to yet another, our final mosque of our sojourn in Istanbul, the Rüstem Pasha mosque.  This mosque was designed by Sinan, who built all of the other mosques we have seen except the Hagia Sophia, his model, which was originally a church.  This mosque is filled from top to bottom with gorgeous hand-made blue tiles.  This is much more of a blue mosque than the one named so.  Harun says that Rüstem had unbelievably good kismet – a word that seems synonymous with fate or karma.  Rüstem managed to live a happy, fulfilled life, not seeking to outdo his master, the sultan, but rising on his own to enormous wealth.  People tried to discredit him, but he always foiled them, rising above their tricks.  My guidebook describes him in less favorable terms.  It says that he and Roxelana, Süleyman’s wife, plotted to turn the sultan, Süleyman, against his favorite son, Mustafa.  The book says they succeeded in getting Süleyman to order Mustafa to be strangled. 

We walk to the edge of the new mosque and listen to the call for Friday prayers.  It is so beautiful, and the few moments of stillness, listening, bring me closer to God.  I stand there, eyes shut, smelling chestnuts roasting and coffee, feeling the hot sun.  I thank God for all of this, and bless the people in the group.  I love the way Harun talks about God and the beliefs of the Muslims.  Harun has said something not quite accurate about Christianity, however, and this bothers me.  He says that Christians and Jews don't believe in work as a means of glorifying God.  So, the first moment I get a chance, I show him 1 Corinthians 10: 31 – “Whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.”  I just happen to have an English translation of the Bible stored in my android phone.

Harun has told us not to be misled by the stylishly dressed, forward-thinking people of Istanbul.  He says, "Don't think these people are not devout Muslims, just because they don't necessarily have their heads covered, or you see their teenagers strolling down the Istiklal Cadessi hand in hand at night.  Just because you don't see them stopping everything to pray doesn't mean they don't pray.  When you see wine and raki here in all the restaurants, it doesn't mean the people drink alcohol every day.  These are people of deep faith and strict morals, who go to the mosque regularly."  He goes on to tell us that Istanbul, with its mushrooming population of poor Turkish people streaming in from the country to find work in Istanbul, faces many cultural clashes between the classical urban Istanbulians and the newcomers.  There are just as many problems trying to integrate these differing approaches to faith and life here in Istanbul as there are in Germany, which is also struggling to integrate Turkish and other immigrants into modern Germany.  

I take note of what Harun says, but I am not convinced.  I still think the people we've seen in Egypt appear more devout.  In Istanbul, we see many Turks drinking alcohol.  We hear western music as well as Turkish blasting from the discos.  Orhan Pamuk says in his book Istanbul that his family and many other wealthy people in Turkey were nonbelievers.  Atatürk, the man responsible for transforming this country in the early twentieth century into the modern, forward-looking nation it is, belonged to no religion at all.  He said, "I have no religion, and at times I wish all religions at the bottom of the sea. He is a weak ruler who needs religion to uphold his government; it is as if he would catch his people in a trap. My people are going to learn the principles of democracy, the dictates of truth and the teachings of science. Superstition must go. Let them worship as they will; every man can follow his own conscience, provided it does not interfere with sane reason or bid him against the liberty of his fellow-men."  I have found this quote in the link above, and it can be found in Ataturk : The Biography of the Founder of Modern Turkey (2002) by Andrew Mango.  Atatürk created Turkey into a secular democracy devoid of sharia law, into a nation that has written the death penalty out of its constitution.  I believe that his spirit is still strong in Turkey, despite the increase of traditional Islam which you can see everywhere as well.  The young women are much more modestly clad than those in Germany, but they fit right into the rest of Europe and the Western world.  Young men are all wearing jeans.  Commerce and consumption appear to be very much a part of life here.

I don't know, of course, what is going on inside the hearts and minds of the millions of people inhabiting this city.  To me, living in a place that is not radical would feel a lot better than being around religious fanatics.  Harun tells us the crime rate is quite low in Istanbul.  It looks as though tolerance is quite high. 

I believe it is possible to be spiritual, to be connected to God from the core, through to every pore in one's body and mind.  In fact, I believe those most deeply connected with their Source are the ones who are so connected, they have learned to live in love and harmony with others.  I am not afraid of spiritual people who are tolerant.  I hope I am one of those.  I welcome others who live and think this way.  It the fanatics who want to impose their way upon others who cause me concern.

For lunch, Peter and I eat fish sandwiches near the New Mosque and the Egyptian Market - on the shores of the Golden Horn.  This is a charming location to eat lunch.  The customers are on solid, firm land, whereas the fish sellers fry the fish from boats, rocking along with the movement of the water.  

Later we shop in the Egyptian market, where we can buy all the wonderful spices we bought in Egypt earlier this year.  We're already running out!  The spices here smell great, but not as intensely as those in Aswan, the best market I have ever seen for spices.  We also buy some Turkish delight - lokum -  at the Haci Bekir, a shop near the New Mosque, to bring back to Germany.  Harun says this is the best shop in Istanbul for Turkish delight.  He has shared cinnamon and rosewater flavored lokum - both of them delicious, so we choose the same flavors, among the many on offer.

The Bosphorus Bridge, seen from our boat ride

For the remainder of the afternoon, we enjoy a peaceful, beautiful boat ride on the Bosphorus.  Harun has hired a boat just for us.  The warm sunlight comforts us as we think about returning to colder climes tomorrow.

And later, dinner in the “Fish Point” Restaurant on the Galata Bridge, looking out in the evening darkness at the Topkapi Palace lit up in the distance.  Most of us have sea bass – and a host of different meze.  We have been a rather quiet, introverted, yet harmonious group.  By now, we all enjoy each other and are sorry to part.  We are all a bit sad about going home, leaving this wonderful, vibrant, sunny city for cold, rainy, wet Germany.

I intend to come back – next time with our son and his girlfriend in tow.  They would love the Istiklal Cadessi, the pedestrian zone filled day and night with thousands of young people.  This must be the liveliest city I have ever seen, except possibly New York City.  It is a lively, peaceful, vibrant city.  We must come back.      

  

Jewish Prague

Meisel Synagogue, Prague

This summer I've been away a lot - with people other than my husband.  I was in Paris twice - once with my friend Elaine and once with my niece, Sarah - you can read about that trip in the link provided.  I was even in England once.  All this traveling is one of the perks of living in Europe.  But I was missing my husband, and he me!   Peter and I decided it's about time we did something together.  I saw our son Jon and niece Sarah off at the Frankfurt airport and the next day Peter and I took off with Toffee, our little Havanese dog, for a week in the Czech Republic.  Since we have the dog along, we have to do a lot of our sightseeing separately.  Dogs are not a welcome sight in manicured parks or museums, although it's no problem taking them into department stores or restaurants!  

While in Prague, in one of my periods of sightseeing alone, I went on a guided tour of the historic Jewish area.  They call this the "Jewish Museum of Prague".  It is the largest museum of this sort in Europe.  I was the only one on the tour who wasn’t Jewish.  That alone made for an interesting afternoon.  For me, it was as interesting seeing the tour through the eyes of Jewish tourists.  In the beginning, people were introducing themselves to each other – a French couple, two American couples and me.  One of them mentioned that she had been on a cruise, and I asked her about that.  “We went down the Rhine,” she said. 

“How was it?”  I asked. 

“A bit too German for my taste,” she answered.

I was then interrupted by our tour guide, who asked where I lived.

“Germany,” I answered.  Immediately the woman who had been on the cruise walked away from me, as far away as she could be and still hear the guide.  I wondered if this was because of my admission as to where I live.  I thought it would be wise to add a bit about where I live, since everyone in the group had heard our embarrassing encounter.  Why is Germany still such a painful subject?  Why can’t it be neutral to live in this country that has also contributed so much to the world?  For goodness' sake, the war has been over for almost seventy years.   

“I live in Germany, but I’m not German.  My husband is German, and he is not anti-Semitic.”

The cruise husband nodded and said, “Yes, there are lots of really nice, good Germans.”

Susanna, the guide, asked where I live in Germany.

“Cologne.”

“That’s a nice city.”

As soon as we moved on a little, the cruise lady way ahead of me, I hurried up to her and said,

“I’m not offended if you had a problem with the Germans on the cruise.”

She seemed surprised that I had come to her, and at first was at a loss for words.

“Well, that wasn’t really what I meant to say,” she said. 

“What was the problem then?”

“We experienced some anti-Semitism.”

"I'm so sorry to hear that," I said. 

Her husband told me that he had worked for the past thirty years with a German colleague who was a wonderful person.  However, they talked about every subject in the world except for one – the war.

“That’s a pity,” I said.

Later it occurred to me that there are two partners in a conversation.  If there is an elephant in the room, one of them could mention it.  Perhaps the German felt too much shame to bring it up.  In that case, the Jewish man would have been stronger, and the two of them could have had healing conversations.

I wonder how many non-Jews take part in these tours.  I felt a bit exposed, being the only gentile.  The cruise couple treated me naturally for the most part after our awkward beginning, and the others even told me tidbits about Jewish culture I didn’t know.  I found it very interesting, and it illuminated for me some of the things that went on in Nazi Germany.

One of the things I learned was that for hundreds of years, the Jews were forced to live in the area now called “Josefstadt.”   There was a fence around the ghetto and a gate with a lock.  The citizens were locked in during the night.  In the daytime, they were free to move throughout the city, but had to wear something yellow as a badge that they were Jewish – a yellow circle patch on their clothes, a bracelet, collar, or hat.  Yellow was the symbol for something seen as despicable.  These yellow stars of David worn by Jews in Nazi Germany were only an adaptation Hitler and the Nazis made on an already established practice. 

I found out that in the outside world, Jews could only be involved in finance, particularly lending for a profit.  They had to pay huge taxes on their gains, but some still became wealthy in their practice.  Mordecai Meisel, who used his money to build a synagogue named after him, was one of those who used his wealth to give back to the many impoverished Jews in Prague.  Jews did have other professions inside their ghetto, though.  There were even Jewish beer brewers.

The hero for the Jewish community was the emperor Joseph, the eldest son of the Hapsburg Maria Theresa.  I learned that she was rabidly anti-Semitic, that she learned this attitude from her father.  Her daughter, Marie Antoinette, wife of King Louis XV of France, whose ghost I encountered in Paris many times, was anti-Semitic.  But her brother Joseph was not, and did everything he could to make Jews equal.  Except for one thing – they were required to register, and somehow this affected their marriage rights.  The guide said only one child in a family had the right to marry.  In any case, the Jews loved him so much, they named their ghetto after him. 

In the Pinkas synagogue, I saw the names of Franz Kafka’s sisters listed - killed by the Nazis. 

Franz Kafka

Our guide showed us caricatures to show the popular Czech attitude towards Jews.  One of the ways they derided Jews was to portray them as insects.  This reminded me of Kafka, whose protagonist in the story “Metamorphosis” becomes a bug.  I asked the guide whether she thought there was any connection here.

“I don’t think so,” she said.  “He was a secular Jew who came from a privileged family.”

An Israeli woman who later joined the tour disagreed.  “I have nothing to do with the history of Prague, but as I walk through this city, I have a very heavy heart,” she said.  “I think Kafka could have felt what his ancestors felt.  Why should he not have identified with them?”

I agree.  I have a heavy heart for the Germans and the Jews.  I am sad to think of a city that was so great as this, now living mostly from its past.  It is magnificent, laden with one stunning palace after another.  There are so many palaces, people can’t afford to live in them and they have become embassies, government ministries and corporate headquarters.  There are wonderful examples of architecture from every period from the middle ages on.  There are still street signs in German, hinting to a past that had nothing to do with Nazis.  These were Germans who worked alongside Jews, who formed the intelligentsia of this city.  For hundreds of years, German was the official language here.  Now there is nothing left.  The Germans didn’t enjoy sharing power.  Eventually the Czech nationals took it away from the German-speaking Hapsburgs.  Then World War II ended all traces of German culture.  And now it’s all gone, all but beautiful buildings and a few streets hinting to the curious about a past that is no more.

If only people would accept each other.  Our cities and our lives would be all the richer for it.

   

It All Started with a Dog

It all started with a dog.  My dog, Toffee.  A few of his ancestors many dog generations ago, but within my own lifetime, got smuggled out of Cuba for committing the Communist “sin” of being decadent.  The rest got killed.  Toffee is not decadent.  He is a blessing.

Toffee

How good that we have a new breed of dog now, the Havanese.  My own particular specimen has done a world of good, and he doesn’t even know about it.  This reminds me of something Jesus said about your left hand not being supposed to know the good that your right hand does. 

But before I get too far into this story, let me begin again, this time starting with a popular German vegetable. 

The king of German vegetables - white asparagus

This week I discovered the ideal discussion topic for my English class – asparagus.  It’s asparagus season right now in Germany, the season you find white asparagus in all the restaurants, and white and green asparagus in all the supermarkets, along with Hollandaise sauce , the traditional accompaniment to white asparagus, already prepared and sold in cartons on a shelf next to the asparagus. 

The BBC ran a story on German white asparagus, complete with a podcast, perfect for me to share with my class.  The narrator mentioned in his story that Germany has a less sophisticated cuisine than Britain because Britain’s culture is more eclectic. He was referring to all the people from all over the world who have been pouring into Britain from Britain’s former colonies over the past few decades – Indians, Pakistanis, Jamaicans, Irish, Italians, Nigerians, to name a few.  It must have escaped him that the same is true for Germany, only the immigrants are not from former colonies.  They are economic refugees.

   

Thanks to Toffee, I have made friends with Katie and Sophia, some immigrant children in my neighborhood, which is full of immigrants, including me.  I've written about these girls before, so click here if you want to read more about them.  Katie and Sophia ring my doorbell regularly, asking to take Toffee out.  For them it is an honor, and for me a break from our normal routine of taking the dog out, three times a day, day in, day out, whatever the weather.  A couple weeks ago when they came to the door, I announced to them that Toffee was an uncle – his sister had given birth to four little puppies. 

“Can we see them?” they begged. 

“I’ll ask,” I promised, and then phoned my friend Denise.  One of her dogs is Toffee’s mother, and the other Toffee’s sister.  We had to wait a couple of weeks until the puppies’ eyes and ears were opened, but this week they were ready for company.   The girls arrived punctually at the appointed time and I phoned Denise to see if it was still OK to come.

“Oh, it’s been so busy,” Denise said.  “I haven’t even had lunch yet, and we have more visitors coming later today.  Could you come a bit later?”

“We’ll drive slowly,” I said.  “And we’ll only stay a few minutes.”  To kill time, we all sat on the floor and played with Toffee for a while.

“Toffee is the only dog my mother likes,” said Katie.  “If I could have a dog, it would have to be someone like Toffee.”

I told the girls about our mating Toffee with another Havanese dog last week.  These girls, age 9 and 10, know about the facts of life, and wanted to know if the dog has gotten pregnant.  “It’s too soon to tell,” I said.

We piled into the car and drove off to Denise’s.  While waiting at a stop light, Katie said, “My uncle lives over there in that building,” pointing to a brick apartment building.  I had thought she and her mother were the only people from Cameroon in Cologne. 

“I didn’t know you had an uncle here,” I said. 

“I have lots of aunts and uncles here, all in Cologne” she answered.

“I only have an aunt in Germany, far away.  Every one else is in the Czech Republic,” said Sophia.

I have no relatives here, nor does Peter, my German husband.

Despite my driving slowly, we arrived way too early, so I decided to take them with me into the supermarket at the corner.  I wanted to buy green asparagus for the weekend.  Peter prefers green asparagus, even though he’s German and most Germans, especially older ones, eat only the white variety. 

“I’ve never eaten asparagus,” said Katie.  “Me neither,” said Sophia.  But they spotted the asparagus before I did.

Finally, we had killed enough time, and we walked over to Denise’s.  “Do you think I could take photos with my cell phone?” asked Sophia.

“I don’t see why not,” I said.

But all thoughts of photos were gone as soon as we saw the puppies.  It was the same feeling as when we first saw Toffee.  Four tiny little creatures, so perfect, so helpless.  They fit into the palm of your hand.  All was hushed and reverent as two girls and two women sat on the floor, holding the little puppies in turn.  After a few minutes, Bijou, their mother came and nursed them as we sat in awe, watching.  This was her first litter, and it was as though she always nursed babies.  Less than a week ago I had witnessed her brother Toffee mating for the first time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

“It feels so holy in here,” I commented.

“One evening this week I came in here and did nothing for an entire hour except and sit and watch these puppies,” said Denise.  She seemed to be in no hurry.

“We have guinea pigs too,” she told the girls.

“I have a guinea pig at home,” said Sophia.  “We used to have two, but one died.”

“Would you like to see our guinea pigs?  We have hens too.”

“Oh, yes!” 

So we all went out into the back yard, the girls clutching their handbags in case anyone should break into the house and steal them.  I had told them not to leave their bags in the car, lest anyone break in and steal them, so they were not letting go of their bags anywhere. 

We visited the guinea pigs and the girls held all four of them. 

“This one looks almost like Toby – the one who died,” Sophia said, holding one of the guinea pigs.  Denise’s daughter, nine, was outside playing with one of her friends.  “Would you like to hold a hen?” she asked.  The girls took turns trying to hold the hen, but it kept flying out of their arms.  I admired Leah, who carries the animals around with such grace.  She’s a real natural.  “We have eight hens,” she said.  “We get eggs from them every day.”

“I annoyed a chicken in Cameroon,” Katie said. 

“Did you hold it?” I asked.  Katie nodded.

I’m allergic to most animals and the straw that is around them, so I instinctively turn away.  That’s why it’s such a miracle for me to be able to have a hypoallergenic dog! 

Sophia and Katie couldn’t get enough.  I held their handbags so they could climb into the tree house, unencumbered. 

All four girls clambered up and were in a world to themselves as they called, “Tigger!” and a stray local cat came to them, and I stood there with the handbags.  I heard them talking about their ages, about school, about hens and guinea pigs.    

 I got tired of standing there, waiting, and I had told Denise we’d only be staying a few minutes.  By now it was over an hour, and Denise had long since gone inside the house.  “Come down, girls!” I called.  “It’s time to go home.” 

They climbed down, and then Leah said, “Would you like to see one of the hens do gymnastics?”  I had never heard of a hen doing gymnastics, and was intrigued.  We stayed and watched as she went into the hen house, pulled out one of the hens and carried her around the yard as her friend played assistant, holding a handful of grains as a reward for the hen’s tricks.  They carefully placed the hen’s claws onto the handles of the seesaw and moved it up and down.  The hen stayed put!  They put the hen onto the swing, and the hen didn’t budge as they gently pushed the swing back and forth.  Leah carried the hen onto the top of the slide and we watched it – whoosh! - slide down and flutter her wings a few times.  They put her onto the monkey bars and she balanced there a few seconds.  This was quite an amazing hen, and an amazing girl, who could get a hen to do such marvelous things.

By now we had been there nearly two hours.  “We must go home,” I said.  “Your mothers will wonder where you are.”

“Can we look at the puppies one more time?” Sophia asked.

“OK – just a peek.” 

As we walked back into the house, Katie said, “I wish I could live in a house like this.  Maybe when I’m grown up.  I guess you have to be rich to have all those animals.”

I know that Denise isn’t rich in money.  But she and her family are rich in love for animals and other people.  They have only one child of their own, but four foster children, a single mother and her daughter living with them, and all these animals in a house and large garden, right in the middle of Cologne.

We walked back into the puppy temple, which was now filled with another family admiring the puppies, and three adult dogs.  Denise had finally had enough of us, and we left. 

As I walked out of the house, carrying my asparagus, Katie said, “In Cameroon they chew on something that looks a bit like asparagus.  It’s called ‘sugar cane’ and it’s very refreshing and delicious.”

“I’ve always wanted to try it,” I said.  “They eat it in Egypt, and I wanted to try it when I was there, but I never had a chance.”

“Next time I go to Cameroon, I’ll bring you some,” she promised. 

“Noreen, if Toffee gets pregnant, do you think I could have one of the puppies?” Katie asked.

“Toffee can’t get pregnant,” Sophia answered wisely.  “He’s a male.”

These girls don’t know how rich they have made my life, and without much forethought, I gave them a memory that will last them a lifetime.

Such a wonderful afternoon, and it all started with a dog.