Separation Anxiety

There comes a time in every Turks life when the confines of home and family are more they can bare -when that time comes, they can slip down to the pub; afterward, when the match is over and glasses drained, they would do well to stop by the market and fetch something tasty for their mum -'cus she'll be there when they get home. Turks, you see, never really cut the umbilical: 27, 30, 34... maybe they never left home, maybe they moved back in after going away to university -regardless, there is no cusp age at which the nest is not a welcome place. Some strike out to find their own way after marriage -whatever decade of life that may be- while others make room for the bride. I've heard tails of woe from these brides, bent beneath the competing authority of the mother-in-law who strives to be first in rule of the home -and their sons harts.

Perhaps it is this prolonged exposure to the maternal that simultaneously cultivates aberrant instances of infantile selfishness and, more often the case, nurtures a spirit of profound generosity. Regardless of truth, the poetic symmetry appeals. For the Turkish mother, the idea of ejecting young at 17 or 18 years is tantamount to barbarism and evidence that foreign mothers do not love their children to the extent that they do. Surely a different experience is in store for the children and parents of Turkey than that which may be found farther west. When time comes that marriage radically alters that relationship, it is more often than not that the sting of absence is felt most abruptly by the brides family.

Classically, the Turkish ritual for wedding happens like this: the groom and his father visit the home of the bride to share a drink and negotiate the possibility of union. If found acceptable, a date is arranged for the groom to come and take the bride, shrouded and sashed in crimson. As they make their way, a great cacophony is raised from a convoy of vehicles, the marital couple at its head as the parades winds through town and across country to the place of the grooms family. On the way, passed children will play the part of rouge, blocking the convoy and extorting coin from the groom, who is compelled to throw appeasement to secure free passage -until the next group of marauders is encountered, gleeful and greedy. On arrival, the bride and groom are separated into parties segregated by gender for revels lasting the night. The men will engage in the slow, bobbing, finger snapping dance that holds much affection for the Turks, and sing and drink; the women will surround and sing to the bride until she cries, they will belly dance provocatively, they will pin gifts of gold and money to the bride, a sort of communal dowry. In some parts, the daughter and mother in law will feed each other honey comb. Bride and groom and revelers alike will have their hands stained with henna -indelible evidence of the new connection of family and community. Eventually, after a few days, the couple may be left to consummate the marriage.

So it is that I look at my hand, henna stained, and remember the face of the brides mother as our convoy took away her daughter, the hole left behind, the grieving amidst celebration, and I can't help but think what a burden family can be for the Turks -and how lucky they are to shoulder it.