Regular, old fashioned, garden-variety fascism

Sunday, April 9, 2006

I get into the taxi at the height of rush hour. With the trip long and the traffic snarled, we lapse into conversation. The conversation deepens, first just talking about this and that, then moving on to politics and politicians. Like all Turks, we ask, What on earth will happen with this country? and then, answering our own question, jabber away as we move along.

  I get into the taxi at the height of rush hour. With the trip long and the traffic snarled, we lapse into conversation. The conversation deepens, first just talking about this and that, then moving on to politics and politicians. Like all Turks, we ask, "What on earth will happen with this country?" and then, answering our own question, jabber away as we move along.  He is an Istanbul taxi driver, in his mid-50s, talkative and mirthful. He tells three jokes in a row, all about his own mother-in-law. He is full of complaints about this mother-in-law of his -- 30 years married and he s still not used to her. This taxi driver has perfected the art of exaggeration. He is literally one of the most jovial people I have ever seen. Full of wisecracks, clearly very clever. And in a way, naive. He is not angry with the system but with the leaders. He questions not organizations themselves but the people who lead them. The taxi driver tells me he lived in Germany for 20 years and then returned to Turkey. He also tells me his oldest son is still there, though, soon to marry a young Turkish bride brought in from the village, no less. An arranged marriage. The girl was to board a flight from Trabzon and fly out to wed her groom in Frankfurt. I can imagine it all: a young Turkish girl, newly emerged from the village, on a plane headed to Germany to meet with her betrothed, a man she barely knows, if at all. I ask the taxi driver about his soon-to-be daughter-in-law: "Won t it be difficult for her?"  He replies, "No, it s better this way. Innocent village girls are honorable. Once they open up their eyes to the world, that s when the trouble starts. Do you really think any honor remains in those girls whose eyes are open to world?" How recklessly, how sloppily males like to use this word "honor" to judge others. Never to judge other males, though, only females. Men sometimes divide women into two groups, "those with honor" and "those without honor," as though they are in possession of some magic formula that allows them to measure the varying degrees of honor present in each woman. "Back in the place I m from, honor is the most valued thing," says the taxi driver. It s hard to figure out what he means by this phrase, "back in the place where I m from." Is he referring to Trabzon, the place of his roots to which he has not been for years? Or to Istanbul, where he lives now? Or Frankfurt, where he lived for years and to where he is about to send out a new bride? Where exactly is this “place where I m from,” anyway? "Whenever I see a mistake, I m the first to clean it up," says the taxi driver suddenly. I have him repeat the sentence as I didn t really hear it the first time round. All at once I feel chilled. The hairs on my arms stand on end. I realized he was talking about his new bride and about his daughter. He says that, in the future, if he catches any "mistakes" on their parts, he would use the pistol he keeps at home without any hesitation. To clean up the stained honor. This man lives in a world where abstract and subjective concepts are more important than physical lives.   And suddenly, that jovial, jolly taxi driver disappears before my eyes, replaced by a man who could, at any moment, carry out an honor killing. The turning point is... well, actually, everything is connected, there is really no turning point. Fascism is in that way such a regular old thing. It is a part of daily life, tucked into its nooks and crannies. It is practiced not by characters that we see in conspiracy films, making their evil plans behind closed doors, but instead by truly good-hearted, completely normal and recognizable sorts. These regular people live without questioning the truths that are presented to them, this tyranny of their very own creation. It s just regular, old fashioned, garden-variety fascism.