Yesterday, on Facebook, a post by a motorcyclist recounting being attacked by Kangal dogs in Turkey took me back over 50 years.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt the urge to share a bit about my childhood and put on paper some traumas I have almost never spoken about. A kind of therapy through writing. I’ve been a bit introspective lately. I apologize for that; travel stories will resume soon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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During an interview, Jacques Brel said this: “Childhood is a geographical place.” That remark struck me deeply at the time because I found it so relevant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My childhood took place in Turkey (then my adolescence in Portugal, but that’s another story).<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were a small community of French people, consisting of up to about fifty children. Our parents were “expats,” a term now somewhat overused and often used incorrectly. The term “expatriate” refers to a specific legal status. An expatriate is someone sent on a mission to a third country. They stay there for a determined period based on certain contractual conditions (often quite advantageous). An expatriate is not an immigrant. Conversely, an immigrant is not an expatriate. Nowadays, the confusion between the two is quite common. However, they are distinct concepts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But that is not the subject of my article.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I want to talk to you about this very special childhood of mine. Well, for me, it didn’t seem so special. It was my life. End of story. Simply, when I returned to France for holidays, it seemed to me that those I reconnected with were still living the same life, with the same habits. At the same time, I had discovered a thousand things. That sense of disconnect has never completely left me.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My parents would leave at the slightest opportunity, and I was dragged between historical sites and museums throughout my childhood. Of course, in Turkey, but not only there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At a very young age, I also saw both the Dachau and Auschwitz camps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Overall, the life I led was more than enviable, even though we lacked many food supplies \u2014 for example, milk was delivered by a man in a cart pulled by a mule. Often, if he arrived too late in the morning, it was turned (or diluted with water if there wasn’t enough). A simple chicken had to be ordered several days in advance. And when we had a camembert kindly brought by a passing Frenchman, it was a day of celebration.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bursa was located 30 km from the winter sports station and 30 km from the sea. I spent my winters skiing and my summers by the sea, where we moved during the hottest months. My father had one of the only two speedboats along the entire coast. I was allowed to go alone starting at the age of 13.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The rest of the time, I wandered through the countryside. Stray dogs were numerous there, often in packs. It was necessary to distinguish the “normal” stray dogs, often mangeled and always in packs. They weren’t too dangerous: you just had to crouch down as if to pick up a stone to make them flee. The young Turks were incredibly accurate\u2014I remember a friend capable of killing a bird with a simple throw of a stone\u2014and the dogs knew it very well. At that time, the authorities regularly carried out poisoning campaigns to eradicate them. My own dog had been narrowly saved, I will never forget that wait in the veterinary office\u2014when the veterinarian had stepped out\u2014while my beloved dog was convulsing in my arms. She was saved at the last moment, the antidote being known and particularly effective.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then, there were the lords of the countryside: the Kangals, wolf killers, with cut ears and collars with steel spikes. They feared nothing and no one. When I sensed their presence nearby a flock of sheep, I would keep as far away as possible. They fascinated me, but I was wary of them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I experienced two particularly striking episodes. The first was while skiing off-piste with my father in the middle of the forest on Mount Uluda\u011f. Suddenly, we came across a pack of Kangals lying in the snow. It was impossible to avoid them; we had to pass within about ten meters of them, as slowly as possible, to avoid triggering their hunting instinct.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The second was a Kangal, with saliva dripping from its lips. It was quite lethargic, and we crossed paths at about thirty meters. Shortly after, soldiers arrived and shot it with a submachine gun. I then learned that it was rabid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cette vie encore une fois, \u00e0 bien des \u00e9gards enviables, n\u2019a pas \u00e9t\u00e9 sans traumatismes.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This life, once again, in many ways enviable, has not been without trauma.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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The first, and most important, was the return. At the time, there were no studies on the effects of expatriation on children’s development. However, it was not without consequences, especially at a time when cultural differences were much more pronounced than they are today. The lack of any bonds with family\u2014except during vacations\u2014made the break for the expatriate child even more striking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For me, it was incredibly difficult. Extremely so. I was completely out of sync with French society, and it must have taken me about ten years to “understand” and accept France, which I passionately hated for years. For some, it was even more severe: depression, suicide, turning to drugs, or even delinquency. These cases are relatively few in absolute numbers, but proportionally\u2014about fifty children\u2014it seems significant to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Very late, I learned that we were called TCK : Third Culture Kids. When I read\u2014by chance\u2014an article on the subject, everything fell into place in my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Around the age of 18, I deliberately moved in with my grandmother to establish roots there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the time, unconsciously, all my friends were either other “TCKs” or children of immigrants, with whom I shared much more than with native French youth, with whom I always felt out of sync.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Return was not the only “trauma”; there were many others. As I mentioned, we led an enviable life\u2014both very free and privileged. Nevertheless, the country could be harsh at times. I was faced with or witnessed scenes that few children in France would ever know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I will share a few of these moments with you. I will start with illness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A bit haphazardly, there have also been:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One of the things that deeply shocked my childhood soul, I admit, was the status of women. I firmly believe\u2014and will tirelessly support\u2014that hospitality in Muslim countries is incomparable. However, I have always thought there were several aspects that needed reconsideration on this point. Starting with the segregation from a very young age\u2014around prepuberty\u2014between boys and girls. I personally suffered from this, even though I was French, because there were no female classmates around my age in the French community. And on the Turkish side, it was strictly forbidden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I returned to France as a young adult, it took me years to learn how to behave around young women. I didn’t know the “rules.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One scene in particular left a strong impression on me. I must have been about 10 years old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A child had been hit by a car. It was a minor incident; the little girl was only shaken up and a few adults were trying to comfort her. But there was this man\u2014probably the grandfather\u2014who started yelling while hanging onto a large fig tree branch. I watched him without understanding at first. He managed to tear off the branch\u2014huge, he must have held it with both hands\u2014and began hitting the woman responsible for watching the child (I didn’t know if she was a simple nanny or the mother) as if with a piece of plaster. The young woman was writhing on the ground, screaming in terror and pain. No one intervened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Among the most vivid memories, of course, is having lived for a few months in a country at war. It was the Cyprus conflict in 1974. In the evenings, there was a curfew, and everything had to be barricaded. In the streets, many tanks were waiting to be repaired, their tracks broken.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were in France when this war was declared. Nonetheless, my father decided to return\u2014home to Turkey\u2014by road since all other means of transportation were impossible. He didn’t even know if the border was open. Yet, he set out to resume his work, taking his wife and child with him on a 3,000 km journey through the Eastern Bloc countries.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It would probably be unthinkable nowadays. We entered Turkey through the Bulgarian border, near Greece, in Edirne. It was evening, and because of the curfew, my parents decided to stop at a caravanserai. Due to the war, there were no other guests (except us), nor any lighting. Nonetheless, the manager agreed to turn on the lights just long enough to take the photo I\u2019ve used to illustrate this article.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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At that time, paved roads were still quite rare. I remember witnessing the construction of the first paved road between Bursa and Istanbul. Before that, it was just a dusty dirt track, on which we nearly got killed in our R16. A truck\u2019s wheel brushed\u2014literally, its body was scraped down to the metal over a few centimeters\u2014our right rear wing, and I had plenty of time to see it just inches from me. My father had attempted to overtake the truck, which at the same time was passing a horse-drawn cart, while a car was coming head-on at the same moment. So, there were four vehicles coming abreast on a track designed for only two. Fortunately, the stabilization work for the road construction had made that spot a bit wider.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am not talking about roads leading inland. It\u2019s not for nothing that all the R12s sold at the time were equipped with reinforced shock absorbers and a protective metal plate under the engine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nonetheless, this situation quickly changed, and I believe most major roads had been paved by the mid-1970s. My memory is a bit unclear on this point.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All this to say that traveling on the roads was not without risks. Most people had no notion of road safety, and the concept of stopping distance was foreign to them. Someone could very well decide to cross in front of your car, assuming you would stop. Additionally, killing someone\u2014especially a child\u2014in a village was at best certain imprisonment and at worst lynching by the local population.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I remember a man who one day rushed towards our car and jumped onto the back seat, yelling at my father to start the engine. A furious crowd was chasing him. It seems he had run over and killed a child.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I come to the two memories that have left the most lasting impression on me. They are two road accidents.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Warning: Sensitive souls should refrain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I did not witness the first accident directly, but it had just happened when we arrived. A bus had fallen from a bridge into a river below. I did not see any bodies; they must have been trapped inside the bus, which was visible completely crushed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I remember the colors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was spring, and the grass was green. By the water\u2019s edge, on the grassy plain below, women watched the shocked accident. They were all dressed in black. In the distance, the river flowed with a beautiful brown color. And just below the bridge, over a distance of about 50 or 100 meters, it was red\u2014completely red.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The second accident, I almost witnessed it. I say “almost” because I was turned away from the scene at the moment of impact. I turned around after hearing the sound of the brakes and screams of terror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A woman and her daughter, underestimating the stopping distance of a vehicle, decided to cross just as a truck was approaching. It was unable to avoid them. When I turned around, I saw the two bodies being torn apart. At the moment of impact, something had splattered and crashed a few meters from me, maybe three or four. I looked… it was a brain. Almost intact. This image has never left me, and I don’t think I’ve often shared this story.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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Pour terminer sur un souvenir plus dr\u00f4le, il y a eu \u00e9galement l\u2019histoire de cet homme qui vivait \u2013 seul pensions nous \u2013 dans une cabane situ\u00e9e dans un champ d\u2019Olivier en bord de mer. Nous avions l\u2019habitude de pique-niquer sur la plage jouxtant son champ. Il nous demandait quelques pi\u00e8ces comme droit de passage sur sa propri\u00e9t\u00e9. Si d\u2019aventure, il n\u2019\u00e9tait pas l\u00e0 lors de notre arriv\u00e9e, il venait sur la plage r\u00e9clamer son obole.
Ce jour-l\u00e0 des touristes de passage \u2013 c\u2019\u00e9tait encore rare \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e9poque \u2013 sans doute rassur\u00e9 par notre pr\u00e9sence ont d\u00e9cid\u00e9 de venir bronzer \u00e0 quelques pas de nous.
L\u2019homme est donc venu et leur a \u00e9galement demand\u00e9 sa d\u00eeme. Les touristes n\u2019ont-ils pas compris ou voulu comprendre, je l\u2019ignore\u2009? Mais ils ont refus\u00e9 de payer. L\u2019homme furieux est reparti en hurlant. Quelques minutes plus tard, nous l\u2019avons vu sortir de chez lui, cartouchi\u00e8re en bandouli\u00e8re, fusil \u00e0 la main avec.. Deux femmes \u2013 dont nous n\u2019avions jamais soup\u00e7onn\u00e9 l\u2019existence \u2013 s\u2019agrippant \u00e0 ses jambes en se laissant tra\u00eener par terre et hurlant\u00a0: ne les tue pas, ne les tue pas\u00a0!\u00a0
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To end on a funnier note, there\u2019s also the story of a man who was living\u2014alone, we thought\u2014in a small cabin in a field of olive trees by the sea. We used to have picnics on the beach next to his field. He would ask us for a few coins as a toll for passing through his property. If, by chance, he wasn\u2019t there when we arrived, he would come to the beach to demand his toll. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
One day, tourists passing through\u2014something quite rare at the time\u2014probably reassured by our presence, decided to come sunbathe just a few steps from us. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
So the man came over and also demanded his tax from them. I don’t know if the tourists didn\u2019t understand or chose not to, but they refused to pay. The man, furious, left shouting. A few minutes later, we saw him come out of his house, with a bandolier over his shoulder and a rifle in his hand, with two women\u2014whom we had never suspected existed\u2014clinging to his legs, being dragged along the ground and shouting: \u201cDon\u2019t kill them, don\u2019t kill them!\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Yesterday, on Facebook, a post by a motorcyclist recounting being attacked by Kangal dogs in Turkey took me back over 50 years.\u00a0 I felt the urge to share a bit about my childhood and put on paper some traumas I have almost never spoken about. A kind of therapy through writing. I’ve been a bit introspective lately. I apologize for that; travel stories will resume soon. During an interview, Jacques Brel said this: “Childhood is a geographical place.” That remark struck me deeply at the time because I found it so relevant. My childhood took place in Turkey (then my adolescence in Portugal, but that’s another story). We were a small community of French people, consisting of up to about fifty children. Our parents were “expats,” a term now somewhat overused and often used incorrectly. The term “expatriate” refers to a specific legal status. An expatriate is someone sent on a mission to a third country. They stay there for a determined period based on certain contractual conditions (often quite advantageous). An expatriate is not an immigrant. Conversely, an immigrant is not an expatriate. Nowadays, the confusion between the two is quite common. However, they are distinct concepts. But that […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7,"featured_media":10349,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[140],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10351","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-about-me-en"],"yoast_head":"\n