“It’s so hot, my vagina is sweating.”
On Friday, I met my friend Willow at an air-conditioned cafe in the city centre. She arrived panting, threw her bag on the chair, and announced, “It’s so hot, my vagina is sweating.”
Yes, I know it’s hot everywhere on this poor planet right now, except for the places that are supposed to be hot. But when it gets this hot I become a terrible person, to the point that I wonder if compassion evaporates above a certain temperature. I find myself only caring about being in AC or water, and wearing as few items of clothing as possible.
Bearing this enlightened attitude in mind, it will come as no great surprise to you that after my recent dose of positivity, this week kicked my ass.
Surprise big expenses came up. Realizing I need to leave Istanbul but am not sure where I’m going next came up. Difficulties with the poet came up. And even though I know, I know, how easy my life is compared to so many other people, I got down. And guilty about being down, when so many others have it worse. And then more down. By the time yesterday rolled around, the temptation to stay in bed was overwhelming. I scrolled through the news to try to get some perspective, but that was too much to take in, which made me feel even more guilty, which made me feel even worse.
So this morning, I texted Jasmine.
Jasmine left Syria for Turkey with her family in 2015. She arrived here pregnant with her son and with her 2-year old daughter in tow. So much has happened to her and her family in the last 7 years, including, since my most recent post, a new job at a local restaurant, and a cancer diagnosis for her husband, which we’re still waiting to get more information about. She is one of the most inspiring examples of strength, openness, and compassion I’ve ever met.
“Can I please take you out for breakfast?” I asked, adding that it would be at her favourite restaurant, a (non-air-conditioned) patio near my dad’s place. She loves the view there, but more than that, between her kids, her job, her family business, her elderly parents, all the help she gives to the other Syrians in the area, and her husband (whom we’ll get to) she rarely gets to go out and do something enjoyable just for herself.
She texted me back a flamenco dancer emoji.
I’ve missed Jasmine over the last two months, and had been wanting to bring her to this spot for ages. But also, as some of you know, since last year, I’ve been helping to raise funds for the Syrian community in Fethiye. As the situation here (and everywhere) worsens, bigger ideas have started to form. I spoke with an expert in these matters last week, and I wanted to take her ideas to Jasmine and see what we could come up with, to present to a larger organization and try to find some funding, or register as a charity, or both.
And yet, an email from this expert has been sitting in my inbox all week, staring at me.
And I had been feeling too crappy to answer it.
And that made me feel crappier… and on it went.
Jasmine pulls up right on time, as always. We sit and sweat and catch up. She tells me how her husband has finally started to find consistent work, after years of struggling or going unpaid by employers who suddenly decided an Arab wasn’t worthy of financial compensation for services rendered. How her brother’s family in Syria is barely scraping by. How she’s gotten Amina a job at the restaurant where she’s been working, which is extra fantastic as Amina had been without work for months, occasionally making 100TL/day (about $7.50 Canadian) picking tomatoes in a town 3 hours away.
Incidentally, this is less than the cost of a serving of tabouleh at one of Fethiye’s steak restaurants.
We brainstorm ideas for our project. She makes a few calls, and I respond to the email from the expert with more questions and a potential next step in the plan. We also laugh, and she shares how hot she is in her long sleeves and trousers.
“I would like to jump in!” she says, pointing at one of the swimming pools a few hundred metres below us.
Staring out at the view, she adds,“Everybody is having a hard time right now.”
I nod, unsure whether she’s referring to everybody in her family, or in Turkey, or in Syria.
“Everyone in the world,” she clarifies. “When I feel sad or alone, I must remind myself that with this economy, every person is having a difficult time.”
This from someone whose husband has cancer, whose relatives are without cooking fuel, and who makes Turkish minimum wage and still supports people left and right.
She takes my hand across the table.
“You could be walking down that street” - she points to the one next to the restaurant - “and have a stroke, and die. And everything you worried about is for nothing.”
I am the same way with sadness as I am with heat: the more of it I experience, the more self-centred I become. My ability to care about anyone other than myself is directly proportional to my mental health, and I suspect I might not be alone in that one. Thankfully I have tools for this. But the most effective one is to go and do something for beings who are not myself. Even if I don’t want to. Even if I don’t have the mental capacity to. And most importantly, to not do it alone. Whether it’s 12-step meetings, or this, or, as my teacher Derek does when he’s feeling low, walking down the street with a roll of cash and giving some to anyone who needs it. Being around other people and being of service never doesn’t work.
Imagine if there were reminders of this on TV, instead of ads to sell us things that don’t make us happier.
Jasmine has to go to work, which she does 7 days a week these days as she may have to take more time off when her husband gets his diagnosis. She offers to drive me the 50 metres back to my dad’s place, and I, obviously, say yes. But when she tries to back up her car, which is on a very steep downhill incline, it refuses to go into reverse and jumps ahead, stopping a couple of feet from the car in front of us when she slams on the breaks.
We shriek in unison, half laugher, half “OMG, not this, too.”
She tries again, and again, the car won’t reverse. We are now a foot away from the other car, and I cringe at the idea of its owner coming outside and seeing a Syrian woman this close to his vehicle. But under Jasmine’s influence I calmly climb out of the car, show her with my hands how much space we have, and cheer as she tries once more.
The car reverses.
She smiles, her huge smile that could light up a continent.
I climb in, we roll down the windows, and she drives me home.
As always you keep me thankful that I get to know the world through your eyes. Thank you Nat and thank you Jasmine.❤