Report from the Airport
Sacred body, profane soul.
The sign said Meditation Centre and I was immediately hooked. I'd been to
one of these before in an American airport, I'm trying to remember which one
it was. Possibly Minneapolis, or Detroit. There it was called a Prayer Room
and it was tucked away in a far away corridor in a corner of the airport.
Nonetheless, it was a good experience. Judging by what I've seen here I can
say these places are both calming, sanctuary-like but also kind of creepy.
The carpeting is a negligible color like grey or teal, and folks often take
off their shoes. The rooms are empty and strange-- like empty conference
rooms more than anything. In the Meditation Centre here there were chairs
and a table and non-representational stained glass panels at regular
intervals in front of the frosted glass windows.
But I got no kind of meditation done. It started before I even entered, when
I realized I was wearing a tank top. It's not particularly revealing but it
is a tank top. You don't enter mosques with those and I recalled in a flash
reading on websites of Buddhist retreats where they asked the attendees to
refrain from wearing tank tops. So I put on my sweater. Which, you know, is
no big deal, not a wrenching concession, and yet it is a concession, and one
whose necessity I'm not entirely convinced of. I understand that you should
not be falling out of your jeans or shirt or whatever, keeping the t&a to a
minimum, but a tank top seems to be pushing it. Also, and here's the heart
of the matter, it just seems to apply more to women. Out bodies are more
profane, more suggestive, more explosive, or at least that is how we are
raised to feel. By "we" what do I mean? I'm not sure the we applies to
American women of my age-- I don't know how self-conscious they feel about
the way their sexuality is perceived, about how much they objectify
themselves. So maybe I should speak with the safer "I", the formation of
which I will summarize thus: raised in a secular, middle-class Turkish
family, as an almost completely nominal Muslim, educated in schools and
countries all over the world, and a US resident for the last 17 years or so.
Age 31. So that's the stats folks. Yeah, the we really makes no sense
because I have lots of Turkish girlfriends who seem much more liberated
about their sexuality, more accepting of themselves as sexual beings. I
attribute this difference to their more established urbanity-- they come
from families who have been big-city dwellers for many generations. My
father's side comes from a provincial town in the Thrace region of Turkey
(the European part of the country).
as i write this my fellow passengers on the KLM 1613 from Amsterdam to
Turkey are filing past me. people are so weird and varied. so many different
shapes, hairy forearms, stumpy fingers, so many crazy riffs on the same
theme. at the moment i feel charitable and so they all seem beautiful to me.
A whole host of african women in islamic headdress, different from the
turkish AKP headscarf. Children, brushing past with that wonderful
indifference to touch that they still have. *
Anyhow, back to the meditation on the Meditation Centre. As I was saying, I
am only a little ways removed from the provincial mindset of Tekirdag, one
which is more socially conservative than religiously conservative, but like
most value systems, uses the female body as its currency and soapbox
nevertheless. So what this translates to, in my life, is being frequently
self-conscious about how I'm perceived, particularly in regards to "virtue."
Yet at the same time I'm sort of a hippie at heart and couldn't care less.
It's in the US that I can don the latter identity more freely, and that is
part of the reason I prefer to live there. I'm not as worried about my
nipples asserting themselves or my dress being too sheer when I walk around
on the street in the US. These seem like trifles on the surface, and also as
more obvious trademarks of public dress code in Muslim countries-- the stuff
you see as Tips in any tourist guide. But there's a lot lying underneath it,
especially if you are from the country itself.
So I went in there and there were a few guys praying on the free prayer rugs
provided by the center, facing east. I felt a bit at a loss as to what to
do. My body, just released from 7 hours in a transatlantic economy class
flight, was longing to stretch and ease itself. But, if wearing tank tops is
inappropriate, isn't doing yoga worse? But how stupid! Why this
sexualization of yoga poses? Am I in denial here? The asanas are spiritual
and meditational practices, simply more physicalized. In fact, being right
next to the praying Muslims it was impossible to not notice the similarity
of the movements between their movements and sun salutations. But it was
specifically the Muslims who put me on edge, sort of nailed into my body,
trying to satisfy my aching limbs with Tadasana, mountain pose. I was
worried about their approbation, and about causing them to break their
ablutions, which in Turkish we call "abdesti bozmak" . The idea is that, by
washing their hands and feet in a ritual manner, the worshippers are
purifying not just their body but also their minds of impure thoughts. This
state is necessary to enter prayer and lasts until after prayer. There are
many things that can break the purified state, lust being among the first.
So, while possibly flattering myself that I could be the cause of such a
phenonmenon, my point is that it's actually the complete opposite--there is
nothing appealing about that prospect. It's simply filled with shame, like
you are this dangerous vessel, like a loaded shotgun, that needs to be
carried gingerly, handled with care. When in fact it's the men who are the
loaded guns and it's the other point I have about not flattering myself with
the thought: most any female figure bending over is a possible breaker of
the man's absolution.
But
why do I care?
I hate that I automatically inhabit this male consciousness, that I am more
protective of a stranger's virtue than my own peace of mind. And isn't that
weird I said virtue, cuz my protection of my own virtue is basically in
order to protect the men's virtue ultimately. You know, don't be a cause of
temptation, don't make the men feel bad about their own desirousness. Or
something. GodDAMN! It makes me so mad. And in the Meditation Centre here I
am finally decided upon zazen, sitting there thinking "Breathing in, I am
aware that I am breathing in... breathing out..." but I can't stop wanting
to stretch, and so I'm hyper conscious of the guys' presences, wishing they
would leave so I could be alone in the room. It's the most unmeditative
state imaginable. In fact, it's downright misanthropic, that's what this
fear and worry turned me into: crabby, hypersensitive bundle of nerves and
aching muscles.
I know I could have done all my scandalous bends and twists out on the
airport floor, in some discreet corner somewhere, and I've done it before in
the past. Still weird and awkward, though. Also, the Meditation Centre had a
nice plush carpet and it was nice and quiet. Finally everyone left and I got
to do some stretching but I was so afraid of being caught in the act that it
wasn't that relaxing.
Am I being too self-conscious about yoga? Maybe, but the feelings of shame,
virtue, bodily terror were triggered by the praying Muslims and gave me a
necessary reminder of the mental state that awaits me upon my return to
Turkey. And here, I want to emphasize the idiosyncracy of my perspective.
Like I said, there are plenty of women in Turkey who work it and don't care,
who don't have the hangups that I do. Basically, what I'm saying is, these
feelings are the results of as much personal hangups as social realities.
