I live in two places now- on the road, and in the city of Kahramanmarash. My time in Marash, as it’s affectionately shortened, comes to an end soon. Marash has its flaws, but for me it’s my hometown within Turkey. Elemental Turkishness is found here- the original reason I was fascinated by Turkish culture in university. The warmth and hospitality, and investment in long-term relationships, felt different from my general encounters with wider American culture.
I’ve found that trying to explain Turkish culture to other foreigners has let me finally put to words the things I’d intuitively learned in university. When Turks freely exchange things with you, it’s not meant to be owed later- it’s meant to be a powerful signal in the long term nature of the relationship. They don’t need to nickel and dime you now- because they plan on seeing you again. Several more times, in fact- perhaps for life. I’m often now a bit disturbed at how quickly Americans (and perhaps most Westerners) work to settle minor debts.
I think most of these differences (as are most human culture differences) are actually mostly a question of how recently a nation industrialized. All industrialized nations slowly start a more impersonal path where debts must be quickly settled- if ever incurred- and long term investments in relationships make sense with low mobility, but don’t make sense in a place where people frequently move for economic opportunity.
A quick note about the two names for this city- Marash is the old, historical name. It’s still used in contexts of intimacy and connection. Said with the right tone, it’s obvious. In the chaos immediately following World War One, the Allied powers planned on carving the old Ottoman Empire into as many tiny pieces as was convenient for them. They did not even plan for a core Turkish state to be left- it was to be split between the UK, France, Italy, and Greece.
Marash came to fame because militias of private citizens rose up against French occupiers and liberated their own territory, so it could eventually link up with the core Turkish Republic that Mustafa Kemal Ataturk was creating from the heart of the old Ottoman Empire. Similar events in the cities of Urfa and Antep earned them renown as well. For their heroic actions as cities/regions, Ataturk attached honorific prefixes to their names-
Kahraman-Marash (Heroic Marash)
Shanli-Urfa (Glorious Urfa)
Gazi-Antep (Holy-Warrior Antep)
It’s as if Lexington and Concord got renamed Kickasslexington and Steelballsconcord.
To this day, you’ll still hear citizens of these cities use their old historic names- it’s not an embarrassed rejection of their new titles but rather an intimate, affectionate usage of the names of their pre-glory youth. The usual Turkish suffix for saying you’re from somewhere is a -li attached to the end of a city or country name. Notably, citizens of these cities are Marashli, Urfali, and Antepli. The suffixed forms are always attached to the short forms- ones of intimacy and familiarity. Natives and visitors alike, though, enjoy using the full forms of the city names at times. Imagine having such badass civic ancestors that even to mention your city, people may say “Heroic,” or “Glorious,” etc in front of it til the end of time.
The second answer to what do I love about where I live, is to answer for “the road” itself. In this gap year I’ve had to grapple with answers to where do I live. I currently live all over the place- having not registered more than 90-100 days in any one spot for the past 8+ months. My current furniture (not counting the dust-gathering ones in White Creek, New York) consists of a tangle of ropes I’ve used for a bookshelf in my tent. I expect similar conditions to hold for the foreseeable future.
A basic thing to love about the road is novelty. Newness is often enough to keep the brain engaged. Secondly, the road forces a new perspective with possessions- and I love it for that as well. All possessions are added weight- extra check-in bags at the airport, strained shoulders, etc. The road can force you to reckon with what you don’t need. Hobbit-like comforts like well-ordered, ample bookshelves, pantries and the like have their constant draw. Even as I spend my 6th week of return in Turkey, my mind turns to adding an element or two to my tent, to make it nicer. A shelf here, a poster there. But then I remember it’ll all be left behind when I leave, so I balance my freedom with my comfort. They are unfortunately lightly locked in a zero-sum-like relationship with each other.
The joy, instead, comes from those moments where you look around you and realize how badass it is to live with less and strip life to its elements. Currently, by volunteering, I’ve been able to be engaged in meaningful work of 40-48 hour work weeks. I get by with room and board, and my social life is satisfied by my interactions with the communities I help, the locals I also meet, and the fellow camp dwellers (staff and volunteers.) That’s not to say it’s enough til the end of time, or the end of my life, or whatever, but it proves that in short spurts, our needs are elemental and small. Meaningful work, food, housing, and a social network.
The miracle of the road is how each place comes to feel like home in very little time. Leaving Marash will prove difficult and have a withdrawal period. It will also come with new communities and opportunities.
To update family and friends- the end of my time with All Hands and Hearts Turkiye (Turkey) will end on Thursday. I’ve got about one week loosely planned for visiting friends throughout the rest of the country. After that I’ll head back to Poland, accepted back to the All Hands program there as a volunteer. I’ve been thinking about my short and mid term career plans, and feel like while my savings hold, I’ll continue to put myself where I think I’m the most useful. I suspect the clock is ticking for my volunteer year to come to a close, and I’ll make a selection of what to do next shortly.
In all these responses I’ve been a part of, I’ve confirmed a feeling I first felt when I resolved to go to Jaroslaw, Poland nearly a year ago. I hadn’t travelled in 11 years- I’d led a very Hobbitish existence of comfortable routines- and the corner of southeast Poland was as far as my comfort zone extended. I also knew I could do it, though. As much as it intimidated me at the time, I knew it was within my capacity, so I went. Sure enough, within days of serving Ukrainian people in need, there was nothing I wouldn’t do. I put up and sanded drywall for god’s sake- I hate drywall. I really do.
In Poland, I accepted as many responsibilities as came my way- as an experienced volunteer who welcomed and helped new folks as much as I could, and leading the English tutoring sessions. In Turkey I’ve taken on a lot more team lead roles (leading 2-4 other volunteers for the day). In all cases, my logic is a quasi-utilitarian logic that for humanitarian responses, we individuals should push to our personal limits of comfort zones. Each of those zones are different- some can tolerate more leadership roles, some require physical risk tolerance, some require exposure to emotional and psychological risks. In any case, as I’ve tried to articulate my own personal moral compass, I’ve found it to be a self-constructed version of a school of thought called utilitarianism– which is that we should aim for the actions that create the largest amount of “good” for the largest number of people. In Poland I felt my best role was to be an “old hand” who helped orient new people to the program- and I also said yes to tutoring English, though as most things go, doing it was less easy than not doing it.
In Turkey, I’ve felt that the leadership role as TL let me (and the teams, and staff) have higher impact than we’d otherwise have. I relieved staff workloads by being a competent TL. I got the best out of fellow volunteers by enabling them to not worry about big picture things, and stay organized and on task to finish things on time. If I had stepped back from either role, I would have less personal impact and I’d have caused less personal impact for all the people I’d failed to step up to the plate for.
For those reasons, whatever I pursue next is under this quasi-utilitarian compass. I say “quasi” because I’m not formally taught in those ethics- just my self-constructed ethics are like an amateur rediscovery and articulation of its principles. Those principals are that if an individual knows their personal capabilities and limits, it’s their moral imperative to pursue the maximum good to those limits. Knowing those limits in advance, is, of course, as the philosophers say, a bitch and a half. It’s hard to know limits til you bump up against them. But the very tolerance of their testing is yet one more of those personality traits that will determine my, or anyone’s, suitability to doing distressing work, the encompassing term I use for the stress of leadership, of risk, or emotional and psychological strain.
This is no complaint whatsoever, but careers will always require a compromise from what is arguably the most pro-social thing a person could choose to do. If money were no object, or you had enough savings, what would you do if you could live rent-free doing something you cared about, that impacted others? That’s the basic question I keep asking whenever I review next-steps in this adventure. If the answer is that I can continue a bit longer doing whatever I think is most pressing, that’s what I’ll go for.
Utilitarianism also calculates what causes or concerns are at key inflection points. President Biden has often used the term inflection point so it’s coming into national consciousness, but it’s basically a point in time where minimum force can have maximum impact. For example, in the Ukraine crisis, a $1 billion dollar military aid donation to Ukraine, could save trillions of defense dollars spent to counter an emboldened Russia over decades. $40 to buy a large tarp for Turkish or Syrian IDPs may save a pneumonia infection that costs thousands of dollars, or a human life. These are all variations of inflection points- where actions (good or bad) can tip scales at key moments with maximum leverage.
While I’m on this break between careers, that is my consideration- how can someone with my skills and experience have maximum inflection-point impact? Without certain degrees or experience, what I do will be limited but can still have ripple effects. I know I’ve had an important role in impacting staff and volunteers here, and residents. I also know that I have a personal imperative to continue. I want to die of old age, very confident that I did what I could, when I could, with whatever means that I had. I believe the Ukraine crisis is the struggle of our time, between the international rules-based order, and local bullies like putin. I feel like the months right after the earthquake were a key time to show solidarity with a country I love like a second home. My visa is up, so as much as I love it in theory, I have no papers to stay.
Eventually the money will force me to add the secondary aspect to the equation- what do I do for maximum impact, that also generates savings? I am confident I’ll find something to do, but also fully aware it will mean the end of one chapter, and the start of another. The planet largely runs on folks doing this very thing- a gap year being a thing of immense privilege for the global middle class, especially of single, able-bodied folks. I won’t be able to follow the whims of going exactly where I think I am most useful- I’ll have to agree to career-ladder steps that may take me from that. I’ll have to go back to longer-term thinking and more delayed gratifications. When that time comes, I hope to accept it with grace but without losing that ability to sling a backpack on and strike off into the unknown, either.
I’ll write more as I can, but for now, this is the likely signoff for my stay in the Kahramanmarash response. In the next few days I will finish off my time TLing a construction site- preparing the takeover by the next folks- and planning my cross-Turkey tour (likely all by bus). Cheers-
Daren
The Wandering Farmer (an feirmeoir fánach) 
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