Istanbul: A Lockdown Diary by Rena Effendi

June 2020 marks a fifth year anniversary of my move to Istanbul. The past few months of the pandemic gave me a chance to explore this enchanting city more intimately, than in all the years of living here. I set out to portray the city in crisis and confinement, but what I found was a diverse social fabric where pockets of hope and human resilience prevailed. As a tribute to the multiple layers of Istanbul’s unique cultural identity, I have collected stories of the so-called “non-essential workers”, whose lives have been derailed by the pandemic. As they spoke to me, they related not just fears, but also hopes and musings about the future and ways of trying to adapt to a new reality. From street vendors to magicians, barbers to dancers, hamam scrubbers to imams, each of them ex- pressed dignity at the face of hardship and a unique way of resisting and overcoming their daily stresses. In his memoire - Istanbul: Memories and the City, Orhan Pamuk wrote: “If I see my city as beautiful and bewitching, then my life must be so too.” As I explored the various parts of this vast megapolis and connected with its inhabitants in their own microcosms, their moods and feelings imprinted on mine. In this process, I began to embrace the city as my own in a way that I haven’t done before.

Ozgur taught himself magic whe...ays find solutions.”

Ozgur taught himself magic when he was 6 years old by watching other magicians on TV. “This was always my dream, but my family told me I needed to get a full time job with insurance. Our culture here in Turkey is not so much into magic.” Ten years ago, Ozgur finally gathered the confidence to quit his daily job of a salesman and become a full-time illusionist. “I am a freelancer. If the phone rings I work, if it does not, I don’t work. I was scared of the pandemic, of the impact.” Since the spread of Covid-19, Ozgur shifted focus to broadcasting his magic on youtube. He uploaded the promo and two days later received a phone call from a woman who booked him to perform at her son’s birthday party via Zoom, Ozgur’s first gig since the quarantine. “Show business will never die, because the performers are creative people, we’ll always find solutions.”

Ozgur's magic table.

Docked in a municipal marina o...mp;quot; Yusuf said.

Docked in a municipal marina opposite Sultanahmet, Le Vapeur Magique was launched in January 2020, barely a month before Covid-19 landed in Turkey. A few corporate events and private parties were held. In spite of its decorative appearance, the steamship is a functioning marine vessel, which has taken visitors on tours around the Bosporus strait. Only the ship’s four essential crew remained onboard from the total staff of thirty. I met Muhamed, the Second Captain, who only left the boat once in two months to check on his brother in the hospital. “We have our rooms here. We are used to isolation having worked at sea so much. The sea is our quarantine. We don’t mind social distancing, but many people do”. On the deck of the boat looking down at the water, he and engine chief Yusuf confessed that the sea looked much cleaner now that the marine traffic decreased. “Every morning around 7:45 a.m. we watch dolphins come close to shore. In all my years working as a seaman, I’ve never seen this. Dolphins play and frolic in the water, they bring their cubs and teach them how to fish," Yusuf said.

“It’s not half bad to be a drag queen in Turkey. There is a smaller pool so you get to be a bigger fish,” said Ceytengri, who preferred to be addressed as “they”. Even before the pandemic, Ceytengri complained about not having enough time on stage, not being able to perform at all was now taking its toll. “In puberty I was diagnosed with depression. Ever since I came to Istanbul and found my tribe, I felt at home. The validation and adoration of my friends and my audience helped me overcome that. Drag [for me] is being celebrated for all the things I used to be ashamed of in my teen years.”
In the past few months of the quarantine, Ceytengri barely left their home. When they ventured out they kept their everyday dress style androgynous. “I want people to look at me and not be able to tell if I am a girl or a boy, but I still want them to be attracted to me. I like to cause sexual confusion.” For decades trans people have been demonized in Turkish media, “trans terror” was the term frequently used to portray them as aggressors, who wreaked havoc on the streets and raided police stations. “We are not that aggressive, but the image of trans people fighting back still stayed. When I was presenting myself as a boy, people cat called me a lot more, but since I started transitioning I really see fear in people’s eyes and I like it. I am the one doing the catcalling.”

Pole studio owner Yagmur Alpars...n be open,” she said.

Pole studio owner Yagmur Alparslan “I like to change perceptions. In Turkey and in the world, so many people think pole dance is something else. When I told my ex-boyfriend about it, he said, wow Yagmur, are you going to be a stripper now? So I decided to lay down some ground rules.” Yagmur opted out of high heels and seductive outfits. She does not play music during class, there are no dimmed lights. “We don’t need sexy clothes and props. I don’t judge them, but when I chose to step outside these stereotypes, people got more curious.” Before the pandemic, Yagmur had over 100 students, but all sports venues were ordered to shut down to prevent the spread of coronavirus. She tried to launch online classes, but it proved to be a challenge because many believed they could learn for free by watching youtube videos. “As an athlete, I am used to overcoming challenges. Pole for me is a step towards a new future in sports. It’s also a kind of therapy, where people feel safe. I want to reach out to people through pole and show them that new windows can be open,” she said.

Dr. Erdogan Koray came to the h...they trust,” he said.

Dr. Erdogan Koray came to the hair restoration field in 1999 after years of work in thoracic surgery. “I operated on patients with lung cancer and they kept coming back with micro metastasis. I decided to choose a way, which you know you can only make people happy with the results.” - he says. Since then Dr. Erdogan has operated on more than ten thousand patients and the only complaint he heard so far was: doctor, I need more density. “Men don’t have many accessories, so hair is important to them. Hair represents power and men don’t want to loose power," he says. Over the past decade, medical tourism has been on the rise in Turkey contributing billions of dollars in revenues to the local economy. Ninety five percent of Dr. Erdogan’s patients come from abroad, mostly Europe and the US. Under normal circumstances, he receives between 60 - 70 patients per month, but today’s numbers have slid to zero. In spite of the clinic being empty, Dr. Erdogan remains optimistic that his industry will soon recover from the setback. “I believe that the pandemic will affect the hair restoration industry in a good way because people will start caring more about the hygiene. Before the pandemic people took more risks, visiting many clinics. Now they will be more choosy about who they trust,” he said.

Azad Kaan’s promo vid...inents of the world.”

Azad Kaan’s promo video introduces him as the “Turkish Delight” of the contemporary and oriental dance scene. Born in Bartin, a small town on the Black Sea coast, known for its saffron and the Ottoman era “kocheks”- young effeminate male dancers employed by the court for entertainment.
Azad’s stage attire did not reveal the stomach as those usually donned by the female oriental dancers. “I saw this bra on a woman’s costume and I put it on my shoulders. It made them look broader, like a rugby player. I wanted to show I am a man. Don’t mix me with a lady dancer,” he said.
Azad toured the world with gala performances in oriental music festivals, but all his trips were canceled due to Covid-19. He spent the quarantine at home, fasting for Ramadan and getting in shape. “I’ve been to Asia, Europe, North Africa, America too. My last job was supposed to be in Australia, but it was canceled because of Coronavirus. I was waiting for more than fifteen years to go there because then I could say I danced on all five continents of the world.”

A third-generation hamam worker...t just to come here.”

A third-generation hamam worker, Metin washed people six days a week in the historic Cemberlitas Hamam in Sultanahmet, before the government shut it down. “You make them sweat for 15 minutes on the hot marble, then we start scrubbing. After that we wash them off and give them a bubble massage, everyone’s favorite,” for this ritual, Metin brought out his “torba”, a bag made of soft cotton, and dip it into a vat of soap and water. He would then swing it left and right like a pendulum clock filling it with air to create a coat of bubbles to cover the customer with, head to toe.
Cimberlitas hamam shut its doors in for the first time in its years of uninterrupted service. Every week, Metin comes back to the empty hamam and spends time sitting in the foyer and chatting with the caretaker. “I see it and feel better already, even though I am not working. I miss my customers and the cheerful atmosphere of the hamam. It lifts a bit of sadness off my heart just to come here.”

“Since the Ottoman er...alk to me.” he mused.

“Since the Ottoman era, we [imams] have been serving as therapists. Western scientists got it from us, they turned our work into diplomas and charge money for it”. Imam Serkayali claimed that people distraught with the pandemic have been calling on him day and night just to talk.
In the months of the quarantine during prayer times, Imam Serkayali has been extending his address to the public, warning about hygiene, stressing the importance of social distancing and wearing face masks. In the time of the crisis, the government uses mosques to spread messages to the public through the ubiquitous loudspeakers.
Imam Serkayali has gotten accustomed to delivering sermons to an empty hall. “I come to pray for the people, but I feel the sorrow inside. It’s possible for imams to come to the mosque during lockdown when no other people are allowed outside their homes. We are not separated from the mosque, but we are distanced from the community.” He pointed to the pulpit from where he delivers ‘hutbe’, a Friday sermon, during which he preaches on a chosen popular theme: "Even though I am alone, I go up there and close my eyes to imagine the people coming to pray and talk to me.” he mused.

Informal Garbage Recyclers Haza...treets”. Binnaz said.

Informal Garbage Recyclers Hazal, Binnaz and Gullu have been collecting garbage for decades, but during quarantine, the buyers have closed down their shops, so the unsold trash accumulated. “This is from twenty days of trash collection,” Binnaz said pointing to the truck full of garbage parked outside their home. “My husband is dead. My son is in jail for a crime he did not commit. So we do all the work ourselves,” she added.
“Because of the curfew, it’s forbidden for us to collect garbage, but we still did it. We have too many children and grandchildren to feed,” Binnaz confessed. On a good month before the pandemic, Binnaz would earn about 1,000 Turkish lira (an equivalent of 110 euro) collecting and reselling paper, metal and plastic. “Even before coronavirus, things were going bad. There is a lot more competition now that the Afghans and Syrians are collecting too. But if the lockdown is lifted, we go straight back to work. It’s so boring to stay at home. We just sit on the porch outside and drink tea all day long. We miss our freedom. We want to work and be out on the streets”. Binnaz said.

A dance instructor for over two... camera on my belly!”

A dance instructor for over two decades, Reyhan still remembers her first student - Elizabeth, an American oriental dancer who came to Turkey to study Roma dance. Elizabeth spent three months searching for a teacher until she was finally introduced to Reyhan. The two became inseparable. “She came to my home everyday. We both cried when she went back to America. But she told all her dancer friends about me. So they started coming one by one. That’s how the word spread.”
A vast majority of Reyhan’s students are foreign women, who visit Turkey for a few weeks with a purpose of studying dance with her. Reyhan is skeptical about online classes, she does not own a laptop and the phone screen is too small to demonstrate the dance moves. The pandemic has paralyzed her professional life. “Social distancing is hard to keep while teaching dance. Students would get worried, even if I look healthy I might still be infected. With these questions in your mind, you can’t dance. When I teach, I have to fix their body poses. Sometimes I see she has a problem, can’t do a move, so I hold her hand, she gets my energy and she understands the move. I let her hold my belly to understand how I move it, so she can see the difference. How can I do it through the screen? I can’t put the camera on my belly!”

Now in his mid-seventies, Kemal...ack at work," he said.

Now in his mid-seventies, Kemal took over his barber shop fifty years ago from a man whom he worked for as an apprentice. It was his first day of work after two months of quarantine when all beauty salons were ordered to shut down. While the lockdown measures for salons have been lifted, there was still an ongoing curfew for those over 65 years old, with just occasional breaks every Sunday, when the elderly were allowed to walk outside during designated hours. “If I wasn’t a barbershop owner, I’d be ordered to sit at home because of my age.” Kemal was happy to be on the streets, but business was slow, he has not yet received a client on the day of the opening. “I’ve survived cancer and diabetes, I am not afraid of coronavirus. If it gets me, then it’s ‘kismet’. I prefer to be back at work," he said.

With over half a million follow...time soon,” she said.

With over half a million followers on Instagram, Hulya has been a trendsetter in modest fashion since she first appeared on the pages of Ala, a conservative fashion magazine known in Turkey as the Vogue for the veiled. “There was always veil fashion, but the role of veiled women was minuscule and mostly undermined. Ten years ago, there were very few fashion choices for them,” she said. Hulya launched her own fashion label - Qooqstore with which she introduced conservative apparel for all. “We are going for a more global look. Not all conservative women are veiled. For some, their lifestyle demands modest clothing choices.”
The coronavirus crisis was a major setback for Hulya’s business, her European exports dwindled and garments piled in warehouses. She has been trying to boost her online sales, as countrywide they rose by 40%. “Modest fashion has become a global trend, because it’s comfortable. Especially when people come out of this pandemic, they will want to wear linens, blazers, loose shirts. During the quarantine everyone stayed at home and tasted the pleasure of these comforts. They will not be ready to give that up. I don't think many will want to put on polyesters or fancy dresses any time soon,” she said.

“Cibalikapi&rdquo...he customers choose.”

“Cibalikapi” Meyhane Owner Behzad Sahin comes to his restaurant to check on Cimbiz the cat several times a week. He brings him food, changes his water and toilet. “We left him in charge here.” Behzat joked as he surveyed the empty room with chairs placed upside down on tables. His traditional Turkish meyhane - Cibalikapi overlooking the Golden Horn was known for its diverse mezes, Turkish small plate appetizers.
As the coronavirus spread in mid-March, all restaurants were ordered to shut down in Istanbul before being open to public again in mid-June. Behzat has already been thinking of how to adapt to the new rules, while not compromising on tradition: “Social distancing will be difficult for a meyhane. People drink Raki, sit next to each other and talk for hours. As time goes by eating and drinking at a table, they feel more emotional and get even closer. That’s the beautiful intimate atmosphere of a meyhane, which the new regulations will negatively affect.” Behzat pointed to a four people table saying that only a party of two would be seated there, diagonally across.
“We had a classic meyhane meze service when we brought out a tray of small dishes for people to choose from. Now because of new hygiene requirements, the customers are expected to order from a picture menu on a tablet or download an app with meze choices on their smartphones. But this is not part of our culture, we are not a restaurant in a shopping mall! So instead of the tablet option, we’ll make a set of small demo plates that we’ll show and bring fresh ones, once the customers choose.”

Yunan recalls her last gig on M...like drinking water.”

Yunan recalls her last gig on March 14th this year. “It was in this tiny cozy restaurant and pre-club space Markus Tavern. As I walked there, I was questioning everything. Like why am I going to DJ in the middle of the pandemic? Is it going to be my last gig for who knows how long?”
While worried about the effects of the pandemic on her future, Yunan dismisses a thought of never working as a DJ again. “It’s not possible. Music has always been there and people will need their rituals. Whatever the crisis or war, people will still try to come together for a moment of collective meditation, which to me is like a party and I am its shaman and sorceress. Even in all the sci-fi movies I watched and books I read, there is always a party scene. We need it, it’s almost like drinking water.”

“We are not an essent...ghborhood goes away.”

“We are not an essential business, people don’t need what I sell. It’s a specific thing, you can say it’s something of a luxury,” vintage store owner San Ozkanli told me. When the government imposed the quarantine, San closed his shop. But when he opened again, people came in just to say that they were happy to see it open. “I know that this place has a very positive vibe and great energy. It gives people hope that things are coming back to normal, if shops like mine are open for business.” Cihangir, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Istanbul, is known for its design boutiques, cafes and antique shops. “Here, we have a very special aura. When we are closed, the spirit of the neighborhood goes away.”

Antiques Collector Nevzad Onmus...people,” Nevzad said.

Antiques Collector Nevzad Onmus Located across Orhan Pamuk’s “Museum of Innocence” in Cukurcuma, Nevzat’s store is layer upon layer of objects he has collected in the past ten years of his life as an antiques dealer. “If I believe in the customer, I sell them things, I bring down the price or even give it away. I am like a grumpy old book seller who would only sell to someone worthy of adopting his orphaned books,” he said. Nevzat buys objects with a mindset of a collector, because “objects can tell history.” He shrugged when asked which objects he would collect to tell the story of the current pandemic. “Maybe I will collect masks. But it’s not interesting to me right now, because we are living through it. Maybe in twenty years I will have a better perspective” he said.
Nevzat owns a warehouse filled with a dizzying amount of things he bought in bulk and now rents out as props and set designs for cinema. There was a hospital, a barbershop, a cafe, a classroom, a library, a prison cell. “People want to get rid of all these things, they would otherwise throw them away as junk. I buy them. You can say they get a new life here,” he said. Nevzat’s slender frame in the dim light of the warehouse was dwarfed by the grotesque volume of his collection. “I’ve been enjoying the quiet days of the quarantine. I am happy to be away from the people,” Nevzad said.

Street Vendor - Balloons Ozgur ...uo;t accept boredom.”

Street Vendor - Balloons Ozgur FitirBoth Ozgur’s father and grandfather were street vendors selling balloons. He decided to take up the trade he knew well. A father of two, he supported his family with balloon sales in the past, but as part of the lockdown measures, children - Ozgur’s main client base, were ordered to stay indoors. “I spend more time with my own children during the quarantine, they are bored indoors and play with my balloons. They cry each time I go out to sell them. While they are sleeping, I tiptoe quietly so they don’t see me,” he confessed.
Out on the streets, Ozgur reassures his customers about the importance of hygiene. “When I sell my balloons now I ask to disinfect them before they give it to the child, because the virus is so tiny it can be anywhere.” Ozgur believed that his sales will improve as soon as the curfew is lifted. “Economically everyone is suffering in this pandemic. But as soon as they let the children out, I expect to sell more balloons. Children don’t understand the pandemic and they don’t accept boredom.”

Rena Effendi

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