I was the first American they had ever seen. But I was also a member of the family, married to the only one of them living outside the country.
In 1982 I went to a remote village in Turkey with my new husband, Fikri Kuchuk, MS ’75, PhD ’78, to meet my in-laws. I had an academic interest in being there as well: A recent Stanford graduate in anthropology, I looked forward to putting my lessons to use. They knew no English—had never heard it spoken—so my beginning Turkish would have to suffice. A foreigner speaking Turkish was another first for them.
The village leapt into view as we rounded the last bend in the narrow mountain road. Adobe houses and barns, still without electricity or plumbing, overlooked a scenic marshland. Fruit and nut trees dotted the landscape. Pure spring water bubbled up from sharp cliffs at the periphery of the settlement, and waterfalls splashed inside prehistoric caves.
I stumbled into my first faux pas the day I arrived. Nobody had told me that a bride is supposed to remain silent with her father-in-law until he gives her permission to speak. But even if I’d known the rule, it would have been impossible to follow: Nuri, my father-in-law, was asking me questions and making me laugh from the moment we met. I later learned that he was a practical and somewhat rebellious man who thought the custom was a waste of time.
Our visit was timed to coincide with my sister-in-law Nazmiye’s wedding. At a gathering of women the night before the three-day event, sister-in-law Meliha asked coyly, “What will happen after the wedding?” We all laughed. I was then politely informed that the bride’s oldest brother’s wife—me, in this case—was responsible for telling her what to expect. More screams of laughter. Meliha then demonstrated, with flair, how the groom slowly lifts the wedding veil. . . .
Later that night Nazmiye and I did talk about “what will happen.” She didn’t seem embarrassed to discuss such a sensitive topic with a foreigner she’d just met and who barely spoke her language.
Each day the guests lined up anew to stare and ask me questions. I understood their curiosity, but this made me very nervous! My sisters-in-law, feeling obliged to protect me, would try to shoo them away. Four-year-old Yücel was the only child brave enough to approach me; he followed me everywhere and cried whenever his mother took him home. Awestruck, Yücel declared again and again, “Your eyes are green, your hair is white.” The day we left he asked if he could keep me in exchange for a toy truck.
Everyone was intrigued by my journal. “Be sure to include how hard I’m working!” Nazmiye, sweeping nearby, said with a wink. My introduction to the village ended with a suitcase full of exquisite handmade gifts, a bag of apples and walnuts, and a written account of my adventure.
After years of visiting my in-laws on their turf, Fikri and I and our two young daughters took them on a Mediterranean vacation. Still Turkey, but this place was so foreign to them that it might as well have been America. Beaches, swimming pools, restaurants, hotel rooms, maids: Each was a novelty.
The topless sunbathers were a concern (European travelers flock to the Turkish Mediterranean coast), but even Sultan, my unworldly mother-in-law, managed to feign nonchalance. My daughters will never forget the sight of their cute little grandmother and her ubiquitous layers of sweaters—despite the considerable heat—juxtaposed with sleek vacationers working on their total-body tans.
One evening, while sipping tea by the water’s edge, we took turns singing our favorite songs. I chose a number from Gilbert and Sullivan’s H.M.S. Pinafore: “Never mind the why and wherefore, love can level ranks, and therefore. . . . ” Sultan loved the song and, once she heard the translation, its meaning.
My marriage and my travels in Turkey ended a few years ago, but the voices of a small village halfway around the world remain in my mind. They tell me that beyond green eyes and white hair, we’re not so different after all.
EMILY BUNKER, ’81, lives in Cape Cod, Mass., and is the author of Nuri’s Donkey: Untold Stories and Unwritten Rules of a Village in Turkey.
