"We've seen you around here. You live in that building, in that apartment don't you?"
We're outside on the grass that sits squashed between the mosque and the back of our apartment building. I've carefully chosen this time in the afternoon so that my children are not running around pretending to be knights and sword-fighting with sticks while on of the daily prayer times is going on. Three women have crossed over the street to talk to me from the apartment building opposite. A young woman, her mother and a grandmother. The grandmother leans on her granddaughter's arm.
"We've see you out on your balcony. Your children are so sweet. We've seen how your husband plays with the children too, how much you both love them," one of them continues. The grandmother had wanted to come and say hello in person. I nod and smile and say something politely back to them, mentally noting that our balcony is under observation.
Another day, we're in a park with friends. A Turkish lady I don't know is talking to my friend. My friend tells me later that I'm apparently well known enough in the area that this Turkish lady, who I've never talked before, used me and the building where I live as a landmark to explain where her shop is located.
Before we lived in this city, I read about some European workers living in China in the 1800s. They had to get used to curious faces looking in at the window, watching what they were doing and commenting among themselves on the actions of the strange white Westerners. I thought to myself then that I was glad I didn't live in a goldfish bowl. Imagine how discomfiting it would be to feel like you are constantly on display.
I remember living in Istanbul and consciously thinking that there were enough foreigners that we didn't stand out too much. Walking down the street, we didn't blend in with the Turks but it wasn't unusual to go to a children's play area in the part of the city we lived in and hear other people speaking English.
Now we live in central Turkey, in a tall apartment block surrounded by other tall apartment blocks. We don't live in as small a goldfish bowl as those workers in China did. There are no wondering faces pressed up against the glass here. That's one benefit of living in a second floor apartment. They're just looking out of their windows, across 10 metres and into our windows instead.
We live in a large goldfish bowl. In a city where there are very few Westerners, it's easy to stand out. With three small boys, closer in age than Turkish children often are and all with varying shades of light-coloured hair, we stand out a mile. We walk down the street and I know that people are looking at us. Some of the elderly men say maşallah, maşallah approvingly as I pass, a throwback to the old agricultural economy which prized boys. I hear murmurs of çok tatlı (they're very sweet) from others about the children. Somebody stops me outside the small supermarket to say hello because they've seen me in the park with the children before.
Some days, I love living in such a friendly and sociable community. I know that I'm challenging some of their preconceptions about how Christians (because all Westerners are considered Christians by most people here) dress and act and speak. I hope that helps break down barriers for the Gospel, or at least raises a question in their minds. Other days I long for anonymity, to not be watched and talked about and commented on.
The truth is, though, all of us live in a goldfish bowl. No matter what country we live in, our family, friends, colleagues and neighbours are watching how we live. They may not tell us that we're under observation quite as bluntly as my Turkish neighbours do. But they're taking note of us. Of whether we practise what we preach, of whether our claim to follow Christ truly impacts how we live.
And when we close the curtains and shut the door, it is tempting to think that we've managed to gain some privacy. It's all too easy to forget, though, that the sovereign God is watching. The drawn curtains might give us some privacy from the neighbours but every part of our lives is on display to God. God - mighty, merciful and unimaginably holy - sees my every thought, my every word, my every deed.
My family is highly visible in our community. That's just part of life here and it regularly, rightly, gives me pause for thought. But how much more should I pause to think about the whole of my life being visible before God.
