We talk about language learning a lot, unsurprisingly. So I thought I'd try and give a quick insight into one of the bits of grammar that I've been trying to absorb into my head this week, in the hope that it might possibly be interesting to a couple of language geeks, and even if you're not a language geek, you might be interested to get a little insight into our language studies. If neither of those options appeal to you, feel free to ignore the rest of this post. Apologies if this gets too technical, I'll try and keep it as simple as I can but it might get tricky.
First off, Turkish is an agglutinative language, which is a posh way of saying that you just keep adding suffixes onto words to get the meaning that you are after. So one word, with the appropriate suffixes, can convey what would be translated as a sentence in English.
I've been working on the Turkish equivalent of 'can' and 'might', which when you're speaking positively, involves either -ebil or -abil being added onto the verb, then adding the verb tense, then adding the appropriate pronoun ending. So, for example:
gitmek = to go (infinitive, denoted by the 'mek' ending)
git = go (said as a command to one person i.e. you go!)
iyor/ıyor/uyor/üyor = present continuous tense suffix
im/ım/um/üm = pronoun suffix for I
gidiyorum = git + iyor + um = I am coming (the 't' changes to a 'd' because it is followed by a vowel)
gidebiliyorum = git + ebil + iyor + um = I am able to go, I can go
There are various vowel possibilities for the tense and pronoun suffixes because Turkish has this concept called vowel harmony. This means when you add on a suffix, the vowel you use in the suffix depends on the preceding vowel in the word, because the vowels have to 'match' or harmonise. This also explains why some verbs take -abil and others take -ebil. (There are two types of vowel harmony but let's not complicate things). When you change the tense, you just change the tense suffix. Then the pronoun ending might also change, due to vowel harmony.
gidebiliyorum = git + ebil + iyor + um = I can go (using the present continuous tense, so either 'right now, I can go' or I have the general ability to go)
gidebilirim = gid + ebil + ir + im = I might go or I can go (using what in Turkish literally translates as the 'wide tense', but the nearest approximation in English is the present simple tense. It means 'probably but I haven't done it before', or suggests possibility)
gidebilirim mi? = can I go? (either a polite request or asking permission)
gidebildim = git + ebil + di + m = I was able to go (past tense, for a one-off event e.g. 'last week was a special event so I was able to go')
gidebiliyordum = git + ebil + iyor + du + m = I was able to go (past tense for a continuous action or ability e.g. 'When I was a child I was able to go every week')
gidebileceğim = git + ebil + ecek + im = I will be able to go (future tense, and the 'k' changes to a 'ğ')
Followed all that? Good! I've been spending some time practising trying to say some of these conjugations. For example:
fırçalamak = to brush
fırçalayabilacağım = fırçala + y + abil + acak + ım = I am going to be able to brush
By the way, if you were wondering why a stray 'y' popped up in the middle there, generally in Turkish you can't put two vowels next to each other, so you have to insert a buffer 'y'.
Now it gets really interesting. The English expressions of 'can' and 'might' usually use the same Turkish suffix (-ebil/-abil) when speaking positively. However, they negate in different ways. The negative version of 'can' uses an extra 'e' or 'a' in front of the negative verb tense (with a buffer y thrown in if necessary, of course). But the negative version of 'might' uses -meyebil/-mayabil as its negative and the positive tense.
gidemiyorum = git + e + miyor + um = I can't go (present continuous i.e. I am trying but right now there is a problem so I can't go)
gidemem = git + e + me + m = I can't go, in all likelihood it is not possible (present simple/wide tense negative)
gidemedim = git + e + me + di + m = I couldn't go, it wasn't possible (past tense for a one off event)
gidemiyordum = git + e + miyor + du + m = I couldn't go (past tense meaning I wanted to but I didn't have the ability, permission, or something happened that prevented it)
gidemeyeceğim = git + e + me + y + ecek + im = I won't be able to go, for definite
gitmeyebilirim = git + me + y + ebil + ir + im = I might not come, either because I can't or I don't want to (present simple/wide tense negative)
And the really interesting part? You can combine the 'might' negative with the 'can' present simple/wide tense negative.
gidemeyebilirim = git + e + me + y + ebil + ir + im = I might not be able to go i.e. it might not be possible for me to go even if I wanted to
Which means that once you add suffixes and buffer letters to nice long verbs, it can end up being quite a mouthful.
saklamak = to hide something or keep it secret
saklayamayacaksınız - you (plural) might not be able to hide it
If you made it to the end, congratulations!
Tuesday 20 September 2016
Wednesday 14 September 2016
Bayram and Emirgan Park
It's Bayram at the moment here. Bayram is the word for a national holiday, which can be either secular or religious, but not every secular national holiday is called a Bayram (I think). But right now, we're in the middle of the Eid al-Adha holıday, which here is called Kurbanı Bayram, or just Bayram. If you can't tell, we're still getting our heads around how exactly the term 'Bayram' is used.
Anyway, as the Bayram holiday lasts 4 days from Monday - Thursday, the government made Friday as a national holiday too. And made public transport half price for Monday - Thursday! So my language school is taking a break for a week, lots of shops are closed, and people are enjoying spending time with their families (or sneaking in a holiday somewhere).
We've mostly been doing the usual routine here - Turkish studying, trips to the local playground, etc. But we took a half day today to go to Emirgan Park for the first time.
Emirgan Park is now officially my new favourite place in Istanbul. It's one of the largest public parks in Istanbul (117 acres according to Wikipedia) and is just outside the main city area, which meant that we had to get the metro to the nearest stop then walk half an hour. Unfortunately, it's on the side of a huge hill (like most parks here). But, having learned from our Üsküdar picnic attempt a couple of weeks back (where we walked all the way up a steep hill only to find there was nowhere to sit, so walked back down the hill, only for it to start raining as we got to the bottom), we started off at the top of Emirgan Park.
Our first stop was, of course, the children's playground, before we started to explore the park.
We then slowly wended our way through the park, which is full of random cool things. Like pavilions - there are three Ottoman pavilions here that were built in the 1800s.
As well as wandering around and seeing all the fountains, ponds, random sculptures and flowers, we also managed to pick up some conkers. They had already started falling from the trees (which felt slightly incongruous as it isn't exactly feeling much like any autumn we're used to yet!) and J enjoyed collecting them and wandering around with one firmly clutched in each hand. We finished with a quick picnic before heading home.
It was lovely to get outside, see trees and enjoy some fresh air. J enjoyed himself thoroughly too - in fact, he tired himself out so much that keeping him awake on the bus and metro home ready for his afternoon nap back at our flat was quite an effort.
Definitely on my list of places to visit again!
Anyway, as the Bayram holiday lasts 4 days from Monday - Thursday, the government made Friday as a national holiday too. And made public transport half price for Monday - Thursday! So my language school is taking a break for a week, lots of shops are closed, and people are enjoying spending time with their families (or sneaking in a holiday somewhere).
We've mostly been doing the usual routine here - Turkish studying, trips to the local playground, etc. But we took a half day today to go to Emirgan Park for the first time.
Emirgan Park is now officially my new favourite place in Istanbul. It's one of the largest public parks in Istanbul (117 acres according to Wikipedia) and is just outside the main city area, which meant that we had to get the metro to the nearest stop then walk half an hour. Unfortunately, it's on the side of a huge hill (like most parks here). But, having learned from our Üsküdar picnic attempt a couple of weeks back (where we walked all the way up a steep hill only to find there was nowhere to sit, so walked back down the hill, only for it to start raining as we got to the bottom), we started off at the top of Emirgan Park.
Our first stop was, of course, the children's playground, before we started to explore the park.
We then slowly wended our way through the park, which is full of random cool things. Like pavilions - there are three Ottoman pavilions here that were built in the 1800s.
The White Pavilion. The other two are the Yellow Pavilion and Pink Pavilion.
There were quite a few fountains around. We made up for the one that J couldn't climb into when we found some mini-fountains that were perfect for J to investigate.
There are lots of tulip references in the park too as Emirgan Park hosts a famous tulip festival every April, which is why the 'I' and 'S' of 'Istanbul' in the photo below make a tulip shape.
This park looked so much fun. Unfortunately J is nowhere near old enough for me to use him as an excuse to play on it myself.
Half way down, the Bosphorus can just be seen through the trees
As well as wandering around and seeing all the fountains, ponds, random sculptures and flowers, we also managed to pick up some conkers. They had already started falling from the trees (which felt slightly incongruous as it isn't exactly feeling much like any autumn we're used to yet!) and J enjoyed collecting them and wandering around with one firmly clutched in each hand. We finished with a quick picnic before heading home.
It was lovely to get outside, see trees and enjoy some fresh air. J enjoyed himself thoroughly too - in fact, he tired himself out so much that keeping him awake on the bus and metro home ready for his afternoon nap back at our flat was quite an effort.
Definitely on my list of places to visit again!
Tuesday 13 September 2016
Roots
Last week, my parents moved out of their house and to a village 300 miles away. And I spent a couple of days feeling a little bit sad about it. I've known the move was happening for a while - when we left England, I knew we wouldn't be coming back to that house. So this took me a little by surprise. It took me a day or two to put my finger on why exactly.
Then I figured it out. I'd put down roots in that house. When I came home at the end of university, I came back to that house. I invested a considerable amount of time painting three walls of my bedroom with a paintbrush, because my dad didn't trust me with a roller. In amongst the change of navigating the university to work transition, my first adult job and moving to Manchester, I kept coming back to that house. Even once I'd moved out, I lived close enough to pop back for a night, or a Saturday, or when my car needed to go to the garage. When L and I got engaged, we told my parents by turning up unannounced and unexpected at the front door of that house one evening. I got ready for my wedding in that house, and my sister's wedding too. I sat around the kitchen table drinking cup after cup of tea more times than I can remember. When L and I sold our house ready for the move out here, we moved into my parents' house, spending weekdays there and weekends back in Bradford. Of course I put down roots there.
And now, those roots have been all up-ended. Don't get me wrong, I'm really excited about visiting my parents' new house when we are next back in England (and when they have a new house). I'm very fortunate that they have moved to a place where I already feel like I have a few little root tendrils, thanks to many holidays there over the years. And experiencing grief at change is a perfectly normal and emotionally healthy thing. If you've ever seen the Pixar film 'Inside Out', you'll understand what I'm talking about as it captures this concept pretty much perfectly.
But I'm also conscious that we've been here in Turkey pretty much 5 months now. Our plan has always been to spend 2 years in this city, then move to another city. And 5 months isn't far off 6 months, which is a quarter of our time. A quarter sounds like a proper chunk of time. And so I continue to try and plant myself deeply in this city, knowing that in a year and a half, we plan to be uprooting again. And that we will continue putting down roots in this country, where our ability to remain here rests on being able to acquire a residence permit each year or two and feels so fragile.
There's another thought lodged in my mind as well. L and I chose this path, where uprooting ourselves is part of the job description. But we are also making J into a 'Third Culture Kid' (TCK for short). This term refers to children who spend some years when they are growing up in a different culture from their passport country. The idea of the 'third culture' is that it is the amalgamation of the two cultures because a TCK never feels like they completely belong to either culture. If J spends a large amount of his childhood here, then he will probably never feel entirely British, and he'll never feel entirely Turkish. There's been a growing amount of research into TCKs in recent years, but one of the key characteristics is rootlessness that results from much change and not feeling that they truly belong anywhere. One researcher summarised the effects of rootlessness when he said that "most TCKs go through more grief experiences by the time they are twenty than monocultural individuals do in a lifetime." (Though it does also need to be said that there are many benefits as well to being a TCK as well.)
I don't have any easy answers about J being a TCK, any more than I have easy answers about the roots I've put down in different places. (In fact, even less, as I haven't been a TCK).
A couple of days ago we were thinking about a passage that talks about One who is like a shepherd, carrying his sheep close to his heart, and yet who is incomparably mighty. It reminded me that I don't need to be looking down at my feet to carefully nurture the roots I'm putting down, but should be lifting my eyes up to to the heavens, where my help comes from and where I can see the stars that are known each by name (although not literally, because unlike a couple of months back, we have power and so I can't see the stars through the light pollution).
Holding onto this truth and the hope we have will anchor us, but it won't negate the sadness and that's okay. There is no neat ending to this story. I'm already over being sad about my parents move, but there will be other uprootings in the future that I will be sad about. J will experience lots of changes that he'll be sad about, which will make us sad too. There are, and will be, lots of great things about living here, but there will also be sadness and we don't have to pretend it doesn't exist or be ashamed of that.
Then I figured it out. I'd put down roots in that house. When I came home at the end of university, I came back to that house. I invested a considerable amount of time painting three walls of my bedroom with a paintbrush, because my dad didn't trust me with a roller. In amongst the change of navigating the university to work transition, my first adult job and moving to Manchester, I kept coming back to that house. Even once I'd moved out, I lived close enough to pop back for a night, or a Saturday, or when my car needed to go to the garage. When L and I got engaged, we told my parents by turning up unannounced and unexpected at the front door of that house one evening. I got ready for my wedding in that house, and my sister's wedding too. I sat around the kitchen table drinking cup after cup of tea more times than I can remember. When L and I sold our house ready for the move out here, we moved into my parents' house, spending weekdays there and weekends back in Bradford. Of course I put down roots there.
And now, those roots have been all up-ended. Don't get me wrong, I'm really excited about visiting my parents' new house when we are next back in England (and when they have a new house). I'm very fortunate that they have moved to a place where I already feel like I have a few little root tendrils, thanks to many holidays there over the years. And experiencing grief at change is a perfectly normal and emotionally healthy thing. If you've ever seen the Pixar film 'Inside Out', you'll understand what I'm talking about as it captures this concept pretty much perfectly.
But I'm also conscious that we've been here in Turkey pretty much 5 months now. Our plan has always been to spend 2 years in this city, then move to another city. And 5 months isn't far off 6 months, which is a quarter of our time. A quarter sounds like a proper chunk of time. And so I continue to try and plant myself deeply in this city, knowing that in a year and a half, we plan to be uprooting again. And that we will continue putting down roots in this country, where our ability to remain here rests on being able to acquire a residence permit each year or two and feels so fragile.
There's another thought lodged in my mind as well. L and I chose this path, where uprooting ourselves is part of the job description. But we are also making J into a 'Third Culture Kid' (TCK for short). This term refers to children who spend some years when they are growing up in a different culture from their passport country. The idea of the 'third culture' is that it is the amalgamation of the two cultures because a TCK never feels like they completely belong to either culture. If J spends a large amount of his childhood here, then he will probably never feel entirely British, and he'll never feel entirely Turkish. There's been a growing amount of research into TCKs in recent years, but one of the key characteristics is rootlessness that results from much change and not feeling that they truly belong anywhere. One researcher summarised the effects of rootlessness when he said that "most TCKs go through more grief experiences by the time they are twenty than monocultural individuals do in a lifetime." (Though it does also need to be said that there are many benefits as well to being a TCK as well.)
I don't have any easy answers about J being a TCK, any more than I have easy answers about the roots I've put down in different places. (In fact, even less, as I haven't been a TCK).
A couple of days ago we were thinking about a passage that talks about One who is like a shepherd, carrying his sheep close to his heart, and yet who is incomparably mighty. It reminded me that I don't need to be looking down at my feet to carefully nurture the roots I'm putting down, but should be lifting my eyes up to to the heavens, where my help comes from and where I can see the stars that are known each by name (although not literally, because unlike a couple of months back, we have power and so I can't see the stars through the light pollution).
Holding onto this truth and the hope we have will anchor us, but it won't negate the sadness and that's okay. There is no neat ending to this story. I'm already over being sad about my parents move, but there will be other uprootings in the future that I will be sad about. J will experience lots of changes that he'll be sad about, which will make us sad too. There are, and will be, lots of great things about living here, but there will also be sadness and we don't have to pretend it doesn't exist or be ashamed of that.
Saturday 3 September 2016
A riddle for you
Earlier this week, L was talking to a Turkish friend about driving in Turkey. L explained that one of the difficulties we would have about driving here would be that we are used to driving on the left but in Turkey, people drive on the right.
At which point, L's friend interjected to say that in Turkey, you drive on the left. Now, Istanbul driving is best understood as a cross between the daunting intensity of London driving combined with the anarchy of Bradford driving, but even so, L was fairly confident that people drive on the right here.
Both L and his friend were correct. But how?
I'll leave you to think about it for a few days (answers on a postcard please) and will edit this post next week to provide the explanation, though I'm sure you can probably work it out for yourselves!
Edited 11/09/2016:
I'm sure you figured it out, but just in case you wanted confirmation, Turkish people talk about which side of the car the driver's seat is on, while we talk about sides of roads. A perfect example of cross-cultural miscommunication!
At which point, L's friend interjected to say that in Turkey, you drive on the left. Now, Istanbul driving is best understood as a cross between the daunting intensity of London driving combined with the anarchy of Bradford driving, but even so, L was fairly confident that people drive on the right here.
Both L and his friend were correct. But how?
I'll leave you to think about it for a few days (answers on a postcard please) and will edit this post next week to provide the explanation, though I'm sure you can probably work it out for yourselves!
Edited 11/09/2016:
I'm sure you figured it out, but just in case you wanted confirmation, Turkish people talk about which side of the car the driver's seat is on, while we talk about sides of roads. A perfect example of cross-cultural miscommunication!
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