On football matches: to mark silence or to boo

Greek-Turkish-trinkets

FOOTBALL IS known as the beautiful game. There are plenty of people who like to see sport as metaphor for life. Like many things, football is really just one of many *parts* of life, so perhaps we should recognise it as such and not read too much into it.

Still, based on several recent incidents, I can’t help but wonder if people’s behaviour at football matches doesn’t offer a perspective on societal dynamics, perhaps on a nation’s psyche or even the deeper workings of the human spirit.

Last Friday, a football match in the Greek city of Larissa was delayed when players, coaches and officials sat down as a protest to urge authorities to work harder to cater to refugees coming to Greece and as a mark of respect for refugees who had lost their lives in recent days attempting to cross the Aegean.

It was the Greeks, after all, who gave us the concept of philanthropy (φιλανθρωπία), which translates literally as “love of humanity”.

Apparently in Greek, there are four different words for love, one of which is agápē (ἀγάπη) from whence we get “agape”, but which translates as a sense of brotherly love and charity. Thomas Aquinas saw agápē as the wishing of good upon another.

I can’t help but compare the actions of the footballers in Larissa with the Turkish football fans in Istanbul who booed and jeered during a pre-game minute of silence for the victims of terrorist attacks in Paris last November, just as fans at a match in Konya had earlier disrupted a minute’s silence for the (mostly Kurdish and leftist) victims of the Ankara bombing in October.

Observing a moment’s silence as a mark of respect is not a commonly recognised practice in Turkey, but the actions of the Turkish crowds raised eyebrows around the world, to say the least.

In considering the Turkish crowds, the uncouth behaviour of a portion of a football crowd should not be taken as a reflection of an entire nation or people. The Greeks and the Turks have much more in common – in cultural, social and culinary terms – than nationalists of either strip would ever admit. But for a fleeting second I wondered if, after years of living, travelling, working and researching in Turkey, perhaps I should have been spending my time on the other side of the Aegean…

Until I stumbled across the reaction of Fatih Terim, the manager of the Turkish national team, who decried the “cruelty” of the booing Konya crowd and said better that Turkey had lost the match (after which it qualified for UEFA 2016) and not one life had been lost.

 

 

Musing on İzmir, Aegean metropolis

The Journal of Turkish Weekly recently published a review I wrote of Ottoman Izmir: the Rise of a Cosmopolitan Port. You can read my review here.

It is an interesting book, a scholarly investigation of a period during the mid-19th century when İzmir (then generally known as Smyrna) experienced unprecedented growth, thriving as a multicultural trading port linking the fertile Anatolian hinterland and the markets of the eastern Mediterranean and Europe more broadly. Written by an art historian, Sibel Zandi-Sayek, the book aims to present a non-partisan view of the machinations and interactions of the city’s very ethnically diverse citizenry at a time when a centralising Ottoman bureaucracy and foreign powers were seeking to capitalise on burgeoning trade networks and shifting geopolitical dynamics.

İzmir is Turkey’s third city but it is generally outshone by the star quality of İstanbul and Ankara’s capital-city kudos. İzmir’s 19th-century boomtown persona was effectively extinguished in 1922, when triumphant Turkish armies expelled a Greek expeditionary force and the historical core of the city was put to the torch. Today it is a busy, workaday city without any particular distinguishing feature, its multicultural history all but eradicated. The wholly admirable Bir Zamanlar publishing house in İstanbul is currently holding an exhibition of postcards displaying the diversity and vibrancy of İzmir in the early 20th century.

İzmir was the city I lived in for a bit over a year in 1994-5, teaching at a private language college in the bayside neighbourhood of Alsancak. At the time I was blissfully unaware of its colourful past, spending my time generally underwhelmed by ranks of tower blocks and pedestrianised promenades lined with interlocking tessellated pavers where once stood the bustling neighbourhoods and “polyglot enclaves” of Levantine entrepreneurs, Greek and Maltese stevedores, Frankish merchants, Armenian traders and printing presses that clanged through the day to produce periodicals and flyers in five different scripts and many more tongues. Back in the day, Izmir even had its own dialect of Greek, known as Smyrneika.

In retrospect I can recognise that there is a significant historical imprint on the modern city. Looking at some of the 19th-century maps in Zandi-Sayek’s book I can see that the avenues of Alsancak, and the broad avenues of neighbourhoods nearby, follow the same routes as the streets of 19th-century Smyrna.  I recall once crossing a side road not far from the Alsancak waterfront promenade and realising with some amazement that the man-hole cover before me was labelled in Arabic script. Not far from here, was the Greek consulate, one of few remaining historical buildings on the waterfront. There has been some controversy about the consulate lately, with some media reporting that the Greek government has put it up for sale.

There were also some neighbourhoods of Ottoman-era houses climbing a hill behind the bazaar at Kemeraltı. I would wander there sometimes in the afternoons with a friend.  We would climb the steep, narrow streets spying the architectural accoutrements of an earlier age: wooden shutters, latticed balconies, window grates of wrought iron. Life was lived on the streets here. Women tended basil plants in empty olive-oil tins; aged men sat on doorsteps to watch the streetly goings-on; children giggled and kicked balls down steep flights of steps. Smiling locals would ask us where we were going, and we’d smile back and say we were just wandering, at which point they would decide we were crazy. One bemused child, skipping beside us, asked, “Why do you come here? Everything is dirty and ugly and old.” Everyone offered directions to us, convinced that we could only come that way because we were lost. I wrote in my diary at the time that after almost a year in İzmir I felt that I had finally found the beating heart…