They call me American. I am not just yabancı — foreigner — but a particular breed of outsider. People back home often ask me what it’s like to be an American in Turkey, fearing the stereotype that the “Middle East” resents the United States and thus its progeny. Don’t speak English too loudly. Don’t bring clothes with American insignias. Don’t let them target you. There’s a store in Çorum that sells “hip” clothing, some of it emblazoned with broken English. Among the findings was the message, “the fact is that the world is out of everyone’s expectation But some learn to forget But others insist.” Another stated something unintelligible about snowflakes. A third impelled us to “always wear your invisible crown.” Since my arrival in Turkey, I’ve often felt that being an American here is like having an invisible crown permanently attached to my head. Even in Istanbul, I was able to finagle free çay and pastries after telling the waiter my nationality. Turks are known for their unparalleled hospitality, but I can’t help but think that for me its amplified by my “American-ness.” “Ingiliz? Fransız?” a waiter asked, after realizing I couldn’t speak Turkish. “Amerikalım.” “Amerikkaaaaa!” he exclaimed, eyes wide in shock at the prospect of someone from across the pond landing in Çorum. The service was impeccable, and when I got up to leave, the wait staff stood on either side of the hall and waved as I made my exit. This coffee house was exquisite, a place where, if it were in the United States, I would be lucky to even get service. Here, I got an unmerited Oscars red carpet. As an American teaching English, I have been welcomed everywhere I go. So the threat of being in Turkey does not come from discrimination per se but a lack thereof — at least towards me. It comes from getting caught in the crossfire of events unrelated to my “American-ness”. By becoming just a human — in the wrong place at the wrong time. The explosion in Ankara was the largest terror attack in Turkish history: 95 confirmed dead and over 200 injured. These bombings targeted a peace protest calling for an end to Turkish-Kurdish violence. To restate: a peace rally was the site of the deadliest terrorist attack in Turkish history. My roommate’s friend was there and barely escaped the blast, leaving the scene “with pieces of human on her.” Pieces of a life. Blood. Body parts. Parting gifts from some of the 95 people who would never see their families again. They became martyrs to the fight against fighting, and these were their last shreds of non-violent reconciliation. Their protest was not a question mark; both their lives and their dreams were abruptly ended by a war they never asked for and exclaimed against. We don’t know who did this and we don’t know why. What we do know was that there was a senseless loss of life, and one that speaks to the all-too-human tendency to box the world into “us” and “them” while blasting the “other” side to pieces. No country is exempt from it, but this tragedy hit home. My new home, filled with so many kind, generous, and life-loving people, was hurting. Regardless of the culprit, this attack was a deliberate message of silence and intimidation. It said that Ankara, and all of Turkey, would be forced into shock and mourning through the upcoming election. It said that peace was not an option. It called every death by disagreement “justice” and every public space a battlefield. It claimed that people with opposing views thereby revoked their right to be human — and thus deserved to be corpses. I worry that in an increasingly interdependent world, we will only find more of these tragic “solutions” to sift through the complexities around us. The ironic thing is that bombs don’t discriminate. Their targets may come from prejudice, but when explosions erupt or bullets flood out of their cartridge, they don’t ask what you believe or where you come from. They only care where you are standing. And in that moment, no one is anything other than human.