Are You Sleeping?

by Helen Lin (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Turkey

It’s almost midnight. I’m headed home on the last minibus of the night, my first time taking this route. My new friend and I had just returned to Ankara after a daytrip to Beypazarı. Though she's reluctant to send me off alone, she needs to catch a bus in the opposite direction before the buses stop running. I’d reassured her. I don’t know this route, but we'll pass by CEPA Mall, within walking distance of home. My middle seat doesn't afford a good view, but you can't miss the mall's gaudy lights. More and more passengers cram in, rushing home while the buses still run. The minibus quickly exceeds standing capacity. I crane my neck, no longer able to see where we’re going. The windows, foggy anyway, are blocked by the overflow of puffy coats, backpacks, and standing passengers. Voices around me mumble “CEPA,” so I peer out from under another passenger's arm. We could be anywhere on the main highway. It would be so simple to open my mouth and say, “Are we at CEPA yet?” I know the words to say — language is not the problem here — and yet I sit mutely, my neutral expression camouflaging the dull disquiet in my stomach and agitation thrashing in my chest. The words seem to be caught in my throat. I want to say them...but I can’t make myself. As passengers exit, stop by stop, I sigh. Nothing's familiar. Maybe it looks different at night? Maybe these are side streets I don't know? Surely in a few minutes we’ll be back in familiar territory. Again, I remain silent. Remaining silent is easy. By now, we must've passed CEPA. Whereas looming skyscrapers and spillover from well-stocked newsstands press against the bounds of the city roads, here the landscape stretches flat, desolate, and dark: overgrown, sun-bleached weeds, interrupted by the occasional cell phone tower. I’ve never seen any part of Ankara look like this. The cell phone I clutch in my hand begins to ring. My friend, checking up on me. But my pride, mingling with ever-growing mortification, won't allow me to answer the phone. She’ll know I’m still on the minibus. I can’t tell her I’m lost. I’m twenty-nine years old. Surely I can manage a simple ride home. Surely. I decline the call. Every second I don’t speak up, I’m getting farther from the center of the city. What if this is the last minibus and I can’t find a way home? After a day of sampling all the treats Beypazarı had to offer, I don’t have enough money left for cab fare. I could ask the driver where we’re going, but during this interminable ride, I’ve perfected my expression of total nonchalance and convinced myself I can’t speak. It seems a pity to spoil my self-delusions so close to the end. We finally pull up to a minibus parking lot, the last stop on this route. A nearby sign reads “Sincan.” Later, I learn that I traveled 20–25 minutes out of my way, past the western city limits of Ankara. Don’t worry. I do make it home that night. When my friend texts later, begging me to answer, I reply that I’d forgotten to text, that naturally I’m at home. I tell her she had no reason to worry. I want to nurse my shame in secret. Turkish has two verbs that look similar, uyumak (to sleep) and uymak (to accommodate, comply). Because of the way some words are inflected, the first-person, present continuous forms for both uyumak and uymak look the same: uyuyorum. “I am sleeping.” Or “I am accommodating, complying.” Uyuyorum, I’m sleeping — sounds harmless enough. Uyuyorum, I'm bending to others' will. Or what circumstances dictate — a lot more dangerous. Conforming is, in a way, like sleeping. You’re passive, malleable, and not in charge of your own trajectory. I’m still not an assertive person. But I grew a much-needed backbone after that accidental detour to Sincan. Something I didn’t expect to gain from a life abroad. Now, when I need to wake up, to push against the current, I remind myself I am *not* going to Sincan again, literally or figuratively. I confront myself. Hey! Are you sleeping?