Güzelyali, Turkey to Kapikule Border Crossing. June 14 to 16.
Leaving Güzelyali, I aimed for the bridge that crosses the Dardanelles Strait, connecting Asia Minor to Europe. Despite that Google Maps suggested otherwise, bicycles were not allowed to cross and I was stopped by guards that directed me to a nearby ferry. I would have preferred to do it by my own power for the feeling of achievement, but there was nothing to do about it. The little bragging right over not using any other modes of transportation than my bicycle was not worth the multi-day detour the cycling past Istanbul would mean, and I was not sure if it would be possible to cycle over the Bosphorus anyways. So by ferry it was, from Lapseki to Gelibolu, and just like that I was in Europe.
Perhaps it was a coincidence, but I did feel subtle cues that the switching of continents could be sensed in culture as well. The mosques that had been crucial in Iraq and still throughout Asian Turkey was not as accommodating anymore in Europe. In Iraq the local men, all I can speak of since mosques are divided by gender, often dozed off in the mosque in the hot hours and invited me to do the same. In Turkey I had previously been greeted by curiosity and enthusiasm, but suddenly a non-Muslim seemed to be slightly more out of place in the house of God, and using it to rest between prayers was not allowed neither in Gelibolu or in Uzunköpru. It was a sober reminder that every familiar aspect of my own culture would replace something warm from foreign lands, for better or worse.
My final experience in Turkey was a peculiar one, and not easy to write about in public. The last night in the country was spent in Edirne, close to both Bulgarian and Greek border, and I would stay with a local man from the hospitality platform Couchsurfing. Couchsurfing is big in the gay scene, which is also true of other alternative interests and lifestyles, but for this minority in particular the hosting of others can be used as a means to get close and to give space to that which is often repressed. On this location I happen to be the target for such a practice.
I will not go into details on what exactly transpired. I was superior in strength and thus in no real danger. Nobody was physically hurt, but transgressions were made on my privacy, on my consent, on my dignity and on the spirit and safety guidelines of Couchsurfing. The man was later reported and is no longer part of the platform.
To be sapient means to form wisdom out of past memories. It is not my first experience with men wanting me, and sadly not the first with this particular context and method either. For all the discomfort, challenges and uncertainty they have brought, it is undeniable that there are important and powerful lessons to discern.
For one, even when physically capable, stopping an abuse done to oneself is no easy thing. It can be hard to recognise what is actually being done, let alone to act upon it and stirring the conflict. I hope to use my experience of being on the receiving end to further understanding to other men of the roles and the powers at play.
Secondly, while consent is an issue between sexes, it seems to me to be even more overlooked in the men-to-men arena. My experiences in gay clubs and similar have meant constant crotch-grabbing and in no subtle way either. It hurts my image of the gay community to the point where curiosity and open-mindedness feel punished rather than rewarded. This is to me an obvious problem, and yet I have never heard the issue raised before.
Lastly, there is gratefulness. If I have learned anything from the times when my physical privacy have been breached, is that while I am a victim of a small moment, those abusing me have been victims of insurmountable pressure and conflict, inner and outer. I hold them accountable for their actions, but I have seen their struggle and felt their pain. I feel grateful both for having been able to acknowledge this under tremendously testing circumstances, and for having gay friends who have managed to make me feel comfortable and respected, no matter what they might have hoped or desired.
I remember a few lines from the Lars von Trier film Nymphomaniac, and I have altered them slightly to fit this context.
Sexuality is the strongest force in human beings - to be born with a forbidden sexuality must be agonising. Many live lives full of denial while never hurting a soul. Those who manage to get through life with the shame of their desire without acting on it deserve a bloody medal.
In the end, it seems, I am also reminded of a cultural aspect that I do find increasingly agreeable in my journey to the North. Homo or not, we are all sapient beings, worthy of respect and love no matter shape or form. Troubled by the recent experience, but with an unflinching faith and resolve, I finally crossed the border to the country I knew the least about in my long way home.