What Do Nuns and Middle-Aged Turkish Men Have In Common?
Wrong Answers Only
This was originally going to be two separate essays, one about my yearning for the life of a nun, the other about my yearning for the life of a middle-aged Turkish man. I started drafting them within a few days of each other, and realised half-way through what I was doing. I can’t just publish an essay on wanting to be a nun one day and then an essay on wanting to be a middle-aged Turkish man the next, I thought. And then, What do those things even have in common? How can I simultaneously want to be a nun and a Turkish man? And thus, this singular, all-encompassing essay was born.
i. The Desire to Be A Nun
On my recent flight from Marseille to Istanbul, I watched Wes Anderson’s latest film, The Phoenician Scheme. Imagine my delight when I realised one of the main characters was a Catholic novice — basically, a nun-in-training. Not only that, she was also extremely pretty, had a satisfyingly crisp English accent and was the archetype of a headstrong female character with firm principles. I was immediately enamored.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt a fascination for someone whose life revolves around organised religion. I feel awe anytime a nun steps onto my bus. I mostly watched “Nobody Wants This” for the rabbi. When I was living in Turkey, part of me envied the people around me for their rituals of ablutions and prayers that followed the sun, their separate calendar, their annual month of fasting and feasting. Their life seemed organised and purposeful in a way I’ve never really experienced.
I grew up in a non-religious family, in one of the least religious countries in the world. I was raised to “believe in science” and think myself better than those who thought there was an old man in the sky looking over us. As a leftist, and especially a queer feminist, I learnt about all the ways in which organised religion is used to subjugate marginalised people. Religious temples were nothing but impressive architecture and my “soul” was just a myriad of neural connections and chemicals coursing through my body influenced by the environment I grew up in.
It’s only the past few years in which I’ve started to also recognise the benefits of organised religion — the comfort of a built-in community, routine and purpose. When I went through heartbreak two years ago, I also craved the comfort of believing someone all-knowing was taking care of me when I (or the person I loved) couldn’t. I allowed the TikTok algorithm to pull me into a kind of mild spiritual psychosis, my FYP filling with tarot readings and manifestation tutorials. We have a tendency to look towards a higher power in times of duress, and I didn’t have that spiritual framework already given to me, so I let the algorithm be my God.
ii. The Desire to Be a Middle-Aged Turkish Man
Upon my return to Turkey, and being surrounded by people speaking Turkish again, I felt a familiar tug at my heart. The soft r’s, the clear vowels, the constant pepperings of “brother”, “sister”, “friend”, “dear”, phrases wishing wealth and health and God’s protection that roll off the tongue and punctuate every other sentence, no matter if the person you’re talking to is a loved one or someone you’ve never seen before in your life.
But it’s not just the language itself — it’s a certain tone and emotionality behind the words, one that I notice especially with men. There’s a kind of self-assuredness that Turkish men exude in their speech, and the way they interact with the world. I think it’s that ease and confidence that I envy.
Before I lived in Turkey, I visited the country a few times. Something that struck me was the cafés, their outdoor seating areas always populated with middle-aged men whiling away the afternoon, drinking çay after çay, chainsmoking cigarettes, playing backgammon and discussing politics or the economy or their families or whatever it is middle-aged Turkish men talk about. They were an intrinsic part of their environment, shaping it as it shaped them. I said to my friend, “When I grow up, I want to be a middle-aged Turkish man playing board games at a café.” (Fortunately, they do allow women at cafés too, so at least part of my dream came true.)
After three years of living in the country, I learnt that Turkish men are not usually as self-assured as they seem. It is, of course, a game they learn to play while navigating their societal gender roles in a highly patriarchal society. Those who excel in it, succeed in looking like a natural part of their environment. Those who don’t — the queer, the sick, the poor, the naturally sensitive — are excluded and often marginalised. And as for those who do excel, they’re usually only able to do so through repressing their fragiler parts and turning them into anger that gets directed towards their wives and children.
When I first moved to Istanbul, I was in the middle of what I now call my transmasc era. I’ve always had a complicated relationship with gender, and at around the end of 2020, I decided to commit to trying something different for a while. I changed my name and pronouns and researched gender-affirming hormone therapy. After an experimental few years, I found my way back to some version of femininity. Though I now feel more comfortable fitting in the “female” slot of society, I’m still not particularly convinced of the merits of identifying with any type of gender. Rather, I feel like a lot of my yearning for manhood has been related to a more general yearning to feel at ease in society. I want comfortable camradery, I want to be taken seriously by myself and by others, I want to speak with a natural confidence, I want to feel like an agent of my environment. The gender expression of the Turkish patriarch, or even the teenager rehearsing for the role, seemed to me a distillation of all that.
iii. Being What I Am
The truth is, I’m stubborn as hell. I’ve never been able to follow rules just for the sake of it. I’m privileged for the freedom I’ve been given to develop and live according to my own principles, but that freedom also puts all the burden on me to figure out how best to live my own life. I envy the ease with which people who have fully accepted a religion, societal role or calling seemingly move through their lives without constantly questioning it. I draw tarot cards in the morning and wish that I truly believed they came from something more powerful than me. I wish I had the confidence of knowing my role in society, of having a scripted part to play.
Most people throughout history have lived according to a system of beliefs that was common to everyone in their immediate community. Until recently, people who decided to live against that common system of beliefs often had to dedicate their whole lives to fighting for their right to live differently. I have some constraints, such as the laws of the country I live in, but the variety of ways I can freely choose to live is much greater than it has been for the majority of people throughout human history. And so, instead of the burden of being given a role to play, I have the burden of choice — a privileged responsibility to myself that sometimes feels unbearably heavy.
Hi Elio, Totally relate to your article. I was left though wanting to know more about the desire to be a nun.. I have also had this desire sometimes in my life, in part thanks to the structured life and the lack of having to make decisions and the inbuilt community. All of that is the opposite of my life as a wandering nomadic independent religion free woman!