No Love For Syrians in Istanbul Streets

Sabeen sat cross-legged on the Istanbul sidewalk, her back facing the döner kebob stand across the road. Tissue packets were spread on the ground in front of her knees. Each one sold for three Turkish lira.

Her left forearm had a gray-blue tattoo with “love” written in Arabic and English, the words slanted on her left wrist and spilling over toward her palm. Her right arm held her 3-year-old son, Radwan. Sabeen’s grasp on Radwan was tight, not a comforting embrace, but a claw.

Once pedestrians had bought up all her tissue packets, she would walk 15 minutes with Radwan back to the hotel where she stayed. In her hotel room, she kept a cardboard box of 200 packets that she bought wholesale at a supermarket on the other side of the Bosphorus River, in Asia. After collecting another 10, she would return to that same sidewalk near Taksim Square to keep selling.

In Gezi Park, 2 blocks from where Sabeen was selling her tissue packets, Zeinah stood as tall as her 5-foot-3 frame could. Her children, Asil and Fathi, tossed water bottles to each other from the shopping cart that she pushed around Gezi Park. Asil and Fathi stopped only when they saw the candy in my hand. Then they took turns on my lap as I sat on the park’s fountain with Zeinah.

Both Sabeen and Zeinah assumed I worked for the Turkish police. Only government officials trying to rid Istanbul of refugees ever stop to ask a Syrian her story.

Zeinah’s apartment was right on Taksim Square, which made it more expensive than Sabeen’s distant hotel. But Zeinah needed a place where she could keep her water bottles cold. Otherwise, no one would buy them. Four other Syrians shared the apartment with Zeinah and her two children.

Sabeen barely spoke, for fear of the police. She saw everyone as undercover police, but she continued selling without a permit because she was hungry. Her husband looked for a job during the day, leaving her to earn money for the hotel room in the interim.

She did not know how long the interim would last. Sabeen could barely comprehend how she got to an Istanbul sidewalk in the first place, having previously enjoyed life as a housewife with an electrician husband in Aleppo, Syria.

According to the Turkish deputy Prime Minister Besir Atalay, there were over 1 million Syrians in Turkey as of June 2014. The Turkish government believes far more live in the country unregistered.

Zeinah’s husband did not know she was in Turkey. And she did not know where her husband was. He had enlisted in the Syrian Armed Forces, but left after basic training. President and Commander-in-Chief Bashar al-Assad sent a warrant for his arrest on desertion charges. Zeinah did not know where he went after that or if he was still alive. She could not contact him, and life in Syria without him became too terrifying to bear.

Life in Turkey was terrifying, too, but Zeinah bore it.

Sabeen did not know any Syrians in the city besides her husband and son. She felt a loneliness she could not escape or change. Everyone literally looked down on her, with her tissue packets in a neat row in front of her.

Sabeen’s son Radwan placed the kebob I bought for him on the sidewalk, unrolling the pita and picking at the chicken with his fingers. He fed his mother roasted peppers and onions. She pushed her leopard-print headscarf out of the way to accept the bites of food.

The Turkish people have grown tired of Syrians driving down wages and taking their jobs. Bakery lines are longer and hospitals are crowded. According to Istanbul governor Huseyin Avni Mutlu in a statement on July 16, 2014, the Syrians wandering the streets of Istanbul “are damaging their [Syrians’] image as a refugee.”

The Turkish also believe the Syrians have tarnished Turkey’s image as well, with their dirt and confusion, disease and despair.

The Turkish government admitted in August 2014 that there was no long-term plan for the Syrian refugees. They are not legally refugees, according to a technicality in the 1951 UN Convention on Refugees, but “guests.” The government assumes the Syrians, as guests of Turkey, will return to Syria after the conflict abates. In the meantime, no Syrians receive the rights and benefits of refugee status, such as protection against deportation and resettlement aid.

Sabeen and Zeinah do not feel like guests. Sabeen said to me that she did not want to talk to me anymore because I could not prove my intentions. The government has begun cracking down on beggars, forcibly removing them from the streets and putting them in Syrian refugee camps.

Zeinah heard about anti-Syrian protests in Istanbul and its suburbs in July and did not understand why the people were so angry. Turkish locals destroyed Syrian shops and cars, threatened to lynch a Syrian man and injured five Syrian women. Their anger should be towards Assad, Zeinah said.

Zeinah insisted her husband did not desert. Now she has deserted him. And the world has deserted her.

Anti-Semitism: Seen in Istanbul, Absent in Prague

            The Czech guard leaned against the Staranovà Sinagoga (Old New Synagogue) in Prague, Europe's oldest active synagogue, and stared at me with crossed arms. Though I already had shown through an identification card that I had the most Jewish name imaginable, the guard that had pulled me aside remained unconvinced. After fourteen rapid questions ranging from my biography and my rabbi's biography to my religious habits and traditions, he asked me if I was armed and checked my bag when I said no. The second Czech guard opened the door, finally, and pointed to the women's section of the service that had begun without me.

            The largest place of Jewish worship in Istanbul, Neve Şalom Sinagogu (Neve Shalom Synagogue), does not allow entrance to any guest, Jewish or not, armed or not, who has not called in advance. That synagogue has survived a shooting incident in 1986 and bombing incidents in both 1992 and 2003. Now, no one answers any of the seven steel doors that line the synagogue's façade, covered in Star of David patterns. In my case, no one answers the phone either. In Turkey, Jews need to make an appointment to pray. In Turkey, Jews can walk into any mosque or church. No one checks bags, identity, intent. Just cover up conservatively with scarves or pants.

            What the Jews in Istanbul cover up is their religion. In contrast, the starkly separated Jewish Quarter of Prague, donned with a red rug in the middle of the street to mark the difference in cobblestone, allows Jews a space to cover themselves according to Jewish law, but unfurl their Judaica. Sidewalk stalls with marionettes, a typical Prague knickknack, have rabbi figurines alongside Eastern European children or fairytale animals.

            The Jews I spoke to in both countries say they feel safe. Some admitted being afraid, and some expressed mere frustration at the rising anti-Semitism in France, Belgium, the UK and other parts of Europe and the Middle East that international news reports have brought to light.

Scribbled Hate

            Czech Jews do not feel the ramifications of the Israeli government's decisions, but the Turkish Jews certainly do. The Jewish identity, a religious affiliation and a cultural tradition, holds a political charge as well--a charge that has sparked and caused (metaphorical) fires around the world. The conflict in the Gaza Strip between the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) and Hamas fighters, a terrorist organization, has escalated far beyond the hotly contested Israeli borders.

            In Czech Republic, the casualties of war have not been bodies, but desecrated walls. Anyone can see anti-Semitic graffiti, of which there have been four documented incidents in Czech Republic after Operation Protective Edge began on July 8, 2014. Petra Koutská Schwarzová, who works for the Security Department of the Prague Jewish Community Center, has noticed an increase in anti-Semitic vandalism since Operation Protective Edge. Schwarzová shared the photographic evidence with me in confidence, noting that none of the incidents were "medialized." The Security Department of the Prague Jewish Community Center publishes an annual report, which will provide more details of summer 2014 incidents when the document is released.

            Chief Rabbi David Peter, a 38-year-old Prague native and former professional dancer, received a threatening anonymous letter in one of these incidents. The paper showed a swastika inside a Star of David, with "GAZA" scribbled beneath. Rabbi Peter, who was elected Chief Rabbi by the Prague Jewish community on August 5, 2014, does not seem concerned by this statement or the two "small" anti-Israel protests that occurred in Prague.

            Some Czechs have not even noticed any anti-Semitic events. Milan Walter, an employee at the Prague Jewish Museum Library, has only heard about "2 or 3 such incidents" over the last 20 years. In light of escalations in Gaza, Walter observed demonstrations in Prague in support of the Israeli state, but no "anti-Jewish mood connected to the war in Gaza."

            Turkey does not have a report about anti-Semitic expressions on its streets, but I passed five graffiti of swastikas and references to Nazis and the Führer during my week in Istanbul. Additionally, the bigotry runs rampant on virtual walls. Facebook and Twitter has become a forum for hate speech in Turkey, as documented by an NGO focused on bigotry in Turkish media, Hrant Dink Foundation. In their last hate speech report from September to December of 2013, with data gathered from every Turkish print media source, they counted 57 instances of anti-Semitic language--the same number as hateful language against Armenians.

            Zeyne Parslon of Hrant Dink Foundation has noticed an increase in anti-Semitic tweets parallel to escalations in Gaza. The hashtag #TurkeyPrayingforGazze trended on Twitter, with language that shocked Asli Tunç, a professor of media studies at Istanbul Bilgi University. With pursed lips of worry that accentuate her dimples, Tunç says, "You see how intolerant we became," referencing the tweets and retweets that compare Israel to Hitler, the conflict to genocide or massacre, and Jews as the "curse of our community." One tweeter views Jews as the "illegitimate child" of the Middle East. Another considers Israel "the Hunchback of the world," which "shall be humbled." Many post political cartoons showing Israelis as terrorists and murderers, as well as disturbing photographs of dead children.

Safety Without Concerns

            "Don't worry about him, he's paranoid," Czech Kosher restaurant owner Aaron Günsberger assured me a few steps away from the Staranovà Sinagoga after services, commenting on the (Staranovà Sinagoga) security guard there. Seeing my tape recorder as I spoke to the few Jews who had prayed who were Czech--most of the attendees were tourists--the (security) guard had pulled me aside again to ask me more rapid-fire questions, including whether or not I'm a Russian spy.

            Shifting his weight from leg to leg in excitement, Günsberger dismisses bigots in Prague as "just a few stupid people." To a bystander who shouted, "Go home!" during a pro-Israel demonstration, which four hundred people attended, Günsberger had responded, "What do you mean go home? My family has been here for eight generations. We have papers that say 1650. I'm Jewish, but I'm Czech.”

            The cantor of Staranovà Sinagoga, whose job is to lead the synagogue in prayer, also dismissed the tense security guards. Baruch Weiss finds them unnecessary and feels safe in Prague. Given Czech Republic's past positive stance on Israeli politics, Weiss has faith in his country to continue supporting Israel and Czech Jews.

            Weiss explains in a soft British accent the historical understanding Czechs have towards Israelis. The betrayal in the Munich Agreements, which allowed for the invasion and seizing of land by Germany, "gives the Czech people an understanding of how it feels to be surrounded by hostile neighbors," says Weiss.

            The Czech sympathy towards Israelis translates to sympathy towards Jews as well, though not many remain in the country. Czech Republic has had muted reactions to Israel's war in Gaza. There were two small anti-Israel protests in Prague, both with less than one hundred people. There were no anti-Semitic chants, negative reference to the Jews, or violence. The demonstrations were "pathetic," according to Daniel Kumermann of the Czech Ministry of Foreign Affairs, who previously held the ambassadorship position in Jerusalem.

            Czech Jews are not concerned about the future nor think about leaving. Having converted to Judaism as a young adult, the 66-year-old Kumermann has vague recollections of witnessing anti-Semitism over the decades, but dismisses it as a "product of idiocy more than strong ideology."

            But Weiss admits, "Somebody called me the anti-Christ, which I just thought was funny. I have noticed [hate speech] more since the last month or so, with what's happening in Israel. I feel a bit more worried about security. You have to be prepared to speak out for Israel at any moment because people may say something to you at any time."

            "I've run a Kosher restaurant for 25 years and sometimes I'm also a bit anti-Semitic. It's really hard to survive such a kind of business," Günsberger jokes. Günsberger displays an Israeli flag outside his restaurant and the IDF symbol on his motorbike, but realizes his behavior is risky.

            Czechs feel at ease about the hostility towards Jews because they read about it more than they experience it, given the Czech government support and continued upkeep of the Jewish Quarter.

            In contrast, as Asli Tunç of Istanbul Bilgi University points out, "Anti-Semitism is embedded in Turkish society. The language isn't censored because it's acceptable." With such strong cultural ties, hate speech does not meet the same shock as in Czech Republic or other European countries.

            Similar to Czech Republic, Turkey has a dwindling Jewish community: the number has gone down to about 17,000, and 15,000 of them live in Istanbul. The Turkish population is more than 76 million. There are no areas of the city where Jews historically were obligated to live, which allows the Jews to disappear among the population. Andrew Finkel, a journalist who has covered Turkey for many decades, believes that the Turkish Jews are protected by their blending in because "there's not that many Turkish Jews to begin with. You'd have to find them first to be violent against them."

            The number of Jews will certainly decrease. The coordinator of the Ottoman-Turkish Sephardic Culture Research Center, Karen Sarhon, believes that the Jewish presence will diminish even more "especially after these Gaza events and with Erdoğan as President. People are trying to figure out a way to leave before something bad happens. It might not, but you can never be too sure." Sarhon has not experienced or heard about any violence, but "people shout, 'Go away, we don't want you here.'"

            The Ottoman-Turkish Sephardic Culture Research Center looks like an artifacts museum, as if all the Turkish Jews had already disappeared. The center lies hidden in an apartment building. A doorman checks identification and bags, and uses both a phone and a walkie-talkie to alert the center of visitors. After an elevator ride, a locked gate buzzes open, only to allow access to a staircase that leads to a locked entrance door. Books in Hebrew and Turkish about Jewish philosophy and history, Jewish holidays and traditions, Israeli politics, and by authors as diverse as Hannah Arendt and Paul Auster, stack the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that flank the whole office. Menorahs, skullcaps, and awards decorate the books. A glass case in the middle of the room protects mezuzahs, Torah pointers, and silver and cobalt necklaces and bracelets.

            None of the synagogues in Istanbul offer services every day anymore: some are weeknights only and others unlock their doors just for the Sabbath. Most Turks have never met a Jew or don't think they have. Rifat Bali, a scholar of non-minority Turkish groups and anti-Semitism, thinks the level of prejudice has remained consistent and just "the social media has made it more visible," which is "why one has the sensation that anti-Semitism increased."

Media Coverage

            Social media has changed citizens' view of war: connectivity allows those formerly removed to sympathize more closely with those amidst a conflict. For Operation Protective Edge, the world has become involved in a war that is just one tragedy in a complex dilemma. The issue in Gaza is more than a hashtag.

            Most news agencies in the Czech Republic and Turkey, as well as other parts of the world, do not present the full picture of the two sides or their motivations and the context for this latest conflict. This leads citizens to choose sides and engage in political debates online and on the streets with incomplete information. Ignorance fuels hatred.

            Czech news takes a pro-Israel stance in its coverage, according to the head of the Security Policy Department at the Czech Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Veronika Kuchynova Smigolova. Local papers "report with sympathy towards Israel and the IDF," though "Czech media in general pays less attention to the Middle East than other places in Europe and the US. The Ukrainian crisis is reported on more."

            Speaking in a calm and even tone, unusual for this emotional subject but typical among diplomats, Smigolova finds the Czech press to be the "exception to the rule" of poorly portraying Israel's policies and rationale for the conflict. Yet she considers the clearer visibility of anti-Semitic sentiments made apparent by the international media outlets to be "good because people used to say there is no anti-Semitism, but now it's more acknowledged as a problem."

            Despite the positive stance Czech news takes on Israeli affairs, many Jewish citizens still feel frustrated by the skewed negative coverage or lack of press coverage of the Israeli point of view. Czechs often read international news along with, or instead of, local Czech outlets. Nili Klemperer, a Czech-Israeli currently working for an Israeli company in Prague, doesn't "bother reading" anymore because there is "hardly any truth about Israel and about the conflict. People have no idea what Hamas is doing all year long to Israel."

            Due to television reports that Klemperer believes colors Israel as "a really bad state" caused by failure in covering the reasons behind Israel's rocket attacks to Gaza, Klemperer experienced two anti-Semitic incidents: people making pig noises behind the back of Klemperer's orthodox Jewish friend and a non-Jewish coworker pinning a yellow "NO JUDE" sticker on the coat of another Czech Jew.

            Similarly, Rifat Bali, a scholar of Turkish minorities, finds that "the local Turkish media reporting of the news is extremely biased. It takes as a fact that Israel is the aggressor and a rogue state and reports accordingly." And since the IDF is equated with all Israelis, who are equated with all Jews, Turkish Jews become the target of bigotry every time Israel becomes front page news, according to Zeynep Arslan, a soft-spoken and visibly empathetic member of the media hate speech NGO, Hrant Dink Foundation. Slanted news articles in Turkish papers about Israel unleash anger towards the Turkish Jewish community, says Arslan.

            The Turkish press has been unfettered in its anti-Semitism during Operation Protective Edge, such as the July 2014 newspaper headlines "Poisonous statements from Israeli PM" on Hürriyet's front page, "Germany had one Hitler, how many are there in Israel?" from Yeni Akit, "Occupation, blood, and revenge" from Daily Sabah, "How can I not be antisemitic?" from Yeni Akit, "Herzl's heritage is blood and tears in Gaza" from Star, and "Is killing Zionists licit?" from Yeni Akit, all translated by the international digital forum based out of Israel, The Coordination Forum for Countering Antisemitism.

            The Şalom newspaper aims to reverse prejudice by covering underreported news related to the Jewish community. An editor, who wished to remain anonymous for this article, says that the mission of Şalom is "to create a paper for the Turkish-Jewish community, where they can receive news they can't find anywhere else in Turkey. And we're the only open window to the community at large, like a diplomat. The only Jew [Turks] know is the Israeli soldier with a gun that they see on Turkish TV." The vast majority of Şalom's online readership identifies as not-Jewish.

            Şalom is located above the Ottoman-Turkish Sephardic Research Center, accessible through another spiral staircase. Five desks just fit in a sparsely decorated white office. Şalom collaborates with its downstairs neighbors by publishing a page of its weekly Turkish paper in the Ladino language. On the other hand, the Ottoman-Turkish Sephardic Research Center publishes a weekly paper solely in Ladino called Amaneser that supports the Şalom mission, but also reports on current events unrelated to Jewish affairs.

            Despite the scope of Şalom's paper, the editor still restricts articles devoted to the Gaza conflict and reactions to the war. She admits that, "We self-censor, but not because we're Jewish. The way Turkish media is now, we all have to restrict the coverage of Gaza." The Şalom editor feels hopeless for the future, she says, especially with the presidential election of former Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan.

            "Which prime minister would say things like ours?" Sarhon asks, referencing Erdoğan's July statement in which he called upon Turkish Jews to apologize for the war in Gaza. Sarhon adds, "Everyone's aware that we're not responsible for the Israeli government, but people still think that we have the power to call Netanyahu and tell him to stop the bombing." She has stopped watching Turkish television because of how skewed the information is, Sarhon says, calling the obvious media bias "weird and funny and tragic."

            And as Sarhon puts it, "the Arabs haven't won the war, but they have definitely won the media.”

Identity Crisis

            Given the Palestinian PR tactics that international media proliferates, perceptions of Jews have shifted to become more stereotyped. Those with either a religious or secular Jewish identity are paralleled with the IDF. In Czech Republic, national identity coexists with religious affiliations. In Turkey, however, members of the Jewish community have been forced to reconsider what it means to be Turkish, since it is at odds with the Jewish community.

            Aaron Günsberger boasts that Czech Republic is "quite unique" and that on Facebook, "all the discussions--99%--are pro-Israel." Gesticulating all his explanations, he prides himself on being Jewish and is proud of his country for making him feel protected. But reading the news of anti-Semitism in France, Belgium, Germany, and the United Kingdom has shocked Günsberger, who realizes that since Czech Republic is such a small country, more powerful European countries might eventually influence Czech politics.

            Nili Klemperer, the Prague-born employee of an Israeli company, feels more at home in Israel. The former Czech ambassador to Israel, Daniel Kumermann agrees that Israel is his "real home, but I don't feel foreign in Czech Republic." The Czech people I interviewed emphasize that anti-Semitism is still known as something to be condemned, and that hate speech can be quelled before any violence occurs

            Anti-Semitism is well known in Turkey. Karen Sarhon of the Ottoman-Turkish Sephardic Culture Research Center explains that since the Ottoman Empire, Turkish Jews were considered the "other" and lawfully labeled as "dhimmi." Though the Turkish government abandoned the term in 1923, Zeynep Arslan of the Hrant Dink Foundation has noticed that notions of the "other" have become more and more widespread in Turkey

            The concept of a Turkish Jew has "always been a question mark," Sarhon says. She prefers to have multiple identities instead of trying to be one, since the idea of Jews as citizens has never been culturally accepted by the Turkish. The Jews segregate as well, according to Sarhon, viewing themselves as "we" and the Turks as "them."

            Sarhon has been relieved to send her daughter off to a war zone, where she has just begun studying at Tel Aviv University.

            On the other hand, the Şalom editor notices that even though anti-Semitism thrives "deep inside" Turkish society, there has been a social media backlash against hate speech.

            Louis Fishman, an Israeli-American professor living in Istanbul, has noticed the support Turkish people provide after a wave of anti-Semitic language sweeps the media. After Fishman wrote an article for the Israeli paper Haaretz, the Turkish professor Ali Ihsan Göker tweeted the response "Treblinka will be ready soon. Constructing the railway to transport jews at the moment." Fishman says social media has provided a "flip side" by giving an outlet for Turks who support "all Turkish citizens" to publicly defend Fishman and other threatened Jews. Reply tweets call Goker's language "disgusting" and "shameful."

            The government clearly delineated Turkish Jews from the Israeli government on July 19 to further support the community, when Erdoğan declared Jews to be "citizens of this country." But despite this governmental intervention, Erdoğan controls most of the local media and these outlets demonize the IDF. The language is not as shocking as Goker's tweet and other stinging remarks on Twitter and Facebook, but "you read between the lines," Fishman explains. "Erdoğan is giving those editors a rubber stamp, moral support. It was like a sea tide--Erdoğan was drawn into this defamatory language we read now."

            Like a sea tide, Operation Protective Edge has washed up an animosity towards Israel and towards Jews in Turkey, but this hatred does not have to be an assumed narrative. The Czech Republic's calm waters show that effective leadership and press laws can quell an anti-Semitic storm.

The Things We Wore

            My neighbors in our Hanoi alley all wore loose, thin cotton outfit sets.  I wore capri jeans and elbow length tee shirts.  They woke up at four for morning lunges and arm swings.  I woke up at six for my first of three daily showers to rinse off the sweat and soot, followed by my routine sprint for the bus to school.  Their clothes were faded at the knees.  Brown squiggles traced old sweat stains.  My clothes had brand labels on the inside.  Small rectangular indents on the corners of my skirts indicated they had been recently washed and survived the drying process--no easy feat in Hanoi's tropical humidity.

            By dinnertime, my Vietnamese host family would have changed into pajamas while I was still in the black skirt and blouse I wore to school that day.  Each member had a token pajama outfit they wore every day.  My host mother’s was red with the Chinese symbol for longevity, my older sister Thư’s was yellow with a large duck, and younger sister Chip’s was pastel pink sprinkled with small flowers.  My host father wore a thin-striped, light blue long sleeved shirt with matching drawstring pants.  Except for the drawstring, he could have been going to the office instead of going to sleep.

            "I asked Ms. Huyen about Aliza's test," Thư announced to the family.  "She did not score one hundred, but she is still the best in the class."  My host mother nodded with no change in her usual blank facial expression, and continued spooning white rice from the cooker she had propped on a stool, seated at the table with the rest of us.  I had studied the vocabulary so that I could float in the music of Vietnamese's six tones, not for earning high grades.  My gap year allowed me to explore my curiosities about the language, but winning my host family's love provided an added bonus.

            As the U.S. Embassy's summer intern, I returned to the same house two years later for dinner, wearing the bright orange dress they had given me for my eighteenth birthday.  As I sat on the guest bench by the front door and waited for my host mother to finish making beef phơ, I noted the same pale pink paint coated the walls, the same cheap flower still life portraits displayed proudly in the living room, and the same fold-out table taken out only for meals.  They wore their pajamas and exclaimed that I looked different--thinner, darker, more Vietnamese.  I put a hand at my ribcage, smoothing my skirt over my thighs with the other hand.  No, I assured them.  I was still American.

            All American Foreign Service officers carry high heels or dress shoes, Ann Taylor dresses or Brooks Brothers suits, blazers, and an American flag lapel pin when they travel from post to post.  As the face of the U.S. Government, my coworkers want to look better than the foreign company representative or ministry official with whom they meet. 

I carried second-hand business casual attire for my internship, the dress my host family had bought me in my favorite color, an iPod, multiple pairs of flats in preparation for the destructive monsoon season, a bikini, a camera with too many functions, mascara and lipstick, a small teddy bear, running shoes, self-doubt, a copy of the Aeneid with split binding and multi-colored annotations, one pair of shorts, two Vietnamese-English dictionaries, a Columbia University tee shirt, anticipatory anxiety, a bag of Jelly Belly jellybeans for my host sister's birthday, a journal, a pair of jeans with a suddenly irrelevant Metrocard in the front pocket, an appetite for noodles, and a bottle of Sheer Blonde shampoo.

            The visiting Secretary of State wore her blonde hair in a hairsprayed bob.  She donned a crimson blazer when she stepped onto the Hanoi tarmac to greet the Ambassador.  The vibrancy of her outfit combined with the way she swung her arms out away from her body as she plodded forward gave her a presence larger than her frame.  I watched from a distance in my monochrome black dress, my work requiring me to stay one step ahead of the Secretary to quell any potential gaffes.  I carried her gifts of silk scarves and flowers from Vietnamese government officials, a framed photograph from the Hilton Hotel, and a plaque from the American Chamber of Commerce to the security conveyor belt for clearance.  The following morning, at a thank you meeting with almost a hundred Embassy staff members and their families, she and I happened to wear the same white blazer.  Her pantsuit underneath was tailored and pressed, while the excess cloth of my dress sagged.

            “Your government secretary is here,” a taxi driver commented in Vietnamese after the usual friendly banter revealed my American nationality. 

            “I know,” I sighed.  “I'm already exhausted.”  Leaning my head against the window, I imagined myself as a Foreign Service officer, or even an Under Secretary, treating this visit--the security concerns, the furniture arrangements of every conference room, the press, the carefully constructed formalities--as just an average workday. 

            The nondescript navy suit worn by Under Secretary Hormats made him seem approachable and relaxed.  He carried slow, calculated gestures for the press cameras, stopping to examine photos on the wall or shaking the Vietnamese Chamber of Commerce and Information chairman’s hand for more seconds than necessary.  Each word spoken was wrapped in a leaf of silence, to allow Vietnamese reporters to quote him accurately.  Sitting in the back of the van, I carried questions about green energy and Hormats’ personal background but never voiced them.  I listened as the deputy assistant, Matt Murray, briefed Hormats.  His flowers and framed photograph sat on my lap.  If the orange chrysanthemums and pink lotus blossoms had been laced with anthrax, I would have become the martyr intern of State.

            Along with Hormats' gifts, I possessed self-deprecating humor and knowledge of Vietnam’s Pepsico plant layout.  Introducing myself to Matt Murray as the official government Blackberry deliverer as we waited for pictures for which no one had invited us to pose, I idled in the lobby before informing Murray that I had surveyed the factory prior to his visit in my other role as the official government site officer. 

            The factory workers wore outfits in a navy color similar to Hormats' suit, but stained brown and red.  The whirring of the bottling facility made the men look even more worn, crouching near floor drains to empty the failed strawberry Sting, 7 Up and Aquafina bottles.  I gave them a weak wave, to which they did not respond.  My tour guide through the plant asked me how many security officers Hormats planned to bring.  "None--unless a Marine wants free Pepsi," I joked.

             The Marines wore camouflaged blouses and trousers, an outfit they referred to as "cammies," that they could not wear outside of the tinted grey glass box where they stood watch for ten hours.  They returned my morning wave before pressing the buzzer to unlock the security door.  At all other times, they stood rigidly in the back corner, their relaxed facial muscles displaying a false reticence.

            "What do you think about in the box all day?" I asked each Marine as one by one they plopped down next to me at a house party and handed me a Saigon beer.  Cage thought about his friends in Afghanistan and all their pranks.  Anthony tried to think about nothing, but sometimes caught himself remembering his dead father.  Decker thought about how fast he could get drunk and mapped out his bar hopping route.  Dre thought about girls.

            Dre listed the meaning behind each ribbon pinned to his dress blues during the Embassy's American Independence Day party: "Good conduct, meritorious service, selected Marine Corps reserve, Afghanistan service.  Um, this one's for being a drill instructor. Bronze star."  Standing in a cotton dress among three strobe lit ice sculptures of outstretched eagles, ten metal trays of American regional finger food such as Maryland crab cakes, pigs-in-a-blanket pastries, and mini Tex-Mex burritos, and hundreds of diplomats in three-piece suits and four-inch heels, I gave a distrait nod after each explanation. 

            The foreign Ambassadors invited to our Embassy’s party wore sensible grey and navy suits; I wore bright pink.  The Ambassador to the Philippines told me bright colors were a good networking tool because I would be more memorable and easy to spot in a large crowd.  He advised me to contact him when I visited Manila, offering to tour me through the landmarks.  Only once he gave me his business card did I know within which country Manila lay--all I could think about was the creamy white color.  An officer at the Kuwait Embassy wrote his cell phone number on a cocktail napkin and suggested I contact him so we could drink coffee more casually.  Neither of us had business cards, but something about a cocktail napkin seemed inappropriately sexy.  The Ambassador from Angola wore baggy pinstriped pants with upturned cuffs and bragged about the new business cards he designed himself, before remembering to wish me a happy Independence Day. 

             Each time I stepped outside U.S. Embassy functions, my hair would twist into ringlets from the humidity.  I wandered down unfamiliar streets in an effort to get lost, harangued by street vendors stooping under the weight of the bamboo pole over their shoulder, from which hung rice doughnuts or pineapple chunks.  "You buy," they insisted, sneaking up behind me or waiting for me at the corner, looking up into my eyes with woe.  The shadow cast over their faces by their conical hats, in addition to the faded cotton outfit in sepia tones, made it hard for me to escape the guilt.  It was even harder to escape the street vendor.  "No," I refused in Vietnamese.

            "Yes," I nodded, nibbling a segment of stringy, syrupy jackfruit handed to me.  The fruit vendor weighed more jackfruit and tossed them into a pink plastic bag with longan berries, rambutan, three dragonfruit, and a pomelo.  Since the total price amounted to less than a dollar, I nodded again and counted out periwinkle Vietnamese dong.

            "Thank you, Ah-Leee-Zah.  When are you coming over for dinner?"

            I took the heavy bag from her.  The contents would be my dinner for the next week.

            "Invite me," I encouraged her.  She listed her number in my cell phone as "Thuy Qua Hoa," her name followed by the Vietnamese word for fruit.  Thuy wore the same pastel pink striped tee shirt and baggy grey shorts every time I visited the outdoor market.  I did not want to pressure her just because I had no patience to cook.  Unlike the other grocery shoppers, I had no plans to turn my produce into creative meals.  Dragonfruit and rambutan could be filling, I assured myself.

            After scooping the white flesh out of a magenta dragonfruit skin with a spoon for lunch, I met a new Vietnamese friend, Bơ, downtown for a hip-hop concert.  I never made concrete plans to see the Vietnamese strangers I spoke with, and would never eat dinner with Thuy Qua Hoa.  But Bơ, who called himself Anh because his parents had given him the Vietnamese word for butter, met me in his parents' musical instrument store.  His parents approved of our friendship, though Mr. Butter's sarcastic jokes about the Embassy distressed me.

            "Aliza has a blog.  She writes about how corrupt the Vietnamese government is," Mr. Butter presented me to his friends at the concert.  Dressed in dark skinny jeans, a collared beige shirt, and a black fedora, he was as conspicuous in the sweaty crowd as I, with my Oxford blue polyester dress and bulky camera.  I denied the introduction, shaking my head to the beat of Vietnamese spoken word poetry.  Emulating Brooklyn style, the rappers wore wife beaters and bandana headbands, skinny jeans and baseball caps, basketball sneakers and chains hanging from their belt loops and from around their necks, and a tee shirt that read “I have plenty of talent and vision, I just don’t give a shit!”.

            “She's French, right?" one friend murmured in Vietnamese. 

“She’s from Brooklyn,” Mr. Butter bragged, his shirt darkening with accumulated sweat.  I smiled politely, focusing my gaze on the lacquer red columns gilded with outlines of dragons.  The Vietnamese language can never sound angry enough to rival Brooklyn hip-hop.

            "She's American," one employee corrected the others in the Consulate General Office's restroom, chatting in Vietnamese as they applied lipstick and adjusted their sheer blouses in front of the wall mirror.  I stood behind them and rubbed mascara flakes from my cheekbone.  “She works at the Embassy in Hanoi but is now here in Saigon.”

            “She looks like a princess,” sighed another employee.

            “Hello, my name is Aliza.  I look forward to working with you all,” I interjected in Vietnamese.  I threw a paper towel in the trash and left the restroom.  Silenced, each woman wore a bemused, slightly open grin on her face.  Real princesses never feel invisible.

            A concrete wall surrounded the consulate compound.  Next door stood the residence of the French Ambassador.  If Ho Chi Minh City’s city planners designed the layout of government buildings in such a way as to group those countries with which Vietnam had grievances, then they did not punish the United States or France.  Trees lined the boulevard next to the security wall, under which lay six tables with oranges and avocados.  Over the years, this street had become known as Orange Juice Street.  In the minute it took to walk from my apartment in Somerset Serviced Residence to the security door, the scent of oranges perfumed my ringlets.  Once inside, as I walked to the water cooler I would detect their phantom scent as I turned my head.

            One of the employees, Vinh, would smile and wave every time I refilled my water bottle at the water cooler.  On my last morning, she contorted her eyebrows and hurried up to me.  “Do not wear pants anymore,” she advised me in English.  “They make you look less like a princess.”

            “Ohhhh, I didn’t realize," I gasped.  "Thank you so much for telling me,” I stooped my back and placed a hand on my chest as if catching my breath.  I waited for Vinh to smile but she didn’t.

            The Hmong villagers smile constantly in the mountainous region of Sa Pa, a vacation spot 38 kilometers from China.  Though the women’s hands are stained a dark teal from dyeing textiles, their dispositions matched their bright multi-colored patchwork skirts and jackets in heavy cotton.  They hiked up the vibrant green terraced fields wearing tightly bound cloth slippers.  I wore running sneakers with grooves on the rubber soles for traction.

            We all were barefoot within the Cao Dai temple, in Tay Ninh, outside of Ho Chi Minh City.  Wearing a black tank top and dark jeans, I sat behind a wall and watched through the doorframe.  The worshippers in pristine white loose pants and knee length tunics, the typical female Vietnamese dress known as ao dai, and linen suits filed into the ceremonial hall and knelt in orderly rows on the floor.  The white grid of people contrasted with the chaotic pink, blue, and yellow decor.  Dragons snaked up columns, elaborate altars with globes and glinting candelabras flanked both ends of the hall, painted eyes watched from green windows, and staircases in the middle of the space led to nowhere.

            Nowhere left to wander, I wore a tank top with a hidden money belt underneath.  I carried the same suitcases back to New York, with propaganda war prints instead of Sheer Blonde shampoo, Converse sneakers from a Vietnamese factory instead of rain-wrinkled ballet flats, and textile wall hangings instead of pajama shorts.  They wore navy blazers, matching pencil skirts, and plastered mauve smiles, from nowhere to nowhere.