Syrian migration and logics of alterity in an Istanbul neighbourhood

9780367255107PRE.3D 1 [1–12] 16.1.2020 9:10PM Urban Neighbourhood Formations This book examines the formation of urban neighbourhoods in the Middle East, Africa, and South Asia. It departs from ‘neighbourhoods’ to consider identity, coexistence, solidarity, and violence in relations to a place. Urban Neighbourhood Formations revolves around three major aspects of the making and unmaking of neighbourhoods: spatial and temporal boundaries of neighbourhoods, neighbourhoods as imagined and narrated entities, and neighbourhood as social relations. With extensive case studies from Johannesburg to Istanbul and from Jerusalem to Delhi, this volume shows how spatial amenities, immaterial processes of narrating and dreaming, and the lasting effect of intimacies and violence in a neighbourhood are intertwined and negotiated over time in the construction of moral orders, urban practices, and political identities at large. This book offers insights into neighbourhood formations in an age of constant mobility and helps us understand the grassroots-level dynamics of xenophobia and hostility, as much as welcoming and openness. It would be of interest for both academics and more general audiences, as well as for students of undergraduate and postgraduate courses in Urban Studies and Anthropology. Hilal Alkan is a research fellow of the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation at Leibniz-Zentrum Moderner Orient, Berlin. Her work focuses on charitable giving, migration, gender, and social welfare, through the lenses of anthropology, citizenship studies, and urban studies. Her publications include ‘The Gift of Hospitality and (Un)welcoming Syrian Migrants in Turkey’, American Ethnologist (2019) and ‘The Sexual Politics of War: Reading the Kurdish Conflict through Images of Women’, Les Cahiers du CEDREF (2018). Nazan Maksudyan is Professor of History at the Freie Universität Berlin and a research associate at the Centre Marc Bloch, Berlin. Her research focuses on the history of children and youth, with special interest in gender, sexuality, education, humanitarianism, and non-Muslims. Her publications include Women and the City, Women in the City: A Gendered Perspective on Ottoman Urban History, ed. (2014); Ottoman Children & Youth During WWI (2019), ‘Orphans, Cities, and the State: Vocational Orphanages (Islahhanes) and “Reform” in the Late Ottoman Urban Space’, IJMES 43 (2011). 9780367255107PRE.3D 2 [1–12] 16.1.2020 9:10PM Routledge Studies in Urbanism and the City Balkanization and Global Politics Remaking Cities and Architecture Nikolina Bobic Cities and Dialogue The Public Life of Knowledge Jamie O’Brien The Walkable City Jennie Middleton Urban Restructuring, Power and Capitalism in the Tourist City Contested Terrains of Marrakesh Khalid Madhi Ethnic Spatial Segregation in European Cities Hans Skifter Andersen Big Data, Code and the Discrete City Shaping Public Realms Silvio Carta Neighbourhood Planning Place, Space and Politics Janet Banfield Urban Neighbourhood Formations Boundaries, Narrations and Intimacies Edited by Hilal Alkan and Nazan Maksudyan For more information about this series, please visit www.routledge.com/RoutledgeStudies-in-Urbanism-and-the-City/book-series/RSUC 9780367255107PRE.3D 3 [1–12] 16.1.2020 9:10PM Urban Neighbourhood Formations Boundaries, Narrations and Intimacies Edited by Hilal Alkan and Nazan Maksudyan 9780367255107PRE.3D 4 [1–12] 16.1.2020 9:10PM First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 selection and editorial matter, Hilal Alkan and Nazan Maksudyan; individual chapters, the contributors The rights of Hilal Alkan and Nazan Maksudyan to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-0-367-25510-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-28814-2 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Swales & Willis, Exeter, Devon, UK 9780367255107PRE.3D 5 [1–12] 16.1.2020 9:10PM Contents List of figures Editor and contributor biographies Acknowledgements Introduction vii viii xii 1 HILAL ALKAN AND NAZAN MAKSUDYAN PART I Borders: material, temporal and conceptual boundaries of neighbourhoods 1 What makes a township a neighbourhood? The case of Eldorado Park, Johannesburg 15 17 ALEX WAFER AND KHOLOFELO RAMEETSE 2 Killing time in a Roma neighbourhood: habitus and precariousness in a small town in Western Turkey 36 SEZAI OZAN ZEYBEK 3 Of Basti and bazaar: place-making and women’s lives in Nizamuddin, Delhi 52 SAMPRATI PANI PART II Stories: neighbourhoods as imagined and narrated entities 4 Two tales of a neighbourhood: eyüp as a stage for the Ottoman conquest and Turkish War of Independence ANNEGRET ROELCKE 73 75 9780367255107PRE.3D 6 [1–12] 16.1.2020 9:10PM vi Contents 5 Past neighbourhoods: palestinians and Jerusalem’s ‘enlarged Jewish Quarter’ 99 JOHANNES BECKER 6 Where is Alexandria? Myths of the city and the anti-city after cosmopolitanism 119 SAMULI SCHIELKE 7 Jerusalem’s lost heart: the rise and fall of the late Ottoman city centre 138 YAIR WALLACH PART III Intimacies: neighbourhoods as sources and objects of claim-making 8 Violence, temporality, and sociality: the case of a Kashmiri neighbourhood 159 161 AATINA NASIR MALIK 9 Syrian migration and logics of alterity in an Istanbul neighbourhood 180 HILAL ALKAN 10 Negotiating solidarity and conflict in and beyond the neighbourhood: the case of Gülsuyu-Gülensu, Istanbul 199 DERYA ÖZKAYA 11 Urban tectonics and lifestyles in motion: affective and spatial negotiations of belonging in Tophane, Istanbul 218 URSZULA EWA WOŹNIAK 12 The Basij of neighbourhood: techniques of government and local sociality in Bandar Abbas 237 AHMAD MORADI Index 257 9780367255107C09.3D 180 9 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM Syrian migration and logics of alterity in an Istanbul neighbourhood Hilal Alkan Since 2013, Istanbul has been going through a drastic demographic and material change due to migration. However, this is certainly not a change that is foreign to the city. Migration has always been one of the major forces that has created, shaped, and reshaped Istanbul. This time, the force has been set into motion by the Syrian revolution and the violence that followed. While Turkey opened its borders to Syrians fleeing the war and chose not to employ encampment as the main policy tool, Istanbul became a major hub and settlement destination for Syrians, whose numbers exceed 3.5 million all around the country. Those with residences registered in Istanbul numbered around 550,000 as of June 2019 (Göç İdaresi Başkanlığı 2019), but the number residing in Istanbul is estimated to be much higher. The mass arrival of Syrian migrants and the fast pace of demographic change have posed an ‘imminent, embodied and affective challenge’ (Gökarıksel and Secor 2018) to residents of Istanbul at varying degrees and intensities. This chapter develops a spatialised understanding of how this challenge is met, with a focus on the logic of alterity that is at play within daily encounters between Turkish nationals and self-settled city-dwelling Syrian migrants in an Istanbul neighbourhood. The elements under scrutiny here are embodied logics, not always verbally articulated and often missing the coherence of a rational argument. Such embodied logics also constitute a negotiation in and of an urban spatiality: Which bodies can live where and under which conditions? Hence, the chapter illustrates the formation of a neighbourhood by long-term residents and newly arrived Syrians acting out and acting upon differences. This, however, is not a question of inclusion and exclusion. While some Istanbul neighbourhoods have absorbed more migrants and others fewer, putting the question in a binary formulation leaves out conditional acceptance, shifting positions, and long-term relations. In order to develop a more dialogical and relational—hence inclusive—frame, I resort to Engin Isin’s (2002) conceptualisation of citizenship as an ongoing negotiation with alterity and apply it to the smaller scale of a particular lower-class neighbourhood, Kazım Karabekir. Following Isin, in Kazım Karabekir, I explore the encounters and 9780367255107C09.3D 181 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM Syrian migration and logics of alterity 181 relations between Turkish and Syrian nationals that are shaped and tainted by a spectrum of strategies that build on difference. According to Engin Isin, in any polity, between and within social groups, ‘logics of alterity embody differentiation and distinction, not only as strategies of exclusion’ (2002, 25), but also as strategies of solidarity, competition/contestation, and hostility. These strategies are quite fluid and are not exclusive of one another. Depending on the dominant political narratives, power of the social actors, and primacy of alignments, they are employed even by the same people against those who are seen as different. Hence the distinction between them is explanatory, yet not exhaustive; and they are only to be understood in their relationality. Broadly speaking, solidaristic strategies consist of affiliation, identification, care, and alliance, while competitive or agonistic strategies refer to contestation, resistance, and tension. The latter often arise when citizenly privileges or the definition of citizenship (hence belonging and entitlement) are felt to be under threat. Finally, antagonistic or hostile strategies include estrangement, exclusion, expulsion, and oppression (Isin 2002, 32). Their distinctiveness lies in the fact that they announce a refusal to relate and interact, although relationality precedes and conditions them. At the neighbourhood level, these strategies not only have discursive effects, but are also very much materialised in the space and on bodies. Kazım Karabekir, therefore, is not simply the setting where hostilities or solidarities are enacted. Neighbourhood, as the location of a ‘thrown-togetherness’ (Massey 2005), is the precondition of these strategies. Physical proximity is, if not the cause, certainly a catalyst of various social and contagious emotions; as well as the strategies to contain or express them. At the neighbourhood level, these strategies are enacted through daily transactions and within mundane encounters. They are often embedded within the texture of ordinary life, but this does not make them less significant, particularly in the lives of newly settled Syrian migrants. Their livelihoods are strongly tied to the propensity of their neighbours to enact certain strategies. The Kazım Karabekir neighbourhood is also being formed and re-formed through these mundane affairs. The outlook of the neighbourhood is changing, public space is being reinvented, neighbourly relations are shifting, and new rifts are coming into being. Therefore, the neighbourhood space is nothing like it was ten years ago. This is a formative moment, laden with anxieties, as well as possibilities. However, a word of caution is necessary here: This is a rather dynamic field. As the parties involved in the violent conflict in Syria (including Turkey) constantly change positions, form alliances, and make new military and political decisions; as the economic crisis in Turkey deepens; and as the government discourse on Syrians is volatile; predominant and legitimate positions continuously shift. Therefore, the ethnographic examples presented here should be taken as snapshots of ever-moving social actors and ever-changing configurations. Closely dependent on the political emotions in circulation (Ahmed 2004) and the affective atmosphere (Anderson 2009) of the time period, one or another of the three logics predominate. It is also important 9780367255107C09.3D 182 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM 182 Hilal Alkan to recognise that these strategies fall along a spectrum, where they are not neatly separated from each other. Before moving on with the ethnographic accounts of the strategies that turn anxieties into possibilities and prospects into catastrophes in the hands of hostile, competing, and welcoming neighbours, I will outline the structural factors that delimit the strategies available to all parties involved and introduce the neighbourhood. Syrian migrants in Turkey Since the Syrian uprising began in 2011, Turkey has been receiving mass migration from Syria. Turkey’s open-door policy in the first years of the conflict and its geographical proximity to heavy-conflict areas made it a natural destination for more than half of the Syrians seeking refuge abroad. Turkey initially responded to the migration wave as a humanitarian crisis that would not last long—a prediction that went well beyond wishful thinking to active military involvement. Within this approach, camps were established and standard relief procedures were put in place. However, encampment was quickly sidelined as the sole response and Syrians were allowed to travel and settle all around the country. Hence, even in their heyday, camps only accommodated 15% of the Syrian migrants. Since the end of 2016, all camps have gradually been closing. Syrian migration forced the Turkish state apparatus to face many challenges caused by its migration legislation, which was inadequate to provide an immediate response to the needs of fleeing Syrians. Turkey is party to the 1951 United Nations Convention on the Status of Refugees. However, it still maintains a geographical limitation, which in practice results in refugee status not being granted to anyone not coming from Europe. Still, the number of nonSyrian asylum seekers in the country exceeds half a million. These migrants from different parts of the Middle East, Asia, and Africa enter the country in unregulated ways and some apply to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) to be resettled in a third country. While they wait, they are given a temporary status and are assigned to designated towns for residence. Those who do not register with the UNHCR, or those who cannot survive in those towns, go unregistered (Biehl 2015). Syrian migrants, on the other hand, have received different treatment from the start. The border was kept open for them and their primary address has never been the UNHCR, as very few sought permanent resettlement in a third country. Until 2014, Syrians in Turkey remained in a legal limbo, although there have been many practical arrangements to address their everyday needs, like access to healthcare and education. Turkey’s new law on foreigners and international protection came into force in 2014. Syrian migrants were then officially recognised under a legal category created specifically for them: temporary protection. Under this new classification, Syrian refugees were given ID numbers and their social rights were better delineated. Turkey’s temporary 9780367255107C09.3D 183 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM Syrian migration and logics of alterity 183 protection scheme does not define a limited period for the protection to continue, nor does it chart what comes after. It also separates Syrians as a unique category falling outside of constitutional and international protection (Kıvılcım 2016; Baban, Ilcan, and Rygiel 2017). So, although the classification means legal recognition, it also leaves Syrian nationals in Turkey vulnerable to shifts in national and international politics, as shown by the purge that took place in the summer of 2019 that led to the deportation and mass detention of thousands of Syrian nationals (We Want to Live Together Initiative 2019). However, since 2013 there have also been many regulations aiming to improve migrants’ welfare. Registered Syrians have access to healthcare services and public education. Yet, these rights are subject to travel restrictions. If a Syrian migrant under temporary protection leaves the town where she is registered without permission (and because certain cities like Istanbul do not accept new registrations, moving with permission is often not possible), her social rights are cropped. She would also face the risk of deportation, as the events of summer 2019 showed. Legally, Syrians under temporary protection can apply for work permits, although in practice a great portion of Syrian employment is in the informal sector, as the permits are virtually impossible to get. So far only 32,000 permits have been issued, while the number of Syrians in the labour force is estimated to be over one million (Kirişçi and Uysal Kolasın 2019). In terms of relief, assistance, and advocacy, the efforts have been abundant yet scattered. The Turkish state directs camp-based relief efforts and has selectively co-operated with international non-governmental organisations and local civil society. However, for self-settled Syrians, support coming from central state institutions has been very limited. Civil society organisations and municipalities working in the field have partly compensated for this lack (Mackreath and Sağnıç 2017; Danış and Nazlı 2019). Especially during the early years, many already-existing charitable organisations (religiously motivated or not) also assumed responsibility and shifted their operations, or expanded them to cover Syrians. Moreover, informal aid initiatives flourished everywhere around the country with or without prospects of formalisation. As the years passed and Syrians’ needs changed, some of these informal or ad-hoc initiatives dissolved, while others turned into registered non-governmental organisations (NGOs). Their material capacities and command over resources have drastically changed with access to international funding. In so far as they secured funds and became local partners, they professionalised (Mackreath and Sağnıç 2017). There has also been a lot of effort at the neighbourhood level, all around the country, initiated by people who wanted to reach out to their new Syrian neighbours. They are the most miniscule of the networks out there (compared to giant international organisations or national NGOs) and the least formalised or institutionalised. But they are also the ones that have produced the most fertile circumstances for the potential creation of personal connections between newer and older residents. Because, unlike the case of many other civil society 9780367255107C09.3D 184 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM 184 Hilal Alkan organisations, those who devote their time and resources to providing aid and services in these neighbourhood networks reside in the same place as those who are the object of their compassion, pity, or fraternal solidarity. This cohabitation of space allows for daily and habitual encounters to take place and long-term relationships to flourish. What colours these relationships don and which modalities they assume are discussed below. Syrian migrants and the changing Istanbul neighbourhoods Syrian migrants are dispersed across Istanbul, but are more concentrated in some districts. These are often the districts where the lower-middle classes and the urban poor reside (Erdoğan 2017). Some have larger Kurdish populations with their own histories of forced migration; the Kurds of Syria settle in those areas more easily (Kılıçaslan 2016; Kaya 2016). Others are known for their Islamist politics; families of combatants feel safer there. Some neighbourhoods have textile workshops in every second building; Syrian migrants settle nearby to find low-paying jobs in Turkey’s informal economy (Erdoğan 2017). Some migrants follow their previously settled kin when choosing between Istanbul neighbourhoods. Around the city, many neighbourhoods are being demolished and rebuilt (via hotly contested urban transformation laws), so the evacuated buildings provide shelter to those who are expelled elsewhere: the Yazidis and the Roma (Dom) of Syria and Iraq (Cox 2016; Kalkınma Atölyesi 2016). In wealthier middle-class districts, affluent Syrians, who came right after the conflict began, live in their own flats (Kaya 2016). The main pattern, however, is that Syrian migrants have settled in districts that are defined by higher poverty levels, religious-conservative attitudes, and more reliance on solidarity in the social environment (Erdoğan 2017, 31). Most of these preferred districts are located on the European side of Istanbul, where small- and medium-scale industry is also concentrated. In some neighbourhoods of these districts (like Zeytinburnu), the Syrian presence is readily and immediately felt, as the official population ratio has reached over 9%. Yet, in the middle-class residential district of Ataşehir on the Asian side, a completely new development of high-rises, Syrians amount to less than 0.03% of the residents (Erdoğan 2017). My research site is in close proximity to Ataşehir, yet representing and embodying a whole different universe. Kazım Karabekir is a neighbourhood of Ümraniye, a large district on the Asian side of Istanbul. Like the overall district of Ümraniye itself (Erder 1996), Kazım Karabekir is a neighbourhood that came into existence through internal migration to Istanbul in the 1970s and 1980s. The building stock mostly consists of apartment blocks that gradually replaced the earlier single- or double-storey illegal shanty houses, while the owners slowly moved up the social ladder from poor immigrants to lower-middle-class landlords (Işık and Pınarcıklıoğlu 2001). Still, there are plenty of these earlier single-storey, detached houses with substandard infrastructure on the outskirts of the neighbourhood where it has chipped away woods. 9780367255107C09.3D 185 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM Syrian migration and logics of alterity 185 In Ümraniye, Syrian nationals constitute approximately 2.5% of the population (Erdoğan 2017). In Kazım Karabekir the ratio is slightly higher, given the fact that it is relatively cheap compared to some other, more central neighbourhoods in the district. Syrians are dispersed throughout Kazım Karabekir, though most live in the gloomiest and most unkempt of rental apartments, neighbouring lower-class Turks and Kurds, almost all of whom have their own histories of migration. These similarities in background and in current living conditions, however, do not guarantee sympathy. On the contrary, they sometimes fuel competition and animosity. Throughout the rest of the chapter, I will first illustrate solidaristic and welcoming strategies of some residents of the neighbourhood in response to the arrival of Syrian migrants. Then, I will move on to discuss agonistic/competitive and antagonistic/hostile responses that have been rising since. Aiding neighbours Between late 2015 and 2017, I conducted ethnographic research in Kazım Karabekir on neighbourhood initiatives aiding Syrian migrants. The network I worked with was organised around an elderly couple, Aliye and Ismail, who have been living in the neighbourhood since its earliest days as an informal settlement on the urban periphery. Their first encounter with Syrian migrants is indicative of ‘thrown-togetherness’ (Massey 2005) as a key characteristic of urban contexts. Aliye is in her sixties and lives in a four-storey apartment building that her family had built in place of their single-storey shanty house 20 years ago. The building accommodates two of her sons and their families, and one other rented flat owned by Aliye. Shops and storage rooms occupy the ground floor. One day in 2013, Aliye noticed new tenants moving into a similar storage facility in the apartment block across the road. She tried to figure out who these people were and eventually gathered up a few neighbours and her courage to knock on their door. With the help of her rudimentary Arabic and investigative eye, Aliye figured out that the family was from Aleppo, consisting of a mother, her five daughters, two sons, and a granddaughter. They did not have any furniture, any appliances, nor even a stove to heat up the cold, damp basement flat. In the following days Aliye, her husband Ismail, and the neighbours gathered the necessary supplies and brought them to the flat. Then, quickly, they were introduced to other Syrian migrants in the neighbourhood, who were either relatives or simply acquaintances of the first family. The network grew larger every day. Needs were immediate: coal stoves to survive the winter, duvets, carpets, cooking stoves, and fridges. So Aliye and Ismail reached out to their neighbours, friends, and relatives. Ismail contacted local business owners asking them to donate items or to sell them at considerable discount. They gathered new and second-hand items to furnish the flats and arranged for their delivery. Aliye and Ismail’s network consisted of more than 300 Syrian households and a lesser number of Turkish nationals. Through this network, they drew 9780367255107C09.3D 186 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM 186 Hilal Alkan resources from companies, NGOs, municipalities, and religious groups, but also considerable contributions from unaffiliated individuals. Their network, like many other ad-hoc, informal neighbourhood-based initiatives, mediated flows of cash, food, clothing, coal, furniture, household items, jobs, bill payments, medicines, and information on bureaucracy, healthcare, schooling, transport, and accommodation. During the first few months they had to try hard to reach potential donors. However, as the plight of Syrians received more and more media coverage and sympathy, those who wanted to help approached them without solicitation. It was a period in which ‘hospitality’ and ‘religious brotherhood’ were the key terms of the governmental and public discourse (Carpi and Pınar Şenoğuz 2019; Alkan, forthcoming). Through word of mouth, awareness of their efforts grew and they started to attract larger resources as well as more demands upon these resources. At the time I came to know them, their contacts included people from top business circles, but most were still their neighbours and acquaintances. All the Syrian migrants in their network resided in and around the neighbourhood. A few of them became more central as gatekeepers who aided newcomers in many ways, and their recommendation carried more weight in the eyes of Aliye, Ismail, and others involved. The importance of this network is twofold: First, it provides vital services and meets the immediate needs of newcomer Syrian migrants. Second, and more importantly for this chapter, these encounters often spark long-term relationships between Syrian and Turkish nationals. Aliye, Ismail, and other actively involved residents of Kazım Karabekir not only mediate aid distribution, but also have neighbourly relations with some of the Syrian migrants they have met through this network. They now exchange visits with each other, take part in celebrations and in grief, and care about each other’s well-being. They have become ordinary neighbours, with neighbourly relations. Here some explanation is needed to clarify what neighbourliness often means in Turkey. Neighbourliness is gendered care labour. It is labour in the sense that it requires deliberate effort to sustain, and it requires physical and emotional work. It carries many elements of care work, although it is much more overtly reciprocal than most dependency work. Still, it loosely falls into the category of what Eva Feder Kittay (1999) calls ‘love’s labour’. And as such, it is strongly gendered. It creates different obligations and entitlements for men and women, and is often sustained by the daily interactions of women (Özbay 2014). For men, the location of neighbourliness is often public spaces, while for women neighbourliness opens the insides of homes to each other. It creates intimacy. In a 2006 nationwide survey, 85% of the participants reported that they have frequent contact with their neighbours, a number much higher than contact with immediate family members (Özbay 2014). For the women of Kazım Karabekir, too, neighbourly relations entail daily (and often intimate) communication, visiting each other without invitation, and coming together on special occasions like prayers after funerals, religious festivals, and engagement ceremonies, among many others. They also occasionally involve looking after 9780367255107C09.3D 187 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM Syrian migration and logics of alterity 187 each other’s children and helping with seasonal house and kitchen work (Ayata and Güneş-Ayata 1996). In that sense, what I mean by neighbourliness in this chapter goes far beyond civil urban behaviour—i.e. sharing a building and a greeting in the morning. Most of my Syrian interlocutors have a few such neighbourly Turkish neighbours, although not enough for their taste. Neighbourly relations, as mutual relations by definition, do not entail a oneway flow of goods and care. They are not one-off aid relations. They stretch over time and require reciprocity. Syrian migrants, as neighbours, actively give and contribute to the relationship that started with the assistance they received from the semi-organised efforts of the neighbourhood network. My research shows that giving to neighbours has a catalysing effect in creating long-term intimate relations between people who share an urban locality (Alkan, forthcoming). In order to understand this power of giving in creating cohesion, it is useful to look into the basic principles that characterise most gift relationships. What follows is a brief summary informed by Marcel Mauss (1990), Pierre Bourdieu (1997), Jonathan Parry (1986), Maurice Godelier (1999), and Annette Weiner (1992). Every gift begets a return. It does not mean that the person who gives wants or expects a return. Rather, if the giver expected a return when giving, it would not count as a genuine gift, but a calculated transaction. What makes a thing or a gesture a gift is the notion that it is given without an expectation of a return. However, gifts still oblige a return and leave a burden on the shoulders of the receiver. Reciprocity releases the burden, although it does not entail exact equivalence and it does not clear the balance. Instead of providing a closure, it elicits more gifts because the counter gift is a gift itself, begetting a return: this is the gift cycle as Marcel Mauss (1990) formulated it. With every new gift the cycle resists completion; it rather goes up as a spiral in time. This is the dynamic that runs through the neighbourhood network in Kazım Karabekir, sometimes to the pain of its participants. Unlike municipalities or large NGOs entering a neighbourhood and distributing food packages or coal every once in a while, the neighbourhood networks that were formed around the Syrian migrants created longer-term relationships. In these networks, there are intimate relations to be formed through the circulation of gifts, whether material or immaterial, such as compassion, love, and the very physical activities of providing care. In the case of close neighbourly relations, circulation of gifts does not have the power to equalise positions; rather, because the positions of givers and receivers are interchangeable, they offer escapes from the tight grip of superiority and inferiority. Exceeding street-level politeness, these relations involve normalisation—normal here signifying ordinary neighbourly care and intimacy, expected between people residing in proximity to one another within an urban context. However, intimate care is not necessarily a bed of roses. It entails expectations, responsibilities, and enactment of power. Care can be a burden, as much as a proliferating gift (de La Bellacasa 2017). It is immanently and immediately linked with discipline, and this aspect of care is prominent in the lives of the Syrian women I was acquainted with in Kazım Karabekir. Hasna, 9780367255107C09.3D 188 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM 188 Hilal Alkan for example, told me at great length how annoyed she was about the comments of her neighbours on her standard of cleaning. They, she said, would not find her home clean enough whatever she did. When she told me that, my nonvocalised hasty reaction was, ‘that is none of their business’. However, Hasna’s reaction was something else. She was not particularly disturbed by the fact that her neighbours saw it their right to comment on the cleanliness of her flat. Her protest was against their ignorance about different ways of cleaning—the habits she developed while cleaning her single-storey, earth-brick village home near Aleppo. For her, sweeping the house would not even count as cleaning; she was used to washing the floors. Yet, she did not have this chance in Istanbul. So she had to settle for a practice she despised and was not quite proficient at. Slowly, she said, she learnt to do it as her neighbours suggested, although quite halfheartedly. If cleaning is one area of discipline neighbours enact on each other, another is the education of children. The Turkish state responded to the educational needs of Syrian children in two ways. At first, it encouraged the establishment of temporary education centres where Syrian refugee children would be educated by Syrian teachers using a Syrian curriculum (Aras and Yasun 2016). The Syrian community, international NGOs, and various non-governmental actors from Gulf countries funded these schools. The Turkish Ministry of Education often provided infrastructure, such as buildings (Aras and Yasun 2016). In these schools, the language of education was Arabic, although students took a few hours of Turkish language classes every week. In 2018, there were 229,000 children enrolled in these facilities (MEB 2018). In line with the growing awareness that most of the Syrian migrants would stay in Turkey, at the end of 2017 state policy shifted towards public schooling. However, at the time of my research, there were two of these centres, popularly known as Syrian schools, in the vicinity of Kazım Karabekir. The issue was a source of constant concern among the Turkish nationals and a matter of intervention in their relations with their Syrian neighbours. Parents who sent their children to Syrian schools were kindly questioned or warned about the children’s lagging Turkish skills.1 Parents of publicly educated Syrian children, on the other hand, were worried about the fact that their children had already lost their fluency in Arabic or Kurdish. Yet, the neighbours dutifully and almost militantly argued for education in Turkish, even at the price of losing native languages, and celebrated these children’s quickness in learning Turkish. Neighbourly interventions are not limited to children’s education or cleanliness. They extend to a variety of areas such as gender relations, piety, consumption, and dress codes. Yet they all flow within the context of neighbourly care and concern. Such concern for the well-being of their Syrian neighbours—well-being assessed on a normative scale—constitutes a significant part of the ‘grammar of good intentions’ (Ryan 2003) that is spoken in Kazım Karabekir. Coming from caring neighbours, whose good intentions are presumed, the migrants often tolerate such disciplinary attempts. They are seen as part of the care package that constitutes mutuality between older and newer 9780367255107C09.3D 189 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM Syrian migration and logics of alterity 189 residents and performs vital functions in their tenuous existence as war refugees. And, perhaps more importantly, they may tolerate this because Syrian migrants regularly and increasingly come across much harsher strategies, which enact a logic of alterity, than these solidaristic ones. Competing neighbours In the summer of 2016, I travelled around Kazım Karabekir for a full day with Aliye and two other women in a car driven by Ismail. One of the women was Serap, whose family owned a leading discount supermarket chain that has branches in every middle- and lower-income neighbourhood around the country. The other was Meliha, Serap’s assistant in her philanthropic activities. In Meliha’s bag, the supermarket vouchers waited to be distributed to Syrian migrants in the neighbourhood. Aliye and Ismail had worked out the list of households to be visited the day before. Meliha asked them to decide who they should be given to, and Serap would decide how many. So, Aliye and Ismail considered those with immediate needs, the people they knew better, and whom they felt obliged to give to due to their personal closeness. They weighed the options, decided who could wait one more week, and put those onto a second list. Instead of full names and addresses, both of the lists consisted of illegible jots to remind them of the people. The rest was left to Aliye’s extraordinary memory and Ismail’s impressive navigation skills. That day we visited 15 households, each one of them known to Ismail and Aliye through previous contact. Aliye had closer relations with some. She told their stories to Meliha and Serap, kissed their kids, exchanged gossip with women in Turkish and Arabic, and gave tips about this and that. Others were barely known to her. On these occasions, Aliye and Ismail sometimes became a little disoriented while finding the exact flat. While waiting for them, we would stand on the pavement, looking for a clue. Yet, every time we stopped the car and looked around to locate the flat, we would also be looked at by the neighbours. Some would only stare inquisitively, while others would openly ask who we were looking for. The next question would then be: ‘Are you distributing something? You always and only come for the Syrians, don’t you?’ Most would stop there, with this expression of resentment. They would then shrug and show us the flat: ‘some Syrians live here, but I don’t know the name’. Nevertheless, on one occasion, a woman who was simply passing by and figured what we were up to, did not stop at a sullen expression of resentment. Instead, she held us captive on the side of the road and told her own story of migration, domestic violence, and extreme poverty. Ismail tried to stop her, either because he did not want Meliha and Serap to get annoyed and leave; or he did not want to stay on the street any longer, with the fear that many others might come, hearing the way she pled. Maybe both. The woman, however, would not accept interference. Aliye looked embarrassed and tried to explain how some residents of the neighbourhood were particularly cheeky. The woman responded to that with fury: ‘Aren’t we poor enough for you? What do 9780367255107C09.3D 190 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM 190 Hilal Alkan I have that they did not have?’ Meliha soothed her eventually and she left with a voucher in her hand, promising that she would not tell anyone. The sense of being unjustly left out of the compassion directed to Syrian migrants is not unique to this one woman. A similar feeling of resentment is often to be found at the neighbourhood level in Kazım Karabekir, in line with nationwide sentiment. Turkish nationals often complain that the Syrian migrants are treated differentially, while their needs that arise from being in similarly poor circumstances go unaddressed. The complaints often very quickly turn into racist and xenophobic banter, as exemplified by the social media campaigns that take place with increasing frequency (see, for example, #suriyelileriistemiyoruz on Twitter). In general, they are expressed along a spectrum, ranging from mild envy to full-blown misplaced fury, and always point to competition over resources and social opportunities. While in some areas of life this resentment has a more material basis, in most cases it is built upon hearsay and imagination. A striking example of how far imaginary competition can go comes from a nationwide survey conducted by Murat Erdogan and his team. In 2017, they asked 2,089 Turkish citizens a range of questions aiming to understand their attitudes towards Syrian migrants. When asked about the Syrians’ sources of their livelihoods in Turkey, 86% of respondents said that Syrians’ basic source of income was the monetary support they received from the Turkish state (2018, 65). Yet, only 22% of the 886 self-settled Syrian nationals who took part in the research said that they had received support (in cash or in kind; from individuals, NGOs, or any other agent) in the previous year; and less than half of this 22% received support from the Turkish Red Cross (the only category that is directly related to the state) (2018, 120). Given that Red Cross financial support is completely funded by the EU (Reliefweb 2019), it is possible to say that not a single self-settled Syrian declared having received financial support from the Turkish state in 2016. This mind-blowing mismatch between the reality of Syrian migrants and the imagination of Turkish nationals is symptomatic of a phenomenon that is not restricted to Turkey. In an age of rising right-wing populisms, such phantasmagorical misperceptions are the bread and butter of xenophobia (see, for example, Yılmaz 2012). Wendy Brown diagnoses in this a displacement. Borrowing the concept of ressentiment from Friedrich Nietzsche and building on Freud’s work on narcissism, she approaches resentment as a displacement of one’s own suffering on an object (Brown 1993, 2017). Whether or not that object has anything to do with the suffering itself—i.e. the question of causality—is deferred. What matters are the wound and the easiness of the target at a given point in time and space. Hegemonic political discourse, as well as impunity for the crimes committed against those who are targeted, produce the necessary (un)truth effect. Efforts to re-place responsibility upon the actual actors—onto landlords and property firms for tremendously increasing their rents in order to benefit from the vulnerability of migrants; on business owners, for exploiting migrant labour; on the government, for entrenching the conflict in Syria … etc.—do not even make 9780367255107C09.3D 191 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM Syrian migration and logics of alterity 191 a dent on this conviction. Turkish nationals position themselves in competition with Syrian migrants and ask for a restoration of their privileges. At the neighbourhood level in Kazım Karabekir, complaints that refer to competition cluster around rents and health services. As both Syrian migrants and Turkish nationals have drastically experienced, rents have at least doubled over the last six years in Istanbul. The increase is often attributed to Syrian migration and migrants report that they are harassed on the street with a personalised version of this accusation (see also DW 2019). A much bigger increase, however, has taken place in property sales prices. Financial analysts point to explosive market behaviour similar to that of the housing bubble that led to the stock market crash in the USA in 2007–2009 (Cagli 2019). Yet such analysis does not change the fact that rent increases have far exceeded increases in income. Syrians are targeted more easily than the construction firms and hedge-funders, as they are more proximate, more visible, and certainly much more powerless. Being in the vicinity of a major public hospital, Kazım Karabekir residents have long been privileged in their transport-free access to healthcare. ‘After the Syrians came, the hospital became too crowded’, they now complain. However, their greatest concern is not the overcrowding of the hospital, which has always been the case (as they also admit after a bit of scrutiny), but the fact that Syrian migrants were receiving free (yet limited) healthcare. Syrians under temporary protection are also exempt from the contribution payments Turkish nationals have to make to receive certain services or medication. In the eyes of Kazım Karabekir residents, this signifies turning citizenship on its head. Losing their taken-for-granted privileges feels like an affront to their citizenly identity. While the competition is often on the terms of social citizenship, there are times when debates about the nature and inclusiveness of political citizenship also flare. In July 2016, President Erdoğan announced gradual naturalisation for highly qualified Syrian migrants.2 The announcement immediately caused heated debate, particularly around the fact that naturalisation would give new citizens the right to vote. An MP from the main opposition party issued a parliamentary question asking whether Syrians were being given citizenship to increase votes for the governing party in the upcoming elections. In street interviews, Turkish nationals expressed feeling hurt by the possibility of sharing their ‘most important citizenly right’ with the migrants. In the majority view, Syrian migrants were not qualified for citizenship for multiple reasons, some more frivolous than others, ranging from a lack of character to being noisy (BBC 2016). Yet, public outrage was visible and well-reasoned: regardless of who the Syrian migrants would vote for, voting was not something the Turkish nationals would accept sharing, as it was considered the main signifier of citizenship. Going back to Engin Isin’s (2002) conception of citizenship as a dialogical construction, what we notice here is a dispute over the perceived privileges that are expected to come with formal citizenship status. Among the people of Kazım Karabekir, what citizenship should mean is discussed in relation to the 9780367255107C09.3D 192 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM 192 Hilal Alkan Syrian migrants who, by falling outside of formal citizenship but still being part of the polity, can be positioned as the other to be (sometimes violently) competed with. Competition over public resources, entitlements, rights, and statuses mark Turkish citizens’ views of Syrian migrants, despite the fact that the migrants have very little power and leverage in this competition. Whether it is the meagre services provided by volunteers or access to state-provided services like healthcare and education, what Syrian migrants are entitled to is scrutinised and quickly loses its connection to reality. In this fantasy realm, Syrian youth enter universities without examinations, every Syrian household receives monthly cash benefits from the state, and they will soon be given public housing. Such narratives, Sara Ahmed says, ‘generate a subject that is endangered by imagined others whose proximity threatens not only to take something away from the subject (jobs, security, wealth), but to take the place of the subject’ (2004, 43). This subject then moves as far away from his new neighbours as physical limitations permit—agony turns to antagonism. Hostile neighbours It should have been apparent by now that Kazım Karabekir is not solely marked by convivial neighbourly relations and inclusive strategies. Turkish nationals who see a threat in the arrival of Syrians often express their frustration in agonistic terms, as seen above. However, there is also a very strong (and increasingly strengthening) vein of reaction, which covers a whole range of hostile, antagonistic strategies. They vary from daily insults on the streets to driving Syrians out by means of constant harassment. All my Syrian interlocutors had a lot to say about the hostility they had to endure in the neighbourhood. They told me about hostile neighbours who complain about their children playing in front of the buildings using racist terminology; xenophobic comments at the weekly market; reproachful stares on the minibuses; and all sorts of open insults. A public park is particularly identified with such hostility. Almost every Syrian woman I met in the neighbourhood had a story to tell about the tiny neighbourhood park, which is the only recreational space they have access to. The park is a favourite location for women to take their children to the playground and relax under the trees. It is also loved as a picnic location at the weekends, despite its small size. However, it is also the place where Turkish youth regularly harass Syrians. Some women even witnessed a beating, which then went unreported. Hostility is not a uniform behaviour. It is expressed in a variety of ways, some subtle, some overt. It is also not uniformly distributed. Syrian migrants become its targets differentially, depending on their age, gender, religious observance, and ethnicity; again, in a dialogical relation with the agents of antagonistic strategies. While hate is often expressed in gendered and sexualised ways (Gökarıksel and Secor 2018, 8), ethnicity is also pertinent to its flow and direction, sometimes shifting the positions in the established ‘organisation of hate’ (Ahmed 2004). 9780367255107C09.3D 193 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM Syrian migration and logics of alterity 193 Dalia has lived in Kazım Karabekir with her husband and four children (two biological and two adopted) for the past 18 months. She is an Arab from Hasakah (Haseke/Hesiçe), the region where most of the Syrian Kurds of the neighbourhood came from. Before coming to Istanbul in 2018, she lived in Urfa, a Turkish city on the Syrian border, and gave birth to both of her sons there. They now live in a single-storey shanty house in the heart of the neighbourhood. The house has a large garden with plenty of fruit trees. If the weather is good, we always sit on Dalia’s dark red sofa under the walnut tree. If the weather does not permit, however, we are stuck in one of the two cold and damp rooms. None of us like that. Dalia complains; I nod understandingly with regret about my helplessness to change the situation; the children make their siblings pay for their boredom. Dalia is bored too. She dreads the winter, but summer is not particularly bright either. Alongside all her other troubles, she suffers greatly from loneliness. In a city of 16 million, including half a million Syrian migrants, she feels completely isolated. Her violent husband leaves home every morning to collect and sell recyclables. Two of the children go to school, and Dalia is left all alone with two little boys. Every time I visit her, she tells me that I am the only one who knocks on her door. I ask her about the neighbours. Her face drops. ‘No neighbours’ she says. When I keep asking, she shrugs: ‘All neighbours are Kurds’. Given the context, for her, this is self-explanatory. Since August 2016, the Turkish Armed Forces have been actively increasing their territorial control over Northern Syria/Western Kurdistan (Rojava) in alliance with the Free Syrian Army and various armed factions. In the summer of 2019, when I last visited Dalia and asked her about her neighbours, negotiations with the United States about the eastward expansion of Turkish military control towards Kobane and Hasakah were ongoing. A crackdown on the Kurds, living on the northern side of the border, in Turkey, was already under way. Later that month, the Turkish Ministry of Interior once again removed the elected mayors of three Kurdish majority towns from office and started another purge of the Kurdish political movement in Turkey. The ministry also began encouraging Syrian Arabs to voluntarily return to Syria to be resettled in the areas controlled by the Turkish Armed Forces and their allies in the Kurdish territories. Deportations and forced ‘voluntary’ returns were also documented. Within the entangled politics of Turkey and Syria, the Kurds of Kazım Karabekir, who migrated from the southeast of the country, neighbouring Syria, had many reasons to see Arabs coming from Rojava (including Kobane, Hasakah, and Afrin) as allies of the evil. What Dalia sees as self-explanatory in her Kurdish neighbours’ deliberate distance is indeed a function of history and politics. Derya Özkaya’s chapter in this volume (Chapter 10) illustrates how the Syrian war is reterritorialised in an Istanbul neighbourhood, as residents of the neighbourhood literally became parties in the conflict. In Kazım Karabekir, the war is brought home, not by Turkish nationals joining military forces in Syria, but through the embodied presence of Syrian migrants. And yet, that war was 9780367255107C09.3D 194 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM 194 Hilal Alkan never far away. Even before active military occupation, Turkey was intimately involved with the uprising and conflict in Syria (Phillips 2016) and this involvement was always closely linked to Turkey’s own problems with Kurds (Taştekin 2017). If Dalia were a Kurd from Hasakah, how would living in an Istanbul neighbourhood be for her? My other interlocutors answer this hypothetical question. Anti-Kurdish sentiment constitutes a major element of the affective nationalist repertoire in Turkey (see Zeydanlıoğlu 2008; Saraçoğlu 2009). Syrian Kurds, however, are doubly stigmatised in most parts of the country. They carry the burden of being ‘the Syrians’, as well as being the ‘wrong’ Syrians. The hostility they receive is exacerbated by their categorical inclusion in the ‘wrong’ side of the conflict. My Kurdish research participants report being repeatedly rejected by landlords, being threatened on the street, and insulted for being Kurds. However, they also say that volunteers from the neighbourhood network—Ismail and Aliye in particular—would not discriminate according to ethnicity or religion. Yet, this does not mean that they felt safe from the start. When I asked about the demographics of the Syrian migrants in Kazım Karabekir, a woman from the neighbourhood network said that she did not know any Kurdish Syrians but proffered that, if she were to come across some, they would likely not disclose their ethnicity because they would be afraid of being considered ‘terrorists’. This fear, sympathetically diagnosed by a volunteer who is not a politically engaged solidarity activist, but a pious housewife, is even more prevalent in the lives of migrants with fewer allies in Turkey’s rifted political landscape. For similar reasons, Turkey has not been a favoured destination for Syria’s Christians (Arsu 2016; Kreidie 2017). For the Yezidis of Syria, who had to take refuge in Turkey after the genocidal attacks of ISIS in 2014, passing as Muslims is a vital strategy to counter the hostility they would otherwise face in Turkish cities. Already being recognised as ‘out of place’ (Douglas 1970), they are not only considered strangers but also as dangerously dirty. When I asked how they approach the Yazidis, Zeynep, the co-ordinator of a local foundation’s relief operations, was perplexed. She couldn’t think of any Yazidis, neither in the neighbourhood nor in Umraniye. However, she later recalled an uncanny encounter in another district, during which she had felt threatened and unsafe due to the behaviour of the men surrounding her. She left that place hastily, clinging to her bag, and after that encounter she made only home visits accompanied by a male colleague. ‘They must have been Yazidis’, she concluded. ‘They’, from what Zeynep described and to my knowledge, could not have been Yazidis. Yet being seen as the strangest of the strangers to have arrived with the Syrian migration, for her, Yazidi was the most suitable category to put these ‘uncanny’ men in. For her, Yazidis represent the most alien, the furthest away in social distance, and their proximity creates the greatest anxiety. Their presence feels like a threat to her feeling at home while carefully and successfully navigating alterity in her encounters with Syrian migrants. This is the territory she feels too unsafe to navigate. 9780367255107C09.3D 195 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM Syrian migration and logics of alterity 195 Conclusion Throughout this chapter, I have illustrated different navigational strategies that the inhabitants of Kazım Karabekir employ in their interactions with their new Syrian neighbours. I approached these strategies as solidaristic, agonistic, and antagonistic, feeding into and taking root in established societal tensions in Turkey. With no claim to exclusiveness, I laid out the spectrum on which these strategies are situated, starting with neighbourliness (and its flipside) and ending with hostility, all involving recognising Syrian migrants as strangers. Zeynep’s encounter with the assumed Yazidi group marks the limit of recognition here, and thus a limit to the willingness to engage. Through these engagements and disengagements, the neighbourhood itself is being formed. Its identity is changing as conviviality is debated, not always deliberately and in verbal articulation, but through the mundane affairs of daily life in the neighbourhood. Proximity creates tensions, but it also creates intimacy. Some residents welcome this change, even if hesitantly, while others loathe it. In any case, the logics of alterity that play out change what Kazım Karabekir is. The notion of ‘the neighbourhood’ is too slippery at the moment; it is ‘an unpredictable amalgam of the familiar and the unknown’ (Herzfeld 1991, 91). In the end, it is a place that citizens and strangers share without really knowing how to share it. And sharing means both cohabiting and dividing. I finish this chapter with a brief note on strangers. Strangers, in Sara Ahmed’s (2000) words, are not those who do not fit onto the map, into the order. Instead, what makes them strangers—Syrians or refugees—is the fact that they fit very well into mappings of alterity. The map is alive, like those interactive maps in which parts of the globe swell or shrink depending on the variable you choose to see. Syrians may overpopulate the corner of human misery in one click; while in another they are the desperate yet sly competitors in a tight job market. However, there is nothing new about these categories, variables, criteria, and adjectives used to recognise and describe Syrian migrants. They have all existed before, used for others, kept well in stock. They presume recognition at first sight, because Syrian migrants are already recognised as the Syrians. Agonistic and antagonistic strategies make robust use of this established repertoire. Solidaristic strategies, on the other hand, may (and only may) have an element of surprise, learning, and innovation—i.e. changing the map. Paternalism, pity, multicultural welcoming, and humanitarian motivations all have their own pre-markings, but if they open the way for longterm relations, they carry this potential. Neighbours have many colours. Neighbourliness, however, has only shades. Notes 1 It should be noted that the anxiety around these schools also involved the religious and political upbringing of the children, as many Turkish nationals were afraid that the schools were the craddle of Salafi militants. This concern was shared by Ismail, who was a self-declared Islamist and a pious man himself. 9780367255107C09.3D 196 [180–198] 16.1.2020 7:43PM 196 Hilal Alkan 2 So far the numbers have been miniscule in comparison to the total number of Syrian migrants. As of August 2019, 92,000 Syrians have acquired Turkish citizenship, half of which are children (Euronews 2019). References Ahmed, Sara. 2000. Strange encounters: Embodied others in post-coloniality. New York and London: Routledge. Ahmed, Sara. 2004. 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