Learning the Tea Culture and the Turkish Character

By: Audrey Wilson

November 29, 2012

Upon arriving in Turkey, one of the first things I learned was that my temporary home had a "tea culture"—but not in the way of the British afternoon tradition, in which the drink is mixed with milk and served alongside scones and a certain measure of stiff etiquette, and definitely not in the style of my native Alabama, where "iced tea" is a euphemism for a beverage loaded with a two-packet minimum of sugar, garnished with a lemon wedge, and offered with a smile year-round. Here, tea—çay in Turkish—is consumed after every meal and often in between, sometimes served with dessert (or more often among the Turks, a cigarette), and always accompanied by the clink of small spoons against fragile glass cups and rich conversation. Though I had always preferred coffee back in the US, çay was a habit I quickly picked up here.

The preparation of çay itself is unique. Most tea comes from the mild Black Sea region, where the rain is plentiful and the soil rich. Loose leaves are then sold at market in towns and cities across Turkey; for the best taste, they are blended with spices like cardamon, cloves, and saffron just to name just a few. Çay is made with two stacked kettles: water is boiled in the larger one on the bottom, and the leaves are then steeped in the smaller one above. The strong tea is poured into the tulip-shaped teacup first, then the remaining water is slowly mixed in, creating a careful balance of flavor indicated by the perfect shade of reddish-brown. The tea is served with two sugar cubes and the familiar refrain of "Afiyet olsun!"—"Bon appetit!"

Turkey is the fifth highest per capita consumer of tea in the world and, easily accustomed to the constancy of çay, I was stunned to learn that it had only become the beverage of choice here due to the rising cost of coffee after the fall of the Ottoman Empire at the insistence of the founder of the republic, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk (who else?). Because remnants of eras gone by abound in ruin-rich Turkey—from some of the earliest humans to Hellenistic societies to the impressive Ottomans—it is often easy to forget that the modern state itself only dates to the 1920s, occupying less than one hundred years in the history of the land. This interplay between past and present fuels the trends with Turkish society and the state that many declare paradoxical because they don't fit into Western paradigms.

Turkey is at once becoming more "European" and increasingly more nationalist. As its democracy opens up, its politicians lean closer to the Islam-friendly side of the spectrum. On the international stage, it holds ties with both Western powers like the United States and regional players in the Middle East like Iran. Turkey constantly seeks change, growth, and "modernity," but it roots itself firmly in centuries of tradition. Some scholars can't accept these trends without attempting to place them in some explanatory framework, wasting their energy on labeling Turkey as a "crossroads," a "bridge," or a "barrier" between East and West. I suggest that they sit down, relax, and have a cup—or three—of çay.

Turkish tea, like Turkish society, is steeped in years of tradition spanning cultures and even geography, but its present institutional form, like the secular republic, traces its beginnings to the early twentieth century. Its basic ingredients are simple, even homogeneous, but the additional spices, like individual identity, vary from region to region, city to city, and vendor to vendor. Finally, its preparation and presentation are complex, as is the exchange between this identity, the state, and Turkey's role on the international stage.

Turkish coffee may be renowned for the psychic power of the grounds at the bottom of its cup, but çay is tangled up with Turkey's very character. The processes of making tea or of constructing this identity are both multidimensional and focused on striking a balance between all of the elements being mixed. In Alanya, a conservative town more recently inundated with tourists from around the world, I find myself a participant in these discourses. To try to understand Turkey through a preconceived framework—like merely sticking a teabag into a mug of warm water—would be to sell it short. If instead, we forget the models and simply observe what we see, the result is beautiful and unique—it is Turkey, and nothing else.

As November comes to a close, I've been forced to face the facts: that with three disappearing months behind me, a mere three weeks in Turkey remain. In the midst of this confrontation with reality, I've come upon a college student's identity crisis. Surely by now I should have "It" figured out—whether I'm taking Turkish next spring; what cheap souvenir to pick up for my sister's Christmas present; how my experiences in the last three months fit into the context of my final three semesters at Georgetown, or what fits into those semesters at all. My solution? Drop the anxiety and grab a cup of çay. Surely the rest will come together.

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