The Emni-Not-Yet Blues

We are extras in the movie adaptation of a José Saramago novel, as directed by Terry Gilliam, starring the Marx Brothers. There are subtitles running across the bottom of the screen, but don't ask us what they mean.

We woke the girls well before dawn yesterday morning to begin what will hopefully be our hardest day in Turkey--the presentation and processing of our residency application. You have 30 days to do this or risk deportation, and due to delays on certain documents from the Fulbright Commission, we were attempting this on day 27. Our liaison at the Fulbright Commission had advised us to arrive at 7:45 at the Emniyet Müdürlüğü, a kind of DMV, police station, and immigration building all bundled into one. Roll that combination around in your head a moment, toss in about five hundred confused and scared fellow immigrants from all over Europe, Africa, and the Middle East, and imagine what kind of FUBAR operation we were about confront.

The girls now call it Mordor.

We decided to play it safe and get there well ahead of the appointed time, but stepping out of the cab we found a line already wrapping around the building and only getting longer as new arrivals with a less Euclidean understanding of the word "line" slipped into whatever spaces ahead of us our fellow applicants were silly enough to leave unfilled.

This first line was only to get a number and it didn't start moving for nearly another hour. By then the girls were already exhausted and demoralized and our day(s) in hell had only just begun.

Once inside, after a security check, the line cutting continued until, maybe two hours after arrival, we finally reached the little deli-style kiosk that was dispensing them. 

Our number was 418.

My one previous experience with this process was in a much smaller municipality and it took them all day to process a handful of applications. If we didn't see someone today, we would just have to start all over again tomorrow, with a new line to get a new number. 

The existential terror I felt is difficult to overstate.

Fortunately, we had a helper of sorts with us from the Fulbright Office. She arrived late, but at least she arrived. I say "of sorts" because she was savvy enough to demand a lower "family" number for us (217), for processing in a different set of lines, but not savvy enough to keep us from missing that number's passing through the system while we sat in an overcrowded cafe. When we got back to the office, they were on number 225.

So then we were given a new number: 246. As frustrating as it was to miss our number (and anyone who knows me understands I was going postal by that point) we knew only twenty one cases stood between us and success. Or so we thought. It took another two hours for us to see someone, who then told us, no you cannot apply in the family line. Lizzie (as the Research Applicant) must apply first, and then the rest of us could apply as a family. Not only that, but we must have four separate application packets, not one. 

Lizzie had painstakingly prepared our packet weeks in advance. It contained our passports, passport photos, original birth certificates, an original marriage certificate, FBI background checks on both of us, health forms for the girls, proof and explanation of health insurance, bank statements, a letter of invitation from the chair of the archaeology department at Bilkent (corrected and printed three times), a letter from the Fulbright office, etc., etc., etc. All of which we had to get translated into Turkish (at modest expense) and then notarized (at obscene, are-you-effing-kidding-me expense).

So then we were back to our original number: 418. At this point they were somewhere in the mid 200s. So while we waited, Lizzie got into another line for the one copy machine in the building. 

All this time the girls were absolute champions. Sure they complained, and asked what on earth was taking so long, but at least they weren't crying, like the two dozen babies in attendance, or racing around the overcrowded space and cranking up the overall annoyance factor for everyone. Instead they lay on the floor and read their books, or played games on my tablet.

Right about the time Lizzie finished copying our documents and assembling them into their special pink folders, the lights went out in the building. This meant get out, it's time to leave. The whole operation shuts down for an hour long lunch break.

The number stood at 305. Odds of seeing anyone were long, but not outside the realm of possibility.

The one silver lining in this entire experience was the opportunity to meet and spend a day with Hafez Modirzadeh. Hafez is a professor of music and ethnomusicology at San Francisco State. Born in the U.S., with Persian heritage, he's also one hell of a saxophonist, has been on the jazz and world music scenes and playing around the world for years, and knew Chet Baker personally. Hafez is here in Ankara on a Fulbright to study with an aging master musician (whose name I never caught) at Başkent University. Hafez was in the same boat as us.

Hafez was so indomitably positive, friendly, charming, and funny that he turned an unbearable, interminable situation into a cosmic joke. The universe was just having a laugh, and it would take care of us in time. I loved this idea. I wanted to believe in this idea. Just wait until you hear the punchline.

After lunch, the minutes seemed to stretch a little longer and everyone's spirits dipped. It took forever for one number to change on the counter, the place was still completely packed. Babies were still crying, women were now crying, men were pacing, whole families arguing and spread helter skelter. Every available window had dozens of people around it, pleading pitifully, demanding an audience. Professional greasers were everywhere, trying to exert their influence on behalf on the poor, deluded people who had hired them thinking they'd bought special treatment. Once thing was certain. I would lose my mind working in that place for a single hour.

With fifteen minutes left before closing time, we still had eight numbers to go. We were never going to make it. But wait a second, the numbers jumped! Some people ahead of us had bailed. We were going to get our audience after all. At exactly 4:00 (closing time), I kid you not, our number finally came up. Lizzie raced to the window with the Fulbright helper. He looked at our documents for a long while. And then he delivered a verdict: You must pay this amount at that payment office around the corner. 

But what the hell did that mean, you might ask? 

It turns out, the entire rigamarole... nearly nine hours of waiting, was simply to get a figure and a piece of paper that said we owed said amount to START the process. Not only would we have to come back tomorrow--the payment office was already closed--but after Lizzie paid for her application, we'd have to go show proof of that payment and then we could start applying as a family.

Just wait. It gets worse.

Before we left the Emniyet, our Fulbright helper had the good sense to insist someone behind the window check over our documents and decree that they were in order. She was going on vacation and wouldn't be around to help us finish the process. The head guy behind the window did so, and said everything was kosher. 

This morning Lizzie woke up even earlier and arrived alone at the Emni-Not-Yet a good 40 minutes earlier than we had yesterday. The line was even longer, but fortunately she didn't need a number. She just had to go pay. The girls and I came later. I successfully directed the taxi driver where we needed to go (in truth I handed him a piece of paper on which Lizzie had written the instructions). When we made it through security and found Lizzie, she was in tears and screaming into her cell phone. 

Never a good sign.

Turns out one of our documents wasn't sufficient. Instead of a letter from the chair of the archaeology department, we needed a letter from the university rector. 

Three separate people had checked and signed off on our application: a Fulbright program officer, our helper, and the guy behind the window. 

It's a thirty minute cab ride to the Emniyet. The girls have now missed two days of school. We've only completed step one in a process with at least four more steps. We have only one work day left to do it.

Please wish us luck.