Turish Chics for Haitian Bros

How in hell did a brother from the island of Haiti end up on lockdown in the City of Istanbul, the famous and age-old Capital of Turkey? Well, it all has to do with a middle-aged Turkish man named Mehmet Melen, whom I met at the University of Notre Dame in the Capital of Haiti, and the fact that he not only taught me about Islam, but also charged me with delivering a precious artifact to his family in Istanbul.

My name is Jean-Baptiste Villiers, though I call myself Brother Yahya, since my conversion to Islam. My parents, Marie and Benjamin Villiers weren't exactly thrilled when I told them that, as much as I respect the Roman Catholic faith in which I was brought up, I felt that Islam is the path for me. They tried to get me to change my mind, but I politely but firmly refused.

You've got to understand that ninety seven percent of all Haitians follow Roman Catholicism, and the rest are either Adventists, Baptists or Voodoo practitioners. Islam is something entirely new to the island, that's for damn sure. After the 2010 Haiti Earthquake, a lot of Muslims came to the island for humanitarian reasons, to help the people, and a growing number of Haitians have embraced Islam since then.

I was born in the City of Cap-Haitien, Haiti, and raised in Miami, Florida. My parents fled the island of Haiti with our family in the mid-1980s due to political unrest. Miami is the place I often think of when I envision home, although the island of Haiti is in my flood. I studied at Miami Dade College, earning an Associate's degree in Criminal Justice. I later earned a bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice at Barry University, and returned to my homeland of Haiti a year after the earthquake which nearly brought down our centuries-old and fiercely proud nation.

My fellow Haitians are a resilient bunch and so am I, and I decided to put my plans for law school on hold and try to help my country as best I can, in the aftermath of the earthquake. I ended up working for the Haitian government, and took a teaching position at UNDH, the University of Notre Dame in Haiti. This ancient school survived the earthquake which devastated Port-Au-Prince virtually intact, and its students and faculty were instrumental in helping their fellow countrymen in the early days of the disaster.

While at UNDH, I met a man named Mehmet Melen, a Turk who was working with the Haitian government in a humanitarian capacity. Having visited the island of Haiti in the 1990s as a young man and grown fond of its people and culture, Mehmet felt compelled to lend a hand in the aftermath of the 2010 earthquake. We became friends, and he taught me about the Islamic faith, and I even learned the Turkish language from him.

I've always had a gift for languages, ever since I was little. I spoke English and French fluently, in addition to my mother tongue of Haitian Creole. One summer in the City of Dajabon in the Dominican Republic was enough for me to learn Spanish, and I had many chances to practice that language while living in the City of Miami, Florida. I swear, Spanish will soon overtake English as a language in the State of Florida. Doesn't bother me none since half of my buddies from my college days are Hispanic folks. For the most part, they're cool people.

The speed with which I learned the Turkish language astounded Mehmet, and I smiled slyly whenever he remarked on that. I'm six-foot-two, burly and dark-skinned, and have always been the first one chosen for athletic or physical endeavors, but people have always underestimated me, intellectually speaking. Not one to toot my own horn, but I'm a fairly smart guy.

"Merhaba, my friend, we're going to rebuild this lovely country of yours if it takes a hundred years," Mehmet said to me one afternoon as we dined at Chez Nadege, a nice little restaurant in the Delmas area of Port-Au-Prince. I smiled at my old friend and shrugged. Mehmet stood around five-foot-ten, stocky, bronze-skinned and dark-haired, though slightly balding.

"One of these days, God willing, si Dieu le veut," I replied, then sipped on my lemonade before fixing my gaze on my plate. I'd ordered white rice with brown bean sauce, lots of pikiz ( spice ), and herring, which we Haitians call "haren saur". It's a tasty fish, and it's particularly good when eaten with hot rice, which I am fond of.

"My friend, I've got something I want you to keep for me," Mehmet said, and I smiled and nodded. Mehmet looked over his shoulder briefly, and then pulled something out of his pocket. A small brown box. The old Turk placed the box on the table, and looked pointedly at me. Hesitantly I took it, and nodded at Mehmet, who sighed in relief.

"You can count on me, Mehmet, though lose the cloak and dagger habit," I said, and Mehmet laughed. I've known this man for years, and we're quite close. Mehmet speaks the Haitian Creole language with a proficiency that could rival that of a native speaker, and his respect for my people and culture is one of the many things I like about him.

Still, Mehmet can be a bit paranoid sometimes. The old man often looks over his shoulder. A habit he ought to lose. In Haiti, people don't move against you if you have lots of friends, and Mehmet has many, many friends among my people. Besides, most of the time, the roaming bandits we call Zinglendo, prefer to prey on wealthy Haitians rather than foreigners. They fear international intervention in their schemes.

"Yahya, my brother, keep this box for me, and if anything should happen to me, I want you to promise me, before Allah, that you would give it to my daughter Nezihe in Istanbul," Mehmet said, gripping my arm with such force that I almost winced. The dude is old but still tough, like a middle-eastern version of Clint Eastwood. I looked hard at Mehmet and he apologized and relaxed his grip.

"I'm sorry, Yahya, this is really important, my friend," Mehmet said, and I nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. Mehmet relaxed after I took the box and tucked it into my vest pocket, and we finished our meals. I thought nothing of the whole incident, since Mehmet is quite eccentric. He acted just as brusquely the day he gave me my first Koran, a French language copy, and told me to guard it with my life.

"You can count on me, mon ami," I said, as Mehmet and I left the restaurant. I returned to UNDH, and taught my Droits Humains ( human rights ) afternoon class, and then I went home. I was tired after a long day of teaching at the university and working for the Haitian government, helping them properly spend the millions they'd received in donated money because of the earthquake. I didn't know that I had seen Mehmet Melen, my old friend and mentor, for the very last time.

The next time I would lay eyes on him would be at the morgue, standing beside my buddy Paul Magloire, from the Haitian National Police, and Selim Ozal, from the Consulate of Turkey in Haiti. Seeing Mehmet lying on that cold slab, his throat cut, his body eviscerated viciously, well, nothing could prepare me for that. The post-quake Republic of Haiti can be a violent place at times. Bandits, rapists, thugs, rogue soldiers, the threats are many. Still, it always hits you harder when the victim is someone you know.

"We found your name on his list of emergency contacts, Mr. Villiers, any idea who might want to kill Mr. Mehmet?" said Paul Magloire, a skinny and dark-skinned brother in a crew cut, clad in a crisp police uniform. I looked at Paul Magloire, and shook my head. I didn't like what the man might be insinuating, to tell you the truth.

"Mehmet and Mr. Villiers were close friends, Brother Yahya often came to the Embassy," said Selim, somberly. I looked at the tall, dark-haired and fair-skinned Turkish statesman, and smiled weakly. I had trouble prying my eyes from Mehmet's corpse. Mere hours ago, my old friend had been full of life. Now he lay dead, slain by a bandit, or worse.

"It's alright, Brother Selim, Detective Magloire is just doing his job," I said, and then I volunteered to go to the police station with Magloire. Once I got there, the cops grilled me for hours. I felt like a damn suspect, rather than a friend of the victim. If you think the cops you see in Law & Order episodes are tough, know that their counterparts in Haiti are worse, and they're not big on fussing over your rights.

When I emerged from the Haitian National Police headquarters in downtown Port-Au-Prince, two hours after I went in, I cancelled my afternoon classes at UNDH and went home. Once there, I showered. Only then did I remember Mehmet Melen's last words to me. My old friend had been acting very strangely the last time I saw him. I looked at the box he'd given me, and puzzled over it. The next day, I went to the Turkish Embassy and got myself a visa to Turkey. Normally, that would take long but Selim facilitated things for me with the Ambassador. I explained to them that Mehmet was a close friend, that I'd be flying to Turkey to pay my respects to his family, and they hastily agreed.

A week later, I boarded a flight from Port-Au-Prince, Haiti, to Miami, Florida, via American Airlines. My first time returning to the U.S. since 2011. As a naturalized citizen of the United States, I could live and travel anywhere. Still, in today's paranoid age, Western citizens flying to Muslim countries often face scrutiny. Since converting to Islam, I'd learned to see the world in a whole new way. I hadn't changed my name officially, and I had excellent reasons for doing that.

With a name like Jean-Baptiste Villiers, I could fly anywhere without raising red flags. With a name like Yahya, something clearly Islamic, I'd be scrutinized by those who hate and fear Islam. Now, I'm a proud Haitian-American who loves both the island of Haiti, land of my ancestors, and the United States of America, my adopted homeland which has given me so much. I love democracy, and I respect the Jewish and Christian faiths. I'm not a nutcase. I'm a peaceful Muslim. Wouldn't make any difference to a Muslim-hating bigot, though.

The flight from Miami, Florida, to Istanbul, Turkey, took fifteen hours and cost me eleven hundred dollars. I have good credit but I hadn't used my Coconut Grove credit card or my Sabadell United Bank credit card in a while. I was happy to discover that they worked just fine. Prior to leaving Miami, Florida, to live and work in Haiti after the earthquake, I'd just finished paying back eleven thousand dollars in student debt to Barry University. Good thing I rebuilt my credit, seriously.

I arrived in Istanbul, Turkey, and the beauty of this lovely town blew me away. Mehmet often talked about Istanbul, and he did teach me Turkish, but his words don't do this town justice. I booked a room at the Atlantis Hotel near downtown Istanbul. Small spot that only costs fifty seven dollars a night. I went into my room, rested, did my evening prayers, and then fell asleep while clutching the mysterious box which my buddy Mehmet might have died for.

As per Islamic custom, Mehmet had been buried in the place where he died. I attend his funeral, along with hundreds of people, both Haitians and foreigners, whom Mehmet had befriended in his many years spent on the island. It was an emotional affair for me. Not too manly or proud to admit that I did shed a tear. When I called my parents in Miami and told them that I was going to Turkey, they begged me not to go. I politely informed them that my duty to my friends carried on even after their death. I'm a Haitian man, my word is my bond.

"How do I go about finding Mehmet's family?" I asked myself as I lay in my hotel room bed, the morning after my arrival in Istanbul. I looked out the window and the bustling metropolis beckoned, with its wonders. Of all the Islamic countries out there, Turkey is the most westernized. For a long time it was a secular republic, with religious freedom guaranteed as a right for all citizens, and then the Islamist-style government of President Recep Tayyip Erdogan. Mehmet hated that bozo.

"My friend, I am a proud Muslim but we don't need Islamists in Turkey, that retard Erdogan is going to turn Turkey into fucking Saudi Arabia if we let him," Mehmet once said hotly to me, as we discussed Muslim politics and religion itself at his old residence, a quaint villa located not far from the Consulate of Turkey in Port-Au-Prince.

"Only if you Turks let him," I replied, while sipping my morning coffee, and Mehmet was a bit pissed at my nonchalance. I was newly converted to Islam, and we'd begun going to the Masjid together. The Masjid of Port-Au-Prince was attended mostly by the growing Haitian Muslim community and a large number of Muslim foreigners living in the Haitian capital.

Mehmet hadn't been to Turkey in ages, and often cited his divorce from his wife, and his estranged daughter as the reason why. Nevertheless, he still kept his eyes on Turkish politics and would rage on and on about Turkish President Erdogan listening to his Arab buddies and building Madrasa schools across Turkey to increase young Turks religiosity. I didn't know enough about Turkey to care one way or another, but Mehmet felt this was a sad development.

"I'll find your family and keep my word to you, old friend," I said to myself as I looked at the box. I showered, got dressed and left the hotel. I used the free Wi-Fi to load up my laptop and looked for anyone who might have the last name Melen in the City of Istanbul. Unfortunately for me, looking for Melen in Istanbul is like looking up Jean-Pierre in a Haitian phonebook or searching for Sanchez in Miami. There were too damn many of them!

I asked a cab driver where I might find Sultanahmet, a tourist-friendly area of Istanbul, and the surprisingly young dude drove me straight there. I gave him twenty Liras, which is roughly the equivalent of ten dollars U.S. and the guy seemed surprised. I've never been one to haggle over paying people their dues. The driver, who introduced himself as Alim, gave me a card, and told me to keep in touch.

"Tesekkur ederim brother Alim," I said, thanking the man and I waved Alim goodbye, then began walking around the trendy area of Sultanahmet. The place was full of people, and fancy stores that seemed to rich for my blood. Folks looked at me, but not as much as I would have thought. I wasn't the only non-Turk walking around. I saw Chinese people, and whites, and a few South Asians. Istanbul is indeed tourist-friendly.

Now, Istanbul wasn't a bad place, but there are bad apples everywhere. I was walking around when a trio of young Turkish guys accosted me. They'd been casing me out for a while, and I'd noticed them but figured that they were just surprised to see a black man walking around Istanbul. Let's face it, it's not a place where you might see a lot of black people.

"Eger sehrimizde ne yapiyorsun, afrika hitzmetci?" said their leader, a tall, slender young man with light bronze skin and dark eyes. I looked at the young man, and bristled at the fact that he'd just asked me what an African servant like myself was doing in his city. Firstly, I'm nobody's servant. Second of all, when will fools get it through their heads that us black folks can come and go as we please?

"Agzini aptal kapatti," I replied confidently, and the lead thug looked at his two buddies, a chubby guy with a bald head and a short, skinny dude with tattoos, as if he'd just wrong. I just told the fool who seems in charge of this pathetic trio to shut his mouth, just in case you're wondering. The dude wasn't expecting that, and it showed on his face. "Ben bir polis, memuruyum ne yaptiginizi durdurkmak!" shouted a loud, decidedly authoritative feminine voice, and I was surprised to see a tall, dark-clad woman seemingly materialize behind the troublesome trio, brandishing a handgun. She said something in Turkish to them and they raised their hands, smiled and walked away.

"Sana kiz kardesi tessekur," I replied to the unknown woman, who looked me up and down before tucking her gun away in her purse. I thanked her and called her sister, in the Islamic fashion. The woman came closer and I finally had a good look at her. Tall, raven-haired and brown-eyed, the gal was lovely. There was something vaguely familiar about her, though at the time, I couldn't tell you what to save my life.

"Your Turkish is horrible, Mr. Villiers," the young woman replied in perfect English, and I blinked in surprise. Seriously, I wasn't expecting that. I hadn't heard a word of English spoken anywhere in Istanbul since I left TAV, better known as the Ataturk Airport of Istanbul. Of the gunwoman who apparently rescued me, I didn't know what to think, to tell you the truth.

"Merhaba, ma'am, it seems you have me at a disadvantage, for we don't know each other," I said with a curt bow, keeping my hands in front of me. Not to sound paranoid or anything, but people with guns tend to overreact when they're around big and tall young black man like myself. Just look at what happened to that poor young man in Ferguson, Missouri.

"I'm Detective Sabriye Melen of the Emniyet Genel Mudurlugu, the General Directorate of Security," the young woman said, extending a long, sleek hand for me to shake. I smiled and hesitantly shook her hand, and blinked when I heard her name. Now, I know that Melen is undoubtedly a supremely common name in the Republic of Turkey, but I've never believed in coincidence in my nearly three decades upon this earth.

"Excuse me, sister, did you say Melen?" I said, and the young woman nodded and smiled. I was about to say more when she told me, quite brusquely, that we had to leave, pronto. I was about to protest when I saw that the trio from before were on their way back, and they were not alone. A dozen serious-looking young men were making their way toward us.

"Bana, buyuk adam gel ( come with me, big man ) ," Sabriye said, all but shoving me down the street, and we raced until she stopped at a parked motorcycle, and told me to hop on. I felt awkward, sitting in the passenger seat, and even more awkward when Sabriye handed me her spare helmet, bright pink I might add, and told me to put it on. Her own helmet was dark blue. Sabriye started the motorcycle and we raced away.

All in all, my first forty eight hours in the City of Istanbul were quite exciting. As we evaded our pursuers, Sabriye and I weaved into increasingly smaller streets, and I realized that there was much of Istanbul that wasn't on the travel brochures. Like a lot of European cities, Istanbul has small, narrow streets. It's also undoubtedly a Muslim city, and the Islamic architecture, modern though it may be, clearly reflected that.

Sabriye and I made our way to a small house at the end of a nondescript street, and we went inside. I had a lot of questions for the tall, gorgeous stranger but they were going to have to wait. I looked for a washroom, and found it. I hastily went inside, and emptied my bladder. Seriously, if I had to wait one more minute to pee, I was going to embarrass myself.

"Um, don't be long in there, Mr. Villiers, we need to talk," Sabriye shouted from the living room, and I pulled my snake back in, zipped up, washed my hands and emerged from the washroom a few moments later. I found Sabriye Melen, or whatever her name is, sitting on the living room couch waiting for me.

"That was some insane action back there," I said, as calmly as I could, as Sabriye Melen eyed me coolly. This chick reminds me of Hollywood actress Kate Beckinsale in the Underworld movies, in a femme fatale kind of way, only more psychotic and dangerous, if at all possible. If this gal is a Turkish policewoman, then I'm a Catholic priest.

"Thanks, but I believe you've got something for me, Mr. Villiers," Sabriye said, and I instinctively clutched the box in my jacket pocket, and smiled hesitantly. Seriously, I think I can give up on the idea of spying for my country. I am captain obvious. Still, I wasn't about to hand over Mehmet's precious box, whatever its contents may be, just because a pretty lady asked me to.