Entangled Knowledges of

the Black Sea

Confrontation and Convergence

between Turkish Fishermen and Marine Scientists

Ståle Knudsen
2001
 Ståle Knudsen

Entangled Knowledges of
the Black Sea

Confrontation and Convergence

between Turkish Fishermen and Marine Scientists

Thesis submitted for the Dr. polit. Degree

Department of Social Anthropology
University of Bergen

February 2001
Contents

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IX

PREFACE X

1 CULINARY CULTURES OF SEAFOOD IN TURKEY 1

Fish in the sea 6

Fish on the table: The cultures of seafood in Turkey 8

The Istanbul seafood culture 10

The Trabzon ‘fish food’ culture 19

Comparing the two seafood cultures 30

Is a new shared seafood culture evolving? 31

2 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION THROUGH SEAFOOD AND ALCOHOL 34

Seafood - a Rum tradition? 36

From Rum Taverna and Lent to Turkish High Culture? 42

Alcohol and morality: Istanbul and Trabzon 53

Multiple seasides 63

Zones of intimacy 69

Conclusion 72

3 FISHERIES AND SCIENCE IN THE TURKISH MODERNISATION PROCESS 74

A history of fisheries in Ottoman waters 75

State policy: from tax to proteins 83

Outline of the contemporary Turkish ‘water produce’ sector 101

Fishing and fishermen in context: 112

overview of the Black Sea Region and Çarşıbaşı 112

Closing 121
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4 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 123

A regular fishing trip to the whiting ‘island’ 123

Towards an anthropology of knowledge 127

Situated knowledge of bottom topography 133

Fish behaviour: narratives and cultural models 138

Classifications 142

Non-inscribed unstable collectives 155

5 INFORMAL REGULATIONS IN SMALL-BOAT FISHING 160

Informal regulations in small-boat fishing 161

Traditional knowledge? 169

Social organisation and ethical behaviour in small-boat fishing 182

Trust and local politics: cooperatives versus ‘big men’ 194

6 BIG-BOAT FISHING: TECHNOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT, FRIENDSHIPS, AND

POLITICS 197
Type 1: Labour intensive fisheries 198

Type 2: Capital intensive fisheries 202

Type 3: Organisation, business management and political entrepreneurship 208

The social web 211

Trust in the family 222

Knowledges in large-scale social contexts 224

7 SCIENTIST’S KNOWLEDGES 226

Knowledge practices 226

Hamsi migrations 233

Classification and taxonomy: istavrit species 235

From ‘production’ to population dynamics, MSY and quotas 241

Conclusion 248
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8 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE AND POLITICS 250

The position and relative status of scientists 250

Institutional structure and recruitment of staff 252

Social life, manners and style 255

Politics in science, science in politics 262

9 DO SONARS HARM FISH? COMPETING CONSTRUCTIONS OF KNOWLEDGE

AMONG FISHERMEN AND SCIENTISTS 268
Towards an anthropology of technology 268

The sonar controversy 271

Analysis: what is the sonar to the fishermen? 278

Seeing the Truth, being in the sea 285

Science in the politics of the sonar 286

Conclusion 289

10 TACIT KNOWLEDGE, SPEECH, AND SCIENTIFIC TEXTS 291

Tacit practical knowledge 292

Bottom topography: to articulate ada and kuyu 293

Language as bodily practice 297

From externalisation to formalisation and culture difference 301

Conclusion 308

11 THE CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 311

Fishery cooperatives in Turkey: a persistent ideal 312

Education in the Turkish modernisation process 318

Idealistic elite, ignorant people 328

Formal education and fishermen 336

Conclusion 341
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12 FROM CULTIVATION TO POLITICS AND MORALITIES 343

Individuals at the interface 344

Encounters 350

Fishermen’s response: ‘we are unconscious, they’re corrupt’ 356

Politics, pollution, and morals 363

A discourse of resistance? 367

Knowledges as moralities 369

APPENDIXES

1: NAMES OF FISH, CRUSTACEANS, MOLLUSCS AND MAMMALS 373

2: TURKISH TEXT ITEMS 375

3: HOUSEHOLD SURVEY KEREM MAHALLE 377

4: DEVELOPMENT IN OWNERSHIP AND USE OF BIG FISHING BOATS IN THE

DISTRICT OF ÇARŞIBAŞI FROM 1989 UNTIL 1998 379

BIBLIOGRAPHY 382

PHOTO ESSAY Between Chapters 3 and 4

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List of Illustrations
Figure 1 Map of Black Sea region and Turkey 7
Figure 2 Football champions: Wine, women, and fish 14
Figure 3 Characteristics/contrasts between the Istanbul and Trabzon culinary cultures of seafood 30
Figure 4 Relative consumption of fish in different income groups 32
Figure 5 Map of central modern Istanbul 38
Figure 6 Map of Trabzon region 56
Figure 7 Map of eastern Black Sea region of Turkey 68
Figure 8 Comparing popular perceptions of Arabesk and Istanbul style seafood consumption. 70
Figure 9 Simplified model of hierarchical structure within a Ministry 89
Figure 10 Water produce bureaucracy in the Ministry for Agriculture and Rural Affairs 96
Figure 11 Map of district of Çarşıbaşı 116
Figure 12 Some elements of bottom topography along the coast of the District of Çarşıbaşı 134
Figure 13 Small-boat fisherman’s classification of ‘sea animals’ 146
Figure 14 Directions at sea: compass vs. operational model. 157
Figure 15 Fishermen’s model of directions at sea 158
Figure 16 Positioning of molozma net for catching barbunya 163
Figure 17 Positioning of the uzatma net for catching palamut 167
Figure 18 Typical net set for kefal 177
Figure 19 Alternative ways to set nets for ‘Russian’ kefal 177
Figure 20 Scientific model for ‘production’ of knowledge. 230
Figure 21 Analogical models for articulating MSY and catch effort 244
Figure 22 Reasons for disturbance of the natural balance in the Black Sea 272
Figure 23 Scientific models and inscription: temperature gradients 296
Figure 24 Educational level of different occupational groups in Keremköy 337
Figure 25 Caricature: The politician ‘turns the corner’. 363
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PREFACE

This is an ethnography of fisheries and marine science in Turkey with particular focus on the
social contestation of knowledges among fishermen, scientists and bureaucrats in the Black
Sea province of Trabzon and beyond. What happens when peripheral science meets with
fishing, an adaptation that is often seen as peripheral in the Middle East context? What can
these meetings tell us about the condition of knowledges in Turkey? The present work
demonstrates that this particular juxtaposition of knowledges has special consequences for the
scope of ‘traditional’ management practices in the fisheries, and that entrenched differences
between elites’ and commoners’ practices and models hinder interaction and understanding
between fishermen and marine scientists.
I used to be an environmental activist and wanted to focus on natural resource
management issues in my university studies. My undergraduate courses included both social
and natural sciences, including introductory courses to biology, geology, geography, and the
like. While preparing my first field research project in 1989, the common property theorem
attracted my interest as a way to address resource management problems. In the context of the
common property debate fisheries are of special interest; I found that there were fairly large-
scale fisheries in the Black Sea in which the social dynamics in resource management had yet
to be examined. When, in the winter of 1990, I visited the Turkish Black Sea region for the
second time, the fisheries were almost paralysed by a severe resource crisis. During my
fieldwork in 1990 and 1991 I studied primarily the social and economic organisation of the
fisheries, and in my Cand. polit. thesis (Knudsen 1992) I assessed the role of local-level
management forms. I also found that the resource crisis created social tensions, and the search
for reasons for the disappearance of the fish was a pervasive concern for fishermen and
scientists alike. While living in the small town Çarşıbaşı near Trabzon in the eastern Black
Sea region of Turkey in 1990/91, I met occasionally with a few scientists and bureaucrats in
Trabzon who were initially entrusted by the provincial authorities to introduce me to the
fishery sector in the region. I soon came to realise what different worlds fishermen and
scientists were living in and how little trust and communication existed between them. For
instance, while scientists viewed the introduction of a new jellyfish-like species to be the main
cause of the resource crisis, this was totally unknown to the fishermen. In contrast, most
fishermen thought that the fish finder sonar killed or scared away fish – an idea known to, but
ridiculed by, the scientists. As I saw it, for the development of new management methods that
could be applicable and effective in practice, fishermen and state representatives needed to
enter into a dialogue. I took this as the main issue of my doctoral project that started in 1996.
Specifically, I perceived the problem as a barrier between different knowledges. What
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creates and reproduces the separation among different kinds of knowledges? Is the primary
reason that scientists’ and fishermen’s knowledges are of fundamentally different kinds? Or
has the separation more to do with how knowledge is worked upon, distributed, and contested
within a social world where people are differently positioned? What are the reasons for and
the consequences of the separation between fishermen’s and scientist’s knowledges? What is
the relation (differences, similarities, interaction) between different knowledges of fish and
sea? To begin, questions like this require clarification of concepts such as ‘knowledge’,
‘scientific knowledge’, and ‘local knowledge’.
In addressing these theoretical challenges through working out an adequate
ethnography, the analysis brings together in one study two approaches that are often kept
separate: sociological studies of science and anthropological studies of knowledge. When
science confronts other traditions of knowledge, it is common to assume that there exists a
hierarchical relationship between them. One of the major challenges in this context is to
critically survey assumptions and cast theories in terms that can facilitate ‘epistemological’
symmetry in the ethnographic description of different kinds of knowledges. It is tempting to
take an extreme relativist or social constructivist position so as not to privilege any one
tradition of knowledge. But while I argue that one cannot deny the socially constructed nature
of knowledge, I also make the basic assumption that if we do accept that knowledge of the
world, if not eternal true knowledge, is possible (basic realism), anthropologists should try to
understand knowledge production as an outcome of embodied humans' interaction with both
humans and non-humans (phenomenology and theories of embodied cognition). Thus,
knowledges are not to be regarded as separate systems or beliefs, but as diverging or
converging practices and models within a specific historical context, such as the development
of the secular, modernist Turkish state. On the one hand, I explore how knowledge is
constituted in various kinds of practices, and to what degree and in what manner it becomes
articulated, externalised, inscribed and objectified. On the other hand, the emergence of the
precondition for the knowledges is outlined through an analysis of the state’s role in the
fisheries (cf. Foucault).
This study does not contain any overall ‘theory chapter’. I engage theory at relevant
places as I develop the ethnography. Longer and more focused discussions of theory are found
in Chapters 4, 5, 9 and 10. Although the general analytical theme is knowledge, it is possible
to identify several sub-themes. One analytical concern that is directly related to my initial
interests in management of commons is the question of the existence, conditions and scope
for ‘traditional’ and local management forms in the fisheries. This discussion is dispersed and
addressed at relevant points throughout Chapters 3, 4, 5 and 11. A more challenging and, in
certain respects, fundamental issue is how people relate to their environs (Chapters 4 and 7,
and partly Chapters 9 and 10). What is the role of knowledge in people’s interaction with their
environment, how do they build their knowledge, and in what ways do they know? This
discussion addresses contemporary concerns in ecological and cognitive anthropology.
Another focal matter is how knowledges are socially embedded, constructed, and contested
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(most chapters). What are the social and cultural preconditions for certain knowledges being
possible and others being muted? Along what lines are knowledges contested? In this picture
history is involved (Chapters 2, 3, and 11), both as contemporary ‘native’ frames of reference,
and as an analytical framework for explaining the emergence, possibility, and character of
contemporary knowledges and discourses. Turkey is said to have had a modernisation policy
before modernisation theory was developed. Perhaps in no other country have modernisation,
westernisation, secularism, and nationalism in state ideology been so tightly knit to each other
as in the Turkish Republic (from 1923 onwards). There have been reconfigurations in this
ideological framework, particularly in the last twenty years, but the impact of this ideology is
still significant in the ethnographic contexts I have encountered. Of particular relevance here
is the special position given to education and science in this official ideology. The discussions
of knowledge-‘content’ and knowledge-‘context’ come together especially in Chapters 9 and
10.
On a general level, this is an ethnographically founded study of the role and place of
knowledge in the modern Turkish nation-state. It may seem odd to address this grand
ambition by focusing on fisheries, which in the Middle East can be said to be ‘doubly
peripheral’. Except for, perhaps, the Levant, fishing is not an acknowledged and prominent
sector in Middle Eastern societies. Fishing has not only been peripheral, but almost non-
existent, in the ethnography of the Middle East. However, I will argue that ethnography that
juxtaposes the marginal with ideologies and discourses at the core is particularly apt to
disclose important constitutive and pervasive dynamics of society. A study of knowledges at
the interface between fishing and science in Turkey may therefore be appropriate.
Anthropological approaches to the Middle East currently fashionable - epitomised in
ethnographies of narratives and cultural expressions - make important contributions to our
understanding of people in the region. Yet, my analytical ambition implies that such
approaches would be insufficient in the present study. I claim that to make sense of ‘the
condition of knowledge in Turkey’, and for anthropology of the Middle East to contribute to
anthropology in general, the social and cultural complexity, the history, the role of the state,
the scriptural traditions in the region, and so forth should be included in ethnography and
analysis.

Chapters 1 and 2 survey the public imageries of seafood consumption in Turkey. The
relevance of this for the ethnography is twofold. First, production is better understood when
seen in the context of consumption. Secondly, a focus on seafood consumption reveals some
important dimensions of lifestyle patterns (Bourdieu) in Turkey and thereby the social
framework through which fishermen and marine scientists relate. Thus, these chapters serve
to introduce general and pervasive discourses in contemporary Turkey. In the first chapter I
work out what I perceive to be two distinct culinary cultures of seafood: the elite Istanbul
seafood culture and the regional Trabzon fish food culture. The next chapter positions the
imageries of seafood consumption in history and contemporary social practice and identity
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negotiations. Why did consumption of seafood become such a good vehicle for demonstrating
social distance? What is the relation between Greek traditions and the contemporary refined
‘Istanbul style’ seafood consumption? I try to position contemporary historicised claims to
identity by reflexively juxtaposing them with some historical material. This implies that I
critically discuss ‘Turkishness’ and the status of Istanbul. The second half of the chapter
describes how the semiotics of seafood consumption and alcohol is expressed in socio-space
in Istanbul and Trabzon and how these concerns are related to more pervasive discourses in
Turkey, such as Islam, gender and arabesk music.
What importance and consequence has the state’s approach to the fisheries had? This
is the main topic of Chapter 3 where I chart the historic development and changing
perspectives of those actors in the Turkish society who are professionally involved with water
produce: fishermen, traders, bureaucrats and scientists. I discuss the change in the state’s
interest in the fisheries from the Ottoman to the Republican era. I document the existence of
formally acknowledged locality-specific management forms in the fisheries at the close of the
Ottoman era and explore to what degree such management forms have been sustained in
modern Turkey. Specifically, I argue that both the Ottoman and the Republican state
underwent profound changes during the 19th and 20th centuries that had far-reaching
implications for their approaches to fishing. Fisheries became a focus of economic policy and
‘knowledge’. I describe the broad outlines of the development of both the marine sciences and
the fisheries. By way of situating the general developments in the economy, demography and
fishing in the context of one particular district in Trabzon, I introduce my main fieldwork site
Çarşıbaşı.
In Chapter 4 there is a much closer attention to the ethnography of everyday practise
as I detail the character of the models fishermen engage when they relate to bottom
topography, classification, fish behaviour, and directions at sea. The ethnography is set in
dialogue with several sections stating theoretical position and challenges. I explore the
implications of a radical definition (Latour) of the symmetry postulate, and work out a
perspective on knowledge based in phenomenology and theories of embodied
cognition/language.
Chapter 5 elaborates and proceeds from the insights gained in Chapter 4 by attending
particularly to small boat fishermen’s informal management practices in several kinds of
fishing. The long time span between my first and last fieldwork provides me with a unique
possibility to discuss to what degree and in what respects there can be said to be a ‘tradition of
knowledge’ in fishing when some common practices become marginal and others evolve with
changes in technology and available resources. The chapter further elaborates on the concept
of knowledge, especially as pertains to the problematic idea of ‘traditional knowledge’. In the
latter part of the chapter I emphasise the social embeddedness of the knowledges, especially
in local relations of friendship.
This discussion is continued in Chapter 6 where I engage the difficult debate about
the importance of interpersonal relations and social networks in the organisation and politics
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of the fisheries. My arguments are based upon a historically informed ethnography of

developments in big boat fishing since approximately 1950. I focus on individual careers and
demonstrate what consequences technological development and capitalisation have had for
the dynamics in the fisheries in general and for the fishermen’s knowledges in particular.
The next two chapters focus primarily on the marine scientists. Chapter 7, partly by
way of engaging a ‘latourian’ perspective, explores what counts as knowledge among marine
scientists. I discuss how their knowledge of fish behaviour and classification and taxonomy is
constituted and articulated, thereby to some extent addressing the same fields of knowledge as
in the discussion of fishermen’s knowledges. In addition I assess the growing interest the
marine scientists have in applying bio-economic models to fisheries. This opens for
discussion of the special role of peripheral science as it is complexly situated among the local
politics, the state, international science, and international organisations and politics.
In Chapter 8 the focus shifts to scientists’ lives and lifestyles and to the politics of
knowledge. The importance of being state employees, as well as the stress on the mutual
dependence between good manners and higher education are discussed. Among the lifestyle
expressions of the scientists I particularly explore the implications of the tendency to give
priority to ‘literal’ language.
Chapters 9 and 10 may be said to constitute the apex of this thesis. All of Chapter 9 is
directed at an analysis of the controversy over sonar. I first outline an anthropological
perspective on technology before I survey what the sonar is to fishermen and scientists
respectively. How do fishermen and scientists involve with and know the sonar? I go into
detail as to how fishermen relate to the sea and fish through the sonar, and recount their
narratives and comments about the sonar. The scientists’ view is primarily accessed through
analysing a study of the sonar prepared by the local marine scientists. In ‘following the sonar’
I do not restrict myself to an analysis of how different views and arguments can be seen as
different claims to Truth. Rather, I ply beyond that in order to grasp some of the underlying
factors that shape those claims. This has implications for what we take to be knowledge and
how it should be studied.
Such issues are further explored in Chapter 10 as I ask whether a main reason for the
lack of understanding between fishermen and scientists may be that much of fishermen’s
knowledges are tacit. Inspired by Merleau-Ponty and others I problematise the distinction
between practice and language that underlies the assumptions about tacit knowledge and
make suggestions for alternative ways of differentiating knowledges that provide more scope
for specificity. I also discuss the usefulness of employing ‘ethno-epistemology’ as a
comparative-analytical frame. Ethnographically I pursue the sonar material as well as
fishermen’s and scientists’ knowledge of bottom topography and water bodies. Towards the
end of the chapter I call for situating knowledges in wider social processes (cf. Foucault). This
leads to a discussion in the two last chapters of some of the discourses within which the
knowledges of fishermen and scientists are implicated.
In Chapter 11 an analysis of the bureaucrats’ and scientists’ championing of fishery
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cooperatives as the ideal organisational structure in the fisheries actualises and introduces a
wider discussion of the role of education in the Turkish modernisation process. The value
attributed to education, together with recurrent claims of ignorance as the reason for any
undesired phenomenon, constitute some of the most important discursive frames for
fishermen’s and scientists’ evaluation, legitimisation, critique, and assessment of both
knowledges and holders of knowledge. I reengage elite lifestyle and ideology, especially the
importance in elite circles of positivist idealism and the cultivation of the image of ‘people’
being ignorant.
If Chapter 11 focuses primarily on the lifestyles and ideology of the elite, Chapter 12
directs attention on persons at the interface of fishing communities and science and examines
encounters between fishermen and scientists. The latter part of the chapter discusses
fishermen’s responses and counterclaims, such as their reformulation of being ignorant to a
confession of behaving in an ‘unaware or irresponsible’ manner. This interpretation is set
within a wider and very powerful morally impregnated discourse of national scale concerning
‘hunger’ and ‘eaters’- politics and corruption - as articulated, for instance, in imageries of
seafood consumption and lifestyles.

Fieldwork has spanned a period of more than eight years from spring 1990 until December
1998 and amounts to a total of approximately 14 months in the Black Sea region (nine months
in 1990-91, shorter visits in 1994, 1996 and 1997, two months in the spring of 1998 and two
shorter stays in the autumn of 1998). In addition I have lived for several months in Ankara
and Istanbul. During these years I have kept a focus on one particular fieldwork site, the small
town Çarşıbaşı near the city of Trabzon in the eastern Black Sea region. As will very soon
become apparent, however, this is no conventional ‘village study’. I have travelled
extensively along the coast in the eastern Black Sea region and met fishermen many places. I
have also paid repeated visits to the main fish hall in Istanbul and visited most of the fishing
communities in the vicinity. Fishing is in itself an activity that keeps people on the move and
brings men from a coastal stretch of more than 1000 km together in one community. All in all
I may have participated more in small boat fishing than big boat fishing. But I have made an
effort to join in most kinds of fishing. At first small boat fishermen were reluctant to have me
along. They feared that I would not feel comfortable. But I was gradually accepted and in
many cases came to participate as a ‘full member’, to the degree that they wanted to pay me
shares in kind. When trawling it was possible to give my fishermen friends a hand, but purse
seine fishing operations are so complicated and intense that observing was enough of a
challenge for me.
In Çarşıbaşı, despite my efforts, I never came to live with a family. I was welcomed by
a local entrepreneur and politician connected with the fisheries, and he arranged, for most of
my stay in Çarşıbaşı, the office/guestroom associated with the sea snail factory. In 1990-91
this factory was located right by the harbour and was therefore a suitable base for following
fishing activities. During later stays I lived primarily in the small fishing community
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Keremköy right outside of the town of Çarşıbaşı. I did not have my meals on a regular basis
within any household. I arranged simple meals in the flat where I was staying, but ate my
warm meals primarily at eating places in Çarşıbaşı or Trabzon. I was also invited to share
meals with friends in their homes, and shared regular meals with fishermen when at sea. My
‘household’ in Çarşıbaşı was never more than ‘provisional’.
My main access to the social life was through local cliques of men, especially centred
on the local tea-houses, and through fishing. Although I have been a visitor in many homes
and have several women acquaintances in Çarşıbaşı, it was primarily the male world I came to
live in and gradually get to know. This means that the lives and perspectives of women in
fishing communities appear to only a small extent in this ethnography. It is altogether
different with regard to the scientists, among whom several of my best friends and informants
have been women. During my first fieldwork visit in 1990-91 my research design did not
explicitly include the scientists. Nevertheless, scientists did – to a limited extent - enter my
field notes. Actually, in Trabzon I became acquainted with marine scientists before I had even
met a single fisherman! Because of my formal research permit I was introduced through
formal channels, which by implication meant that marine scientists and bureaucrats
introduced me to fishing communities in the province. The research topic for my PhD project
grew out of this. In my subsequent periods of fieldwork I spent more time with the scientists.
Luckily I could build upon some longstanding friendships. Also, my early encounter with the
research institutions and the personnel made it possible for me to note developments over
time. I also paid repeated visits to the ‘water produce’ bureaucracy in Ankara.
However, the fieldwork among scientists cannot be said to be ‘symmetrical’ with my
fieldwork among fishermen as regards time spent and insights gained. I have not ‘lived with’
the scientists to the same degree. When I stayed in Çarşıbaşı in 1998 I often visited scientists
and their institutions, which involved quite a bit of travelling. My experience with scientists
has to a larger degree consisted of semi-formal interviews (often taped) and day visits to their
institutions. I joined their research cruises or other ‘field activities’ only a few times. But the
scientists were very welcoming and eager to draw me into their personal lives; I visited them
at home, hung around at tea gardens or shared a meal at a lokanta with them, or strolled the
streets of Trabzon with them on a busy Saturday afternoon. On the other hand I have not been
able to follow and observe any of their concrete research projects in detail over time. But, if
one can say that written discourse makes up part of the ‘world of science’, I have participated
by reading some of their reports and papers and even by contributing a paper (Knudsen 2000)
to a Turkish language journal of marine sciences. Scientists’ oral comments on the written
works add valuable information (see e.g. the sonar case in Chapter 9). Furthermore, written
reports from conferences, seminars, textbooks, and the like have provided me with valuable
sources as regards the perspectives of scientists and bureaucrats. Some of the chapters address
public imageries of seafood, alcohol, politics, education and so forth. Here I eclectically draw
upon a range of different material, most of it in Turkish, ranging from newspapers, magazines
and television to biographies, novels, cookbooks and so forth. In working out the history of
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fishing, marine science, and the culinary cultures of seafood, I have relied on a variety of
Turkish and foreign primary and secondary sources.
In this study, most persons and all places are presented by their actual names. In a few
cases I have chosen to use pseudonyms or tried by other means to disguise a person’s identity.
In some cases it has been impossible to remove all connections to the actual person, and those
familiar with the context may have little problem tracing the true identity of the person. I
request that the reader respect my decision (few, if any, of the persons themselves explicitly
requested anonymity) of disguising some identities and share the responsibility with me.
The fieldwork language has almost exclusively been Turkish. When I came to
Samsun and Trabzon in 1990 to start my fieldwork after a couple months of language training
in Ankara, I was able to communicate in simple Turkish. I gained a good command of the
vernacular by the end of the longer stays. I never used an interpreter. However, my Turkish
never became fluent and I may have missed nuances in the language that the native speakers
may be aware of. Also, in the dense and noisy atmosphere of the lively tea-houses I was not
always able to follow the verbal exchanges over, or between, the tables. Furthermore, the
local dialect deviates substantially from the national norm, and I had difficulties
understanding some older people especially. Scientists’ language is generally closer to the
national norm and therefore more easily understandable. I also used a number of written
Turkish material and sources. I am myself responsible for all translations to the English,
except for a few text items where I note the kind of help I have received. Sevil Sümer
corrected some Turkish misspellings in Chapters 11 and 12.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Edvard Hviding, my supervisor during my work with this thesis, has had a formative
influence on my work. I have especially appreciated his skilled advice with regard to how an
anthropological text like this should be composed. He has challenged me to explicate the kind
of anthropology I am undertaking without trying to get me to conform to his own agenda.
Naturally, I have profited from his extensive knowledge of ecological anthropology in general
and maritime anthropology in particular. Edvard also encouraged me to explore the culinary
cultures of seafood. That has been a most challenging and rewarding, although time
consuming, experience that I am glad for. Reidar Grønhaug directed me with an analytically
steady hand through the first phases of this project, leading up to the Cand. Polit. thesis in
1992. During the final phases of the present work, I have very much enjoyed and been
inspired by the almost daily conversations with Kjetil Fosshagen about Turkey, history, the
state and so forth. He has also read and critically commented upon several chapters and
sections.
I am indebted to several others for close reading of and valuable comments on one or
more chapters: Haldis Haukanes, Frode Jacobsen, Kari Telle, Marit Brendbekken, Yael
Navaro-Yasin, Maria Mangahas, and Sevil Sümer. At the Department of Social
Anthropology, University of Bergen, Bruce Kapferer and Eldar Bråten as well as many
 xviii

among the doctoral students have given valuable and challenging comments on parts of my
work. Discussions with Anh Nga Longva and Leif Manger have also brought me important
new insights. Thanks also to the historian Vemund Aarbakke for stimulating discussions and
valuable help with some Greek sources. Graziella Van den Bergh patiently helped me to
understand a long French text on Ottoman fishing, Bernt Bredemoen have always been
willing to assist me with difficult Turkish texts or expressions as well as sharing his fieldnotes
with me, and Barbra Blair and Katharine Dixon have done excellent jobs in going through
English language and style so that the text has become easier to read and arguments more
clearly presented. Katharine has also proofread some of the final chapters. Trygve Tollefsen
assisted me in scanning photographs and figures. Thanks to them all. In Istanbul I learned
particularly much about social science in and about Turkey from Fulya Atacan and Hakan
Koçak, the latter also providing a relaxing place to stay in Istanbul. Hakan was my assistant
for a few weeks in 1997 during a project for the Black Sea environmental programme. With
his ironical attitude and extensive knowledge of Turkish society, discussions with him were
always illuminating and enjoyable.
During a longer stay in Istanbul in 1996 the Swedish Research Institute provided me a
comfortable ‘home away from home’ as well as excellent work opportunities. Lawrence Mee
and Olga Maiboroda at the Black Sea Environmental Programme Coordinating Unit in
Istanbul provided me the welcome opportunity to give my research applied relevance. A two
months stay at the Department of Geography at the University of Cambridge in 1999 greatly
facilitated library work (especially implications for the two first chapters) and contact with
anthropologists working on Turkish society and culture. I am grateful to Tim Bayliss-Smith
for taking care of both formal and practical tasks so that my family’s stay in Cambridge
became so enjoyable and profitable. Above all, I thank my wife Eva Hjertholm, particularly
for having put up with my repeated travels and absences, which during the years when care
for small children put a heavy burden on her. Also, as a biologist, she has been a valuable
‘conversation partner’ on issues relating to species concept and other aspects of natural
sciences.
To all my Turkish friends, who are so concerned about hospitality, I can assure you
that even by Turkish standards the hospitality I have encountered has been extraordinary.
First, I am most indebted to the people in Çarşıbaşı who were willing to incorporate me in
their lives even though they knew that I would eventually leave (again). I feel it would be
unfair to mention anyone in the quarters of Burunbaşı and Keremköy in particular since that
would imply omitting so many others. Among my other friends in Çarşıbaşı I especially want
to thank the teacher Cemil Kurt and the small boat fisherman Şaban Çağlar. I am grateful to
both the co-operative leader Ahmet Mutlu as well as Ferit Candeğer in the fishing community
Faroz in Trabzon for all they have taught me about fishing, its history and politics. Thanks
also to the numerous fishermen in those fishing communities that I visited along the Black
Sea coast and in Istanbul. Fieldwork really is made easy and pleasant when men sitting in the
front of a teahouse call out to you: “Welcome, come and talk with us. Have a glass of tea!” I
 xix

thank Mustafa Zengin and all his colleagues at the Trabzon Marine Research Institute as well
as Ertuğ Düzgüneş, Sevim Köse, Cengiz Mutlu and other scientists and students at Sürmene
Faculty of Marine Sciences for their interest and understanding of my project and their
willingness to assist me in it. I thank Nigar Alemdağ and Emin Özdamar for their friendship
and help. Bureaucrats in Ankara have proved to be bureaucrats with a human face.
This study was made possible by a doctoral fellowship from the Division of
Environment and Development, Research Council of Norway. I have been provided good
work facilities by the Department for Social Anthropology, University of Bergen which
together with the Research Council has funded the fieldwork.

CONVENTIONS

Currency
Throughout the 1990s there has been rampant inflation in Turkey, mostly in the range of 60-
100% a year. It is therefore difficult to compare Turkish monetary value at different times
during the period in which this ethnography is set. In order to facilitate comparison I have
chosen to render most monetary values in US$. Because of the inflation and the widespread
use of US dollars and German marks for savings, credits and larger transactions, most people
in Turkey are accustomed to relating to their currency’s dollar value. For information I note
the approximate exchange rate for the periods when I did the bulk of my fieldwork.

March 1991: 1 US$ = 2.500 Turkish Lira

September 1996: 1 US$ = 95.000 Turkish Lira
May 1998: 1 US$ = 250.000 Turkish Lira
December 1998: 1 US$ = 300.000 Turkish Lira

In the text I occasionally use the abbreviation ‘MTL’ which means ‘Million Turkish Lira’.

Language
Turkish has been written with an adapted Latinised script since 1928 and has gone through
profound changes since due to relentless language reform aimed at ridding the language of
Arabic and Persian traits. The language therefore contains many synonyms and alternative
constructions, and the choice of language style can often signify political position or lifestyle.
For Arabic and Turkish words that have common European equivalents (such as ‘Ramadan’) I
follow the spellings familiar in English. The language has some distinct characteristics such
as ‘vowel harmony’ and extensive use of suffixes, so that with suffixes the word balık (fish)
comes to mean fisherman (balıkçı) and fishing (balıkçılık). In standard Turkish there is a high
degree of conformity between the spoken and written. One of the most apparent
characteristics of the local dialect in Trabzon is to ‘confuse’ ‘b’ and ‘p’, ‘c’ and ‘ç’, ‘d’ and
‘t’, and so on. I have for the most part chosen to render in standard Turkish most of the
utterances spoken in dialect, although I occasionally write the dialect expression. For those
 xx

that are familiar with Turkish this should not create much difficulty.

For those not familiar with Turkish orthography, the following can serve as a rough guide to
the pronunciation of Turkish words. When not otherwise stated, references to English
pronunciation refer to standard UK English:

a A back, open, unrounded vowel that may be short or long. ‘A’ as in northern English
‘man’ or the ‘a’ of French ‘avoir’
c ‘j’ as in English ‘jam’
ç ‘ch’ as in English ‘church’
ğ Generally lengthens preceding vowel; swallows up a following vowel. In some
words pronounced like a weak ‘y’ in ‘yet’, especially in conjunction with front vowels
(e,i,ö,ü).
ı A back, close, unrounded vowel, close to ‘i’ in ‘cousin’
i as in English ‘pit’
j French ‘j’
o as in English ‘hot’
ö German ‘ö’ in ‘Köning’
r produced by the vibration of the tip of the tongue against the gums just above the top
teeth.
s as in English ‘sing’
ş ‘sh’ in English ‘shall’
u A back, close, rounded vowel, between the vowels of English ‘put’ and ‘pool’
ü as German ‘ü’
y as in English ‘yet’
 CULINARY CULTURES 1

1 CULINARY CULTURES OF
SEAFOOD IN TURKEY

The small town of Çarşıbaşı near Trabzon in the eastern Black Sea region of Turkey is one of
the major fishing centres in the area. The large harbour is filled with big and small boats, there
are fishmeal and sea snail processing plants there, and fishing constitutes the primary
livelihood for a large portion of the population. Moreover, people love to eat fish. The local
species of anchovy, the hamsi, is especially highly esteemed. In this town of 10,000
inhabitants there are about 15 eating establishments (lokanta). But it is impossible to buy a
plate of seafood in Çarşıbaşı. None of the lokanta serve fish and there is no seafood restaurant!
However, fish is cooked for non-domestic consumption, as when the manager of the seasnail
factory arranged for a dinner of grilled zargana (garfish) for a group of important men, local
and visiting. They enjoyed the seafood in the outdoor pavilion in front of the factory. While
the well-educated accountant who worked for the fishery cooperative in the same building was
invited to share their meal, a technical assistant who worked in the factory remarked to me that
‘we only got the smell’ (biz ancak kokosunu aldık). Fishermen passing the factory - on their
way to their boats in the harbour just behind the factory or perhaps to visit the factory in order
to try to get some advance payment from the manager - probably also noticed the aroma
emanating from the seaside intimacy of the big men. But it would have been shameful (ayıp)
for them to visit when such important men were gathered for a special seafood meal.

Why open a study of knowledges about fish and the sea with two chapters on seafood
consumption? There are the obvious reasons that fisheries can only be understood in a larger
socio-cultural context (Durrenberger and Palsson 1987), and that relations and practices of
production are shaped in interaction with (the politics of) consumption (Appadurai 1986). But
there is a more fundamental reason for describing the semiotics and practices of seafood
consumption and identity imageries connected to that. In order to understand the
differentiated positioning of groups of fishermen and marine scientists, it is necessary to
explore some of the cultural framework that lies close to their practices and discourses. This
framework of identities, as communicated through consumption, colours both their own and
others’ understanding of their activities and claims, and is especially relevant in the mutual
constructions of fisherman/scientist. The eating of fish, and the way fish and other sea animals
are eaten - where, when and how - can convey strong messages about who you are and who
and what you do not wish to be associated with. Seafood1 eating, perhaps surprisingly, plays

1
Strictly speaking I here refer to animals that live in both salt and fresh water. However, in order to
avoid cumbersome expressions or the term ‘water produce’ (su ürünleri) that is preferred by the Turkish
bureaucracy, I will in Chapters 1 and 2 generally use ‘seafood’. Only a very small portion of the ‘water
produce’ comes from lakes and rivers.
2 CHAPTER 1

an important role in articulation and management of identities in contemporary Turkey. In

Turkey many ‘cultural’ issues, such as music (arabesk, Stokes 1992, 1999, Özbek 1991,
1997), hair and clothes (especially the headscarf, Göle 1996, Özdalga 1998, Olson 1985),
education, language, and alcohol have become explicitly targeted in nationwide controversies.
Many of these issues have become highly politicised. Modes of seafood consumption have
not become an object of explicit political discourse or a topic for scholarly debate to the same
degree. However, on the level of daily practice it is one of many domains where identity,
morals and lifestyle are managed and communicated.
Consumption of seafood is material in the construction and management of identities,
among other things, at the interface between the elite and the common people, between
fishermen and scientists/bureaucrats. An ethnographic study of the public imagery and social
practice of seafood consumption opens a side door into the study of such issues as identity
politics, Islam, and elite formation. The main emphasis in Chapter 1 is on the public imagery
of seafood symbolism: its potential as a frame of reference and resistance in identity
statements and management. The importance of this semiotic domain will become more
apparent when I discuss relations and mutual stereotyping between different categories of
people in the final chapters. To some degree, the discussion in Chapter 1 amounts to a
description of the social construction of fish and fish eaters. The questions to be asked in this
chapter are basically: Who eats fish? How is seafood eaten? What does it mean to eat
seafood? What kinds of identities are expressed? How can one understand the various taboos,
restrictions, preferences and eating practices? How are they related to more general discourses
in Turkish society?

Turkey is surrounded by sea on three sides, and the Sea of Marmara, the Straits and the Black
Sea in particular have been noted for their fish abundance since ancient times. Dried and
salted Black Sea fish was already being traded out of the region before the Antique
(Ascherson 1995:7), and fish has to this day remained of pivotal importance in the diet and
culinary culture of the coastal populations of the Black Sea and Marmara/Istanbul2. On the
other hand, the ‘Anatolian peasant’ of the interior has never been a fish eater. Yet, although
many in this region have been foreigners to the culinary culture of seafood, they have had and
still have vivid imageries of what it means to eat fish, as I will detail below. A central
argument of Chapters 1 and 2 is that the present pattern of consumption of seafood in Turkey
can only be understood as a semiotics of identity and politics within a historical framework.
The rhetorical power of seafood imageries and practices - as they are employed for instance
by fishermen and scientists - can only be grasped within this discursive context.
The role of fish and seafood in Middle Eastern culinary culture has not received much
ethnographic attention, and such food is not the first thing that comes to one’s mind when one

2
The economic importance of fishing in the ancient world is disputed. The classical archaeologist
Gallant (1985:35) claims that “the total catch from this area [the ‘Pontic’] would barely be capable of
supplying local needs, let alone furnish the raw material for an 'export industry'”.
 CULINARY CULTURES 3

thinks of this region. It is ‘received wisdom’ that the Middle East is populated by townsmen,
farmers and nomads, and that cereals, vegetables, meat and milk products constitute their diet
(Coon 1976, English 1967)3. Water produce often seems to have a marginal and ambivalent
status in Middle Eastern societies, but there is a lack of ethnographic detail. There are a few
fine ethnographic studies of fishing and marine activities in the Middle East, notably Prins’
(1965) study of the ‘Arabic’ maritime peoples of Lamu (off Kenya’s coast) and Salim’s
(1962) study of the marsh dwellers of the Euphrates Delta. These and other less detailed
studies of fishermen, for example in Lebanon (Starr 1977), Pakistan (Pastner 1978),
Morocco4, as well as some passing references found here and there (e.g. Barth 1983), focus on
either the maritime activities (for example Prins) or local social organisation (for example
Salim). However, they generally fail to situate the studies within a wider geographical and
historical context of states, scriptural religions, elite-folk formations, ethno-religious
groupings, and so forth. I will take into account the historical and political setting of the
fisheries, as well as of the marine sciences. What does the Middle Eastern context imply with
regard to fishing? For instance, what concerns do the various religions, especially Islam, bring
to the consumption of seafood? How do the particular forms of social organisation in the
Middle East shape the social dynamics in fishing?
However, I would claim that it is too simplistic, and historically incorrect, to situate
the present Turkish fisheries and seafood cultures only within a Middle Eastern context. The
Ottoman Empire sprawled over a vast and composite region. This places the seafood and
maritime culture of present day Turkey in a context of an Ottoman legacy of cultural
heterogeneity that also included communities of foreign traders (notably European). Many
populations in the Ottoman Empire consumed seafood and were involved in fishing; in
Istanbul alone this included Armenians, Turks, Jews, Greeks, Bulgarians, Levantines5 and
others. In addition various Slavic and Arabic populations were engaged in fishing other places
in the empire. Given this background, it may be just as relevant to view the fisheries and
seafood cultures of present day Turkey in close conjunction with other regions/cultures,
especially Greece and partly Russia and other Black Sea countries. Moreover, the
development of the Turkish state and the identity politics connected to that have also
influenced the cultures of seafood traditions.
Classical studies in the Middle East focused on ‘marginal’ groups, especially nomads
and only to a lesser extent villages, even though pastoral nomads made up only slightly more
than 1 % of the population in the Middle East in 1970 (Eickelman 1989:75). In this early
period Middle Eastern anthropology addressed key concerns such as kinship, small scale
political organisation, and human ecology. The itinerary of anthropological studies of Turkish
communities started as recently as the 1950s and were almost uniformly ‘village studies’ (e.g.

3
Coon does mention seafaring (1976:324-30), but only as a way of transport. In his extensive survey of
the ‘traditional’ Middle East, fish and fishing is completely absent.
4
Primarily studies in French, see Prins 1973.
5
Various ‘European’ populations, many descendants of Genovese and Venezian traders. They lived
primarily in the Galata/Pera area in Istanbul.
4 CHAPTER 1

Stirling 1965, Mansur 1972, Magnarella 1974, Leder 1976, Starr 1978, also Delaney 1991) or
otherwise studies of the ‘periphery’ (Bates 1974 on nomads). In this context fisheries and
maritime cultures have remained ‘doubly peripheral’; they are by Middle Easterners
themselves - except perhaps in parts of the Levant – little acknowledged or esteemed
activities and ways of living. Moreover, fishing has been not only peripheral but almost non-
existent in the ethnography of the Middle East. When it comes to Europe, there are quite a
few studies of North Atlantic fishing communities and also some in Mediterranean Europe
(e.g. Brøgger 1992, Cole 1991, Salamone 1987). However, anthropological studies in Europe
also focused mainly on the periphery, either framed within the regional category of ‘The
Mediterranean’ (e.g. Peristiany 1966, Davies 1977), or as ‘village studies’ in the communist
Eastern Europe (e.g. Hann 1980, Bell 1984, Salzmann and Scheufler 1974).
The village/nomad bias is an effect of anthropology’s tradition, all since its formative
years, to focus on the periphery, the marginal, the ‘Others’. This was also the case in the field
of ‘Mediterranean anthropology’, as reflected in exoticising devices such as the focus on the
‘archaic’ code of honour and shame (Herzfeld 1987:11). Herzfeld (1987) has pointed out that
the anthropological approach to Europe, the Mediterranean, and in particular to Greece, is
closely connected to a Eurocentric ideology. The local communities were situated at a
distance (in time and social space) from the modern nation state, from ‘Us’. In the same vein,
Said’s (1978) critique took issue with the exotisising of the ‘Orient’. The way ‘We’
constructed ‘Them’ had just as much to do with our need to define ourselves, as with
understanding ‘Them’. Studies of neither the Middle East nor Europe were ‘symmetrical’. As
Latour has pointed out, studies ‘at home’ still tended to focus on the peripheral, the fringes of
society (Latour 1993).
Studies in Europe and the Middle East have since diverged in their development.
Herzfeld (1987:187) called for a continuation of the study of marginal places, but stressed that
since identity negotiations in marginal groups are often diagnostic of negotiations at the core,
‘the marginal’ should be situated in a wider ‘intellectual’ context, thereby reintegrating local
semiotics into larger scale ideologies and discourses. Thus, the anthropology of Europe has
seen many studies that focus on larger processes of ethnicity and nationalism (e.g. Borneman
1992, Verdery 1991; see Haukanes 1999 for a summary). Processes of social change, such as
the revitalisation of ethnicity and the profound changes in the state and economy in Eastern
Europe, make it difficult to ignore the larger, contemporary picture when studying the
particular.
The anthropology of the Middle East has taken a different direction. Lindholm (1995)
claims that the anthropology of the Middle East has been forced by the moral burden of the
Orientalism critique and stimulated by current anti-comparativist and anti-essentialist
tendencies in anthropology in general, to retreat towards biography and narrative, in an effort
to let ‘Them’ speak for themselves since ‘We’ cannot represent them. This alteration of
emphasis is most likely also an effect of social changes within the Middle East itself. The
region has during the last few decades been marked by swelling cities and a growing middle
 CULINARY CULTURES 5

class and seen the increased importance of mass media and popular culture. Accordingly,
most people today study in cities. This change in focus can of course be rewritten as a ‘shift to
expressive culture’ (Anderson 1997). Although the anthropology of Turkey has not produced
many of the more overtly ‘postmodern’ studies (except perhaps for Marcus 1992), the agenda
has clearly been redirected to ‘cultural politics’, especially as expressed in the contests over
gender, dress, Islam, music and mass culture in an urban context which is rapidly changing
due to the processes of modernisation (e.g. Stokes 1992, Özdalga 1998). To a certain extent
these studies situate cultural politics within the parameters of state policies and nationalism,
but the focus is still primarily on the ‘Others’, rather than the ‘Westernised’ elite, such as the
bureaucrats, scientists and managers (but see Alexander 1997). Moreover, there is less
emphasis on observing local-level everyday interaction (see, however, White 1994),
especially in rural communities (Sirman 1996). Few studies take into account larger scale
economic and historical dynamics (for exceptions, see Grønhaug 1974, Hann 1990 and White
1994).
It is paradoxical that although the Middle East is a large ‘culture area’, ethnography
from this region has recently contributed relatively little to anthropology’s theory formation.
Or, rather, the most apparent contribution of anthropology of the Middle East to the agenda of
contemporary anthropology has not been at the level of general theory and comparison, but on
the exploration of anthropological representation. Although a laudable goal in itself, this has
left potentially very fruitful areas of study barren, or open to other disciplines. If the
anthropology of the Middle East and Europe is to have anything to contribute to anthropology
in general, that can only come about by accepting the challenge to grapple with the
complexities – nationhood, bureaucracy, the state, modernity, history, the scriptural traditions,
political economy - without losing sight of, but rather being informed by, sensitive local-level
studies of social practice. It must be an anthropology that addresses contemporary challenges
in the societies in question, situating these in a history that is not only imagined or memory. I
acknowledge the importance of conveying ‘Their’ voices for approaching an understanding of
their experiences and lifeworld. But I also maintain that it is our task to go beyond the
natives’ own perspectives, not only to let them speak. We should try to gain a better
understanding of the processes that have made possible and acute the contemporary
discourses, knowledges, and practices. In order to achieve this we must build models, widen
horizons, and ‘imaginatively extend reality’ by way of a metaphorical scholarly language
(Hastrup 1995:170).
In this context the Turkish Black Sea fisheries may at first glance seem to be yet
another case study from the periphery. But by linking it to identity negotiation through
seafood and to the emergence of fishing and marine science as knowledge practices within the
modernising Turkish State, I claim to be able to address larger issues. I cannot tackle all of the
challenges of letting anthropology speak to the ‘larger issues’ since that is a vast collective
task, but I have taken steps in this direction. The task becomes manageable only by focusing
on very concrete fields of social practice, such as fishermen fishing, or scientists practising
6 CHAPTER 1

science. An anthropology that makes it impossible for me to address the challenge of resource
management in the fisheries and to attempt to influence the future development of the
management regime, is to me impotent. A restricted focus on narratives and cultural
expressions would not provide sufficient methodology and theory to address the issues that I
want to study, such as the reasons for the mutual distrust between marine scientists and
fishermen in Turkey. I want to acknowledge the importance that material reality of the fish in
the sea has for the people living along the eastern Black Sea coast of Turkey.

Fish in the sea

The Çanakkale and Bosporus Straits, the Sea of Marmara, as well as the eastern Black Sea
region are all rich in fish and other sea life. The Aegean and Mediterranean seas are rich in
species, while fish are more abundant in the Black Sea6. Due to the high fresh water inflow
into the Black Sea, its bio-production is regarded as being five times as high as in the
Mediterranean and Aegean seas. The continental shelf of the southern Black Sea is very
narrow, except for the alluvial banks outside of Samsun. Along the northern shores wide
continental shelves have produced fertile feeding grounds for both demersal and pelagic
species. The high fresh water inflow from rivers and relatively low evaporation rate mean that
the Black Sea is brackish (salinity 17-18‰). Furthermore, below a depth of 150-200m the
water contains high levels of hydrogen sulphide and is anoxic, therefore sustaining virtually
no life.
Although only the narrow straits of Bosporus and Çanakkale connect the Aegean Sea,
the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea, these water bodies do not constitute isolated
ecosystems. Salt water, being heavier, passes into the Marmara and the Black Sea as a bottom
current while water with a lower salinity passes out as a surface current. The outflow is
believed to be twice as large as the inflow (Zaitsev and Mamaev 1997:14). Pelagic fish pass
through these straits on their annual migrations. Pelagic fish enter the Black Sea in the
summer season to take advantage of its fertile ‘grazing grounds’, returning to the Marmara
and Aegean seas when the Black Sea becomes too cold7. Thus Istanbul has been at the
crossroads of large migrations of palamut (bonito), lüfer (bluefish), bluefin tuna, swordfish,
and kolyos (chub mackerel) (see Appendix 1 for names of fish and other sea animals).
However, the annual migrations of some species take place primarily within the Black Sea.
The most important of these is the Black Sea anchovy, the hamsi, which is concentrated in
dense shoals close to the coast between Sinop and Batum during the winter months. Others
include the sprat (of importance mainly along the northern shore) and istavrit (horse
mackerel).

6
Of fish species around 190 are found in the Black Sea (including brackish species), 200 in the Sea of
Marmara, approximately 300 in the Aegean, while the total number of fish species in the Mediterranean
is estimated at 540 (Mater et al 1989:1).
7
The annual temperature fluctuation of the Black Sea is very high, believed by some to be the most
dramatic sea water temperature fluctuation in the world.
 CULINARY CULTURES 7

Figure 1 Map of Black Sea region and Turkey

It is also important to note that the Aegean and Mediterranean marine environments support
many more kinds of ‘non-fish’ marine animals than the Black Sea. The saltier and warmer
water of these seas suit many more species of molluscs (clams, sea snails, squids, and the
like) and crustaceans (for example crabs and lobsters). Fish production in the interior is not
substantial. Limited amounts of carp and other freshwater fish are caught in small streams and
lakes. There are somewhat larger fisheries for ince kefal (‘small mullet’) in the Lake Van and
for a variety of species in lagoons near Samsun. Recently freshwater farming of trout has
gained some importance.

In this brief sketch of the relevant natural conditions, it should also be mentioned that -
due to human activities - only the palamut still undertakes the annual migration through the
Bosporus in significant numbers. Bluefin tuna, lüfer and mackerel no longer enter the Black
Sea, and swordfish has become a very rare visitor to the Turkish waters. In addition, the rapid
establishment and spread of so-called ‘intruder species’ in the Black Sea has had very
important ecological and economic implications. Most scientists agree that the Black Sea is
experiencing ecological degradation due to pollution, over-fishing, and the introduction of the
“jelly fish” Mneniopsis leidi8.
The local ecological conditions have had a crucial impact on the fishing conditions
and it is not surprising that it is Istanbul and Trabzon that have developed into centres of
fishing and seafood consumption. Rising catches and improved transport facilities have made
seafood more universally available in Turkey, but the historically constituted fishing and

8
Other important ‘intruder’ species are the sea snail and ‘Russian’ mullet.
8 CHAPTER 1

seafood cultures of Trabzon and Istanbul still form cores in the imageries and morals of
seafood consumption and associated lifestyle expressions.

Fish on the table: The cultures of seafood in Turkey

The ‘Anatolian peasant’ is generally not regarded as a fish eater. Some hold fish to be haram
(forbidden) for good Muslims since it cannot be properly slaughtered - it is difficult to make
the blood run. They hesitate to use a knife on the fish because they are not sure whether they
are using it in a religiously acceptable way. As a kind of wild game fish is problematic in this
respect. In the monumental ‘The cultural roots of the Turkish people’ Oğuz relates that when
in the 1950s he bought some fish from a local fisherman and gave it to the cooks at the largest
lokanta in Kayseri in central Anatolia for frying, they had to wait for an unduly long time for
the dish to appear. This was because the cook waited for the fish to die (Oğuz 1976). Unlike
other animals such as sheep, fish are not generally deliberately killed and they can not be cut
until dead (when the fish lose little blood). This belief that it is a sin (günah) to ‘use the knife’
on fish also makes it impossible to fulfil the (Muslim) commandment not to eat animals that
have died of natural causes. For this reason some former Bektaşi Baba's (Alewite religious-
political leaders) were unwilling to sing the common prayer (gülbank çekmek) over the food if
there was fish on the table. Furthermore, some Muslims of the Mevlevi order allegedly do not
eat fish. Oğuz also learned that in many places in Anatolia it was “not good” to catch trout (in
the rivers) (Oğuz 1976: 595). For many Anatolians, fish and other water animals, perhaps
with the exception of the fresh water carp (sazan), are aliens which have no place on their
sofra (table with a spread of dishes). In the same book Oğuz includes a 50 page survey of
‘Turkish’ food. Of this less than half a page describes fish/seafood (interestingly enough, only
the hamsi) (Oğuz 1976: 693).
The etymology of names for fish and other water animals reveals that few species’
names have their origin in the Turkish language. A causal analysis of the Turkish names as
cited in Alan Davidson's ‘Mediterranean Seafood’ (1981) reveals that out of 849 species, as
many as 40 has borrowed Greek names. Most of the others are either analogical extensions
from known land animals (17) (for example yılan balığı, ‘snake fish’ for eel) or names
referring to some physical attribute or behavioural characteristic of the animal (22). The
names of many freshwater species are Turkish, but because the Turks encountered the well
developed maritime culture of the Greeks when they arrived in Anatolia, most names of sea
animals are Greek (Oğuz 1976:573) or new constructions. It is noteworthy that they have no
borrowings from Arabic, except for yunus (dolphin) which is the name of a well-known
prophet who figures in the Koran (the sura of Jonah). Only a few names, such as mersin
(sturgeon), hamsi and mezgit (whiting) seem to have firm roots in the Turkish language.
However, mersin probably has a Latin root and hamsi seems to be indigenous to the eastern

9
This does not represent a full catalogue of Turkish names for sea animals, but is rather a selection
which includes the most important.
 CULINARY CULTURES 9

Black Sea region10. Non-standard local names are also often constructions derived from
similarities with land animals.
Furthermore, fish has not achieved an important place in the rich Turkish language. It
is not an important source domain for metaphors, proverbs, et cetera. My dictionary of
Turkish proverbs lists six proverbs which start with balık (fish) and 27 which start with eşek
(donkey). Even fishermen in Trabzon seldom employ fish imagery in their talk. Rather, they
use metaphors from agriculture and sheep herding to talk about fish and the sea. The
relationship between dolphins and fish is, for instance, commonly talked about and explained
by saying that the dolphin is the shepherd dog or wolf and the fish the sheep. However, the
few proverbs that draw on the domain of fish have attained a very high currency. Some of the
important ones are: Balık baştan kokar (fish smells from the head, i.e. if the behaviour of the
ones at the top (of a family/society) is bad, the rest of the family/society will also be bad); and
Büyük balık (her zaman) küçük balığı yer (The big fish (always) eat the small fish, applied to
society...). Both of these illustrate people’s constant preoccupation with the conflict between
the common people and the elite.
In view of the environmental conditions, it is not surprising to find that there seem to
be two major centres of fish consumption in Turkey, namely Istanbul and the eastern Black
Sea region, especially the area around the city of Trabzon. However, I would claim that it is
possible to discern four different but not entirely isolated streams in contemporary fish and
seafood consumption in Turkey. The Anatolian non-fish-eating habit may be considered as
one of these streams. Secondly, there is a distinct upper class, urban ‘Mediterranean’ (or
Levantine?) culinary culture of seafood which is symbolically as well as economically centred
on Istanbul. Of course this is a cosmopolite culture, which currently incorporates impulses
from the contemporary West-European kitchen, such as smoked salmon. This European
kitchen can be said to constitute the third identifiable stream. Use of French recipes is one
way Istanbul’s seafood restaurants claim sophistication. But the inspiration is also from
Europe when the middle classes now start consuming canned tuna and fish-burgers. Third,
there may be an Aegean tradition. The very high fish consumption in Izmir attests to this
(Elliott 1996:206). Here pelagic species such as sardalya (sardines), kolyos and palamut are
among the important species. While I am not familiar enough with this seafood culture to be
able to draw a clear borderline between this tradition and the high-culture seafood tradition of
Istanbul, it nevertheless seems that the Aegean tradition plays no independent role in the
general (national) imageries of seafood consumption. Fourth, and finally, there is the proud
tradition of the people of the eastern Black Sea coast. Here consumption of fish, and above all
of hamsi, is important on all layers of society. Trabzon is the historical centre of the eastern
Black Sea region. It used to be the seat of an independent Greek state (until the Ottoman
occupation in 1461). The eastern Black Sea region of today - a fairly narrow, but very fertile

10
Hamsi is the only fish name that is shared by Russian and Turkish without simultaneously having
etymological roots in Greek.While Redhouse (1963) and Oğuz (1976: 577) trace hamsi's etymology to
Greek, a prominent scholar (İhsan 1972[1928]) from Trabzon speculated that the origin may be Persian.
I believe that it is a term native to the Black Sea region.
10 CHAPTER 1

and densely populated area between the Black Sea and the peaks of the Kaçar mountains - is
uniformly Turkish, with no major minority populations and a strong regional identity.
Although the city of Trabzon (200.000) has long been surpassed by Samsun (300.000 or
more) in terms of population, its symbolic significance is still great.
In public imagery the Istanbul and Trabzon seafood cultures are the most elaborated of
the four and those which supply the most accessible markers for identity politics. I regard
these as rich sources for and domains of identity discourse in the ethnographic context of this
study. A detailed survey of each, together with an ethnographic description of how people in
Trabzon relate to these seafood traditions (next chapter) will demonstrate how seafood
consumption is related to more general processes in Turkish society. It will become evident
that important aspects of identity, such as religion/ethnicity, class, and ‘cultivation’ are
involved in and expressed in seafood consumption. At the same time this analysis of seafood
cultures will enable me to shed light on these same general processes from an unfamiliar
angle. In the course of my discussion of these two traditions, I will spell out the main
differences between them.
My knowledge of these traditions is somewhat unequal. Although I have certainly
eaten fish in Istanbul, I lack wide-ranging personal experience of the Istanbul seafood
culinary culture. Most of the more sophisticated domain of this culture in particular, lies
outside of the reach and budget of a PhD candidate. However, popular (elitist) approaches to
seafood and restaurants are relatively well represented and thus accessible in the swelling
Turkish literature on leisure and the like. Thus, much can be gleaned from advertisements and
newspaper and magazine articles as well as from cook books. I have also learned much of
what I know from fish traders and others involved in the retail sector. Since it is my intention
to sketch the public imagery (and not, for instance, the individual experience) of eating
seafood, I consider this an adequate approach to reveal the main contours of this seafood
culinary culture. For the Trabzon fish culture I rely more heavily on my own field
experiences. However, a couple of written sources on the hamsi have provided me with
valuable information on the historical and folkloristic aspects of this culture.

The Istanbul seafood culture

During the spring of 1998, my fisherman friend ‘Perişan’ (nickname) and his brothers
regularly set their net for ‘Russian’ kefals (mullet) right outside of their village Keremköy on
the outskirts of Çarşıbaşı, half an hour’s drive from the city of Trabzon. I joined them on the
small breakwater where they were cleaning a net that was full of seaweed. I gave them a hand
while we discussed the day’s catch. They had set and lifted the net several times during the
night and morning and had caught around 25 large ‘Russian’ kefals. That was not too bad.
However, they do not earn much from these (they got US$ 2.2-2.4 a kg.). The fish is not
highly esteemed, and is sold either locally in Çarşıbaşı or in Trabzon. My attention was
caught by a very fine kötek, a fish seldom to be seen, that was lying on the deck of their small
 CULINARY CULTURES 11

kayık (boat). Perişan commented that it would end up as meze (appetiser) on the table of a rich
man, possibly in Ankara or even in Istanbul. It would sell for perhaps five or ten times the
price of the ‘Russian’ kefals. When fishermen catch such valuable fish, for example large
turbot, they may consider it worthwhile to take this single fish to the fish halls in Trabzon,
and the very idea of serving such valuable fish in his own home is unthinkable. I never ate
kötek or turbot with the fishermen (although the fishermen did share meals of undersized
turbot with me…). Kötek and turbot are prestigious fish that more readily find their place on
the table of the urban wealthy than on the sofra (‘table’) of the fisherman.
When talking about eating fish in Istanbul what comes to people’s minds are social
outings with family or good friends, often including women, to some restaurant (restoran) or
meyhane (place where alcohol is sold and drunk), preferably by the seaside. There they would
chat for hours while indulging in an entré of several different meze (a selection of small and
mostly cold dishes), including perhaps fried kalamar, lakerda (salted and marinated palamut)
or smoked salmon (somon fumesi), before having the main meal served, usually an entire
piece of fresh fish each. The food is invariably accompanied by wine or the stronger rakı,
Turkish anise-flavoured alcohol. The evening would be rounded off with fruits, sweets and
coffee. The fish should be very fresh and preferably served whole, including the head11, when
not too inconvenient12. Even prawns are served with their head. Thus a portion (porjonluk)
fish or one large fish (2-2,5 kg) for a group of five or six persons is preferred. Why is it so
important to serve the fish with the head? Usually nothing of the head is eaten, so that cannot
be the reason. I believe that a whole fish makes the best impression aesthetically; it is
impossible to forget that one is eating fish, for absolutely no effort is made to try to hide or
camouflage the fish. This may be especially important since fish often is a prestige food. If it
is conspicuous consumption, it is important not to hide what one is eating. Furthermore, there
is also a widespread idea that fish is fresher if it is uncut, it is as if a fish without a head, or
fish filets, give the impression of being stale.
Fishmongers at the stands that sell fish - excluding the itinerant vendors who sell
cheap fish such as hamsi and istavrit - put great effort into presenting the fish as beautiful and
fresh. Fish and other sea produce are arranged amidst green leaves, often on red, circular trays
and are continuously sprinkled by water to maintain the colour and brightness (and wetness?).
The aesthetic aspect of fish and other sea products is clearly very important and stands to
some degree in contrast to the presentation of meat and poultry. In Turkey the attractive
presentation of food for sale and food to be served is highly appreciated. Furthermore, most
food should be prepared using ingredients that are as fresh as possible. At the stands most fish
is, of course, displayed whole and uncut. There is no ‘going to the backroom to fetch a filet
from the freezer’. If frozen fish is for sale, it will fetch a much lower price than the fresh
equivalent. Nor are conserved fish - salted, dried, and the like - displayed, but some

11
The Greek also stress the importance of not beheading the fish (Davidson 1981:343).
12
The head is often (but not always) removed when filets (yarım) of palamut and uskumru are grilled. I
suspect the reason is simply that portions including the head would often be too big for the plate.
12 CHAPTER 1

fishmongers may keep some under their counters or accept orders. It is also common for
restaurants to display some of their seafood in a window or in conspicuous cooler-showcases
in front of the restaurant to attract customers. Here again, fish are generally presented whole.
These ‘exhibitions’ give an impression of abundance and freshness, but by incorporating
lemon, onion and other vegetables that are commonly served with the fish, it is also partly
transformed already, it is more ‘the delicate fish of the table’, than the ‘slimy creature from
the sea’. Moreover, a bottle of two of rakı and/or white wine invariably take their place
among the fish/shellfish in the ‘exhibitions’. It is often the custom that the customers can
choose their meal from the showcase.
In Istanbul there are four traditional ways of preparing seafood: grilled (ızgara), fried
(tava), poached (haşlama), and braised\stewed (buğulama). The last of these may sometimes
resemble a casserole, but is always served immediately. Unlike meat, it is fairly uncommon to
serve fish stews, casseroles or soups. This might be because meat cooked this way (sulu
yemekler, çorba, guveç) is kept warm from morning until evening, and in private homes even
reheated a day or two later. Of course this runs counter to the emphasis on serving only fresh
fish. However, there may be some difference here between fish dishes prepared at home and
those served in restaurants. Recipe books include many dishes that require the fish to be sliced
or even minced/mashed. Some of the more exclusive restaurants may also serve more
‘complicated’ or sophisticated dishes.
The Istanbul kitchen usually makes restricted use of herbs and spices. This also applies
to seafood, although use is made of ingredients such as garlic, bay leaves, and the like.
However, the middle-range fish restaurants and meyhanes in Kumkapı, Çiçekpazarı, Karaköy,
and along the Bosporus serve fish grilled (40%) or fried (50%). These are not very
complicated and sophisticated techniques of preparation. It is the quality and freshness of the
fish in itself that makes for the quality and uniqueness of the meal. Together with the fish one
will usually have a simple but very fresh salad, a slice of lemon to squeeze over the fish and
perhaps some special vegetables such as raw onions and roka (rocet, a special green leaf
vegetable). This is the standard accompaniment to grilled lüfer, the most popular and
archetypal restaurant fish. With regard to seafood meze, there are a lot of varieties which often
include seafood besides fish as well as salt, dried and marinated fish. Çiroz, salted and dried
mackerel (kolyoz); lakerda, salted and marinated palamut; black sturgeon caviar; and dried
grey mullet caviar are included in the traditional meze. However, this is a cosmopolite
culinary culture that is also open to impulses from abroad. Accordingly, smoked salmon is
now being accepted into the repertoire, soté and fumé is a new trend.
All in all, in this culture there are few taboos, and a wide variety of seafood is highly
esteemed, including most fish species, crab, octopus and squid, prawns, angler, molluscs, and
so forth. Nevertheless, not everything is eaten. Sharks (köpek balığı, keler), skate (vatoz) and
eel are not commonly served in the restaurants. Nor are dolphins (very abundant in the Black
Sea) and seals regarded as edible. It's also important to note that small, cheap fish such as
hamsi, istavrit and sardines are not among the preferred choices at the restaurants, and may
 CULINARY CULTURES 13

not be on the menu at all.

In Turkey it has become fairly common to visit eating establishments. Tradesmen and others
fill lokantas especially at lunchtime. Even in very small towns there may be several lokantas.
However, while one fills one’s stomach at lokantas, one dines at restaurants and drinks at
meyhanes. These are places for (late) evening gatherings of friends or family. They are
generally considered to be very expensive and are only found in cities and tourist centres.
Although many restaurants and meyhanes include ‘lokanta’ in their name or self-presentation,
I have chosen to use the term ‘lokanta’ in the popular sense, to refer to places where people
primarily go to have a meal, often for lunch, and often alone. In a lokanta the food is be pre-
cooked or prepared within ten minutes, no alcohol is served, and customers will leave as soon
as they have finished their meal. Prices are reasonable although some lokantas are decidedly
more ‘up-market’ with a clear emphasis on cleanliness and a wider choice of dishes. Although
the annual consumption of fish in restaurants in Turkey may only amount to about 10.000
tonnes (Elliott 1996:156) (out of a total consumption of 400-500.000 tonnes), the economic
and symbolic significance of the fish restaurants far exceeds this. Of the 105 top class Istanbul
restaurants listed in the weekly Aktüel's internet home page, 44 are classified as fish
restaurants (http://www.aktuel.medya.com/10.11.98). Of course there are many more
meyhanes and restaurants in the middle range which serve seafood.
People don't visit these places primarily to fill their stomachs. Seafood is not just food,
it is an instrument of sociability and prestige. Eating fish at a restaurant is a luxury and a
special occasion. A fish trader in Istanbul, who spent some time in Norway during the 1950s,
comments that fish is for the Turks what meat is (or rather used to be) for the Norwegians: a
rare repast, a luxury. Fish, especially large examples of uncommon species, is the ultimate
prestige food in Turkey. It is different from meat, and I suspect one of the reasons why it is
considered preferable to serve fish with their heads is to make sure that there will be no
mistaking what kind of food is being consumed. Thus, the Istanbul seafood culture differs
from the seafood cultures in Russia and Greece which are generally not accorded as much
prestige. Interestingly, in another near-eastern cosmopolitan city, Beirut, seafood is primarily
consumed by elite groups (Starr 1977:62), while it seems more to be a commoners food in the
primarily Islamic societies of Morocco and the Arab peninsula.
The fact that seafood is generally a luxury in Turkey is underlined by the relatively
high cost of seafood. While a filling meal (meat/vegetables/pide) at some lokanta may cost
less than US$ 2, a portion of fish/salad/drink and a small selection of meze at some meyhane
or middle range restaurant will generally exceed US$ 12 per person, which is expensive by
Turkish standards13. And a proper seafood meal - including a variety of seafood dishes, rakı,
sweets, fruits and so forth - at a good restaurant along the Bosporus will cost not less than
US$ 40 per person. To get to the restaurants, most people will also have to travel by private

13
The monthly salary of teachers in the spring of 1998 was around 100 MTL (US$ 400). A newly
employed industrial worker would have a salary just over 50 MTL (US$ 200).
14 CHAPTER 1

car or by taxi. Thus, fish restaurants are generally frequented by the urban upper and upper
middle classes. In Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, it is hard to find any normal lokanta14 that
also serves fish. Nor is there, with the exception of one interesting case in Trabzon that I will
return to in the next chapter, any purely fish-lokanta to be found. The only cheap ready-to-eat
meal of fish to be obtained in Istanbul is the grilled fish (usually mackerel imported from
Norway) served in half a loaf and bought from the kayıks (small, open boat) docked by the
busy ferry terminals in the Golden Horn. The variety of marine products that are served at
restaurants far exceeds the commoners’ tastes and purchasing power; it includes fish such as
lüfer, turbot, swordfish, levrek (sea bass), barbun and angler fish, as well as other marine
animals such as lobster, prawns, crabs, squid and mussels.

Figure 2 Football champions: Wine, women, and fish

During the latter half of the 1990s the enormous sums of money earned by the top players and clubs in
Turkish football caught the attention of the public. In order to convey an idea of wealth and prestige,
seafood is one of the primary means of illustration in this newspaper cartoon (1996). Note that the fish
is presented whole. The text reads as (from left to right): ‘League Champions’, ‘Cup Champions’,
‘Those falling into [a lower] league’.

Fish is associated with luxury, but luxury may also be associated with dining on seafood (see

14
There are a few exceptions in Istanbul: Evim, a lokanta/restaurant in the Beyoglu district, specialises
in Black Sea food and does not serve alcohol. They do serve hamsi and other cheap fish in season. The
place primarily caters to students and other liberal young people. There may be a couple more
‘alternative’ lokantas in this district that serve fish (and no alcohol). There is also a fairly cheap fish
lokanta (no alcohol) in the ‘religious’ neighbourhood of Fatih in Istanbul (Aktüel Dergisi 12.11.1998).
 CULINARY CULTURES 15

figure 2). To be a good luxury hotel in some coastal area, seafood should have a prominent
place on the menu. During the summer of 1998 one seaside hotel in Çanakkale marketed itself
to the Turkish upper class through an ad in the elite-secularist daily newspaper Cumuriyet
(28.07.98, internet version):

ÇAĞIN MOTEL, fish for every meal, the sea like an aquarium, quiet holiday far from the
crowds and the vulgarity. 2 persons 1 week 98 Million TL [US$ 375]. (for original text, see
appendix 2, item 1.)

This ad also highlights another important aspect of this culinary culture, namely that a seafood
meal is set in a special context or atmosphere; it is an exceptional or special occasion, outside
of the main flow of daily life. Within this Istanbul culture, eating fish is associated with
prestige, leisure, holidays, restaurants, seaside, get-togethers, and with muhabbet (intimate,
friendly conversation)- one does not eat fish by oneself. The ideal place for creating such an
atmosphere is in the Aegean seaside resorts frequented by sections of the urban secular upper
classes. An article in the Turkish travel magazine Gezi (September 1998) presents a long and
personal account of Gümüşlük, a ‘fishing village’ (balıkçı köyü) near Bodrum, the tourist
centre for the urban sosyete (high ‘Society’, fashionable society) on the southern Aegean
shores of Turkey. During the summer the small village of Gümüşlük, which caters primarily
to the leftist artists, intellectuals and the like of the sosyete, boasts 25 seafood meyhanes. It
seems as if this is the only food served here. The range of dishes served is described in detail:
octopus salad, prawns, stuffed mussels, lobster, kalamari (squid), barbunya (red mullet),
dülger (John Dory), sea bass, angler, and so on. And the magic atmosphere of the setting is
described in detail:

...yes, it is certainly a village of dreams , all of Gümüşlük has come under a magic spell. ...
The Gümüşlük evenings swallow all the ugly noises and cast into the night only the pleasant
voices. It is as if You haven't had such sweet conversations, haven't expressed yourself so
well, and felt yourself so alive for a long time....[And] in Gümüşlük it isn't possible not to
drink [alcohol]. This is the favourite place of well-known Istanbul intellectuals. ... During the
night in Gümüşlük you may stumble upon people sleeping on the silvery sand along the shore,
under the stars, drunk with the smell of fish. (appendix 2, item 2)

Although this seafood culture finds its main expression in the restaurant and tourist sectors,
seafood is also consumed at home. But even when fish is served in the home or at some large
workplace, there will be a special atmosphere. It will certainly be commented upon and
perceived to mark, or create, a special (olağandışı) occasion. Fish will often be served at the
weekends and on special occasions. Rich people may engage professional help and serve their
guests in their gardens or private seaside villas. Seafood is the preferred dish to serve visitors
(see Elliott 1996:191, 208, 210), and especially among the more wealthy serving seafood
creates a muhabbet atmosphere in which alcohol plays an important role. I believe that
serving fish/seafood to visitors is a vehicle for honouring guests and creating the best possible
atmosphere to achieve the desired ‘sweet conversation’. A gathering to eat fish is a special
occurrence, and therefore something that among the elite may have to be planned. Once I
16 CHAPTER 1

visited the Marine Research Institute in Trabzon the director invited me to a seafood dinner
together with a Japanese researcher who was associated with the Institute. We planned to
meet in the evening two days later. He immediately instructed one of the employees to make
the necessary preparations. But, alas, two days later I fell sick. I called his office just after
midday and left a message with his secretary. The following day I called him once more. His
tone was very formal. I excused myself as best I could. He told me that they had been waiting
for me. As I understood it he had received my message too late, and “...moreover, we had
already made preparations (ayrıca, hazırlıklar yaptık)”.
Sahil (seaside) is of special importance in ‘Turkish’ imagery and practice. For various
reasons, the sea and the seaside are associated with pleasure and recreation in Turkey, with a
break with the stress of daily life; it is considered the ideal place for creating an atmosphere of
the olağandışı. A World Bank report on the Turkish fish market (Elliott 1996) interestingly
comments that fish are cheaper at restaurants in Ankara than in coastal cities such as Istanbul
and Izmir. People are clearly willing to pay extra to sit by the sea when they eat seafood. One
reason is likely that people expect the fish to be fresher in coastal areas. Moreover, it is part of
the experience to eat seafood by the sea. Ideally, the seaside scenery and fish consumption go
together. This association is clearly expressed in one newspaper journalist's recommendation
of a fish restaurant: “Yes, at Doğa Balık (‘Nature Fish’) one cannot see the sea. Doğa Balık is
far from the sweet breezes of the Bosporus, but I think that the best fish and meze in Istanbul
is [still] to be found here” (Özgentürk, in Cumhuriyet 13.09.98).
Furthermore, in Istanbul and other seaside cities many men of the elite find recreation
in amateur fishing. This, and the interest in cooking, has found expression in many popular
books that combine information about fish, fishing techniques and seafood recipes (Üner
1992, Sunar 1997, Alev 1997?). All of these focus on fishing in and around Istanbul. There is
no such book that addresses hobby fishing in Trabzon or the Black Sea region. In contrast to
Trabzon and the Black Sea coast in general, hobby fishing has long been a popular leisure
activity among Istanbul’s upper classes. In Ottoman times night fishing for lüfer was
especially popular, and poems and music were exchanged between the boats during the hunt
(Oğuz 1976:597). The symbolic significance of the lüfer in both the culinary and ‘sports’
spheres remains to this day. In Üner's book (1992) on fishing and fish dishes lüfer and the
methods for catching it have received more place (seven pages) than the description of any
other species. Also members of the lower classes now elbow themselves a place along the
waterfront as they fish off the bridges and piers in central Istanbul. However, their prey is
primarily small istavrit and izmarit, perhaps enough for a free dinner. Although the socio-
geography of the Istanbul sahil is complex, with the ‘common man’ having access to public
spaces in the busier parts of the city (bridges, parks, ferry piers etc.), only the select few are at
home in, or admitted to, the Istanbul waterfront associated with sahil/lüfer/restorant.
 CULINARY CULTURES 17

Alcohol
In contemporary Turkey the association between seafood and alcohol is very strong, to the
degree that many say that fish and seafood is poisonous (zehirli) unless it is accompanied by
alcohol. It is commonly believed that fish will die unhappy if not consumed together with
rakı, that it will be mundar (filthy, unclean). One of the most elegant demonstrations of the
association of fish with alcohol I experienced was when sitting in a seafood restaurant in a
seaside resort near Tekirdağ, west of Istanbul. Two middle-aged couples, who were known
both to my Turkish friends and to the proprietor, approached the restaurant. On entering the
restaurant one of them exclaimed loudly: “Here fresh fish is not served, isn't that so?” After
some laughter he continued: “and neither is there any rakı to be found here, right?” Alparslan
Bey, my fish trader friend in Istanbul, once commented that this association is typical for all
Mediterranean countries, and that in Turkey as much as 80% of the population drink alcohol
(içki) when they have a fish meal (balık sofrası). However, this applies to the Istanbul seafood
culture. How and why did this association develop? One may speculate whether a
Greek/Rum15 tradition may constitute the basis for the association. Jak Deleon (1989a,
1989b), a modern Levantine Istanbul citizen, paints a nostalgic picture of the tradition’s
continuation into the first phases of the Republic of the meyhane culture, with its associations
to Rum and seafood. Although there are not many distinctly Greek style tavernas left in
Istanbul, the imagery of the typical Rum meyhanesi is still vivid. In the Internet version of a
popular magazine article describing 20 meyhanes in present-day Istanbul, one of them is
depicted as follows:

Mandira: Mandira is in the right meaning of the words a Rum meyhane, in other words a
taverna. This place, which has for approximately 25 years provided its services in Pangaltı, is
everyone’s favourite, especially the steadily diminishing Rums, who are curious about
tavernas. Or, to put it better, this is the favourite of all ‘eveningers’ who have a passion for
alternative mezes such as Rum pilakısı, lakerda, stuffed pazı, and fried squid.
(http://www.birnumara.com/u/h23.html, see appendix 2, item 3)

In the next chapter I will survey in more detail the historical roots for this association. In the
present context it is important to note that the Greek style taverna/meyhane is no longer the
dominant type of alcohol-serving establishment. There are many newcomers in the Turkish
landscape of establishments that serve alcohol. One of the newcomers is the birahane (beer
hall), which was partly ‘imported’ from Germany by Turkish labour migrants. Consumption
of beer was boosted when beer production was privatised in 1967 and its consumption in
kahves (coffee-houses) and büfes (stands) legalised (Sülker 1985:116). Birahanes are
typically viewed as places frequented by workers and lower-level civil servants, not as places
for the refined. On the other end of the scale, the elite feel increasingly at home in expensive
Western-style bars, discotheques and the like. Some see ‘bars’ as the Western (and more
respectable) counterpart to the ‘eastern’ meyhane.
18 CHAPTER 1

Today the dividing lines between fish restaurant and meyhane, and between birahane
and meyhane are somewhat blurred, and many places which serve fish will be desparagingly
conceptualised as meyhane by the more sophisticated. In Istanbul most of these (for example
in Kumkapı and behind the Çiçek pasaj in Beyoğlu) boast an Efes Bira (Turkish beer brand)
or Tuborg sign, and some include birahane in their name. But the more typical beer hall,
where only beer and çerez (appetisers such as nuts, fried potatoes, sausages and so on) are
served is typically shunned by the elite. Jak Deleon regrets the fading of the old meyhane
culture and complains that: “...if you walk into the Istiklal Caddesi16 you will run into
birahanes at you left and right; into drinking houses with plenty of bitter (acılı) ‘arabesk’
[music], with ‘video’, with the smell of burnt oil, and completely without women”
(1989a:128). Numerous other writers have also expressed similar nostalgic longing for the
civilised meyhane/Beyoğlu/Istanbul17. In 1984 a MP exclaimed that “[b]eer has started to
create a lumpen culture which [works against] the Turkish culture” (Sülker 1985:120). The
westernising elite groups in contemporary Turkey prefer to be associated with the restaurants,
seafood meyhanes and bars. Especially the liberal intellectuals - the journalists, writers,
professors, artists - are associated with the rakı and meyhane culture (Sülker 1985, Deleon
1989a).
Drinking in beer halls is criticised partly because it easily leads to economic ruin. This
is not a problem for the richer strata of the population, so drinking alcohol has come to be
viewed as a privilege (or alternatively a typical vice) of the wealthy. The ways of drinking
alcohol signify one’s social position, and seafood is an important aspect of this discourse. Not
all meyhane, birahane and restaurants that serve alcohol, also serve seafood. But, going to a
place which serves seafood almost certainly means drinking alcohol, or going to an içkili
establishment (where alcoholic beverages are sold). In the most comprehensive Turkish book
on fish, (sports-) fishing and seafood (Üner 1992:151), the author comments that in Turkey
fish is (regrettably) most often eaten as meze or çerez (appetisers), both of which are closely
associated with drinking alcohol - meze primarily in restaurants and meyhane, çerez primarily
in birahane. However, the consumption of seafood is primarily seen as an upmarket business,
the privilege of the rich who can afford it and know the styles and tastes of such consumption.
Likewise, a liberal attitude to alcohol (and thereby also seafood) has become one of the
symbols of the elite groups’ drive to westernise the country.

15
Rum is the preferred Turkish term for Greek Orthodox, which is distinguished from the term Yünan,
which denotes a citizen of the modern Greek state. Etymologically Rum has got its roots in designation
of the (Orthodox Christian) inhabitants of the (Roman) Byzantine Empire as Rum.
16
Main street in Beyoğlu, the traditional centre of the refined Levantine Istanbul elite, see next chapter.
17
See for example Hiçyılmaz 1992 who writes about the old Istanbul meyhanes and drinking parties
(alem).
 CULINARY CULTURES 19

The Trabzon ‘fish food’ culture

When talking about eating fish in Trabzon, what comes to people’s minds is hamsi. This
popular fish is served in two contexts: (1) at everyday family meals around the sofra in the
living room at home, where the family gather to eat the fried or otherwise prepared small fish
with their hands, serving themselves from a shared plate of mixed salad and finishing the
meal with a glass of water; and (2) at some open air location where fresh hamsi is grilled over
charcoal by the roadside or in the harbour area or simply adjacent to the fish stands, sprinkled
with ample of salt and eaten with bread - cheap, tasty and filling fast-food usually shared with
some friends. The people in Trabzon also put a lot of emphasis on serving fresh fish, and the
fish is always bought whole. Many consider it a sin to ‘cut the fish live’. The fishmonger may
clean the fish, but only after the customer has selected it. However, they will invariably
prepare and serve the fish without its head. A local fisherman friend of mine told me that he
was surprised when two foreigners whom he entertained prepared fish without removing the
heads. People say that there is not much meat on the head, and claim that it is rather typical
for the meyhane to serve the fish with its head.
They buy their fish either directly from the fishermen, from local fishmongers who
offer two or three species of fish in season, or from itinerant vendors, in urban areas, who
offer hamsi or perhaps istavrit. Except for the more ‘up-market’ fish-markets, the fish stands
are not ‘decorated’. The cooking methods are basically the same as in Istanbul, but less
sophisticated in certain respects since fewer condiments are used (restricted use of garlic, no
bay leaves). On the other hand, people along the eastern Black Sea coast are renown for
preparing hamsi in many ways, some of which are rather unfamiliar to the Mediterranean or
European kitchen. The techniques for cooking hamsi exceed the four basic cooking
techniques common in the Istanbul seafood culture and the multitude of ways of preparing
hamsi are a source of both pride and ridicule. “They even make hamsi sweets!” Of the 50
recipes (excluding sweets) included in a recent official publication on traditional meals from
Trabzon (Trabzon Valiliği 1997), eleven recipes are with hamsi, while only two are with other
kinds of fish.
There seems to have been a long tradition for salting fish in Istanbul, and in both pre-
Ottoman (eleventh century: Bryer 1980:VII:384) and Ottoman epochs (nineteenth century:
Şen 1998:116) salt fish was sent from Trabzon to the imperial centre of
Constantinople/Istanbul18. However, the bulk of imported fish was probably dried/salt
sturgeon from the northern shores of the Black Sea. Thus, there is a longstanding tradition for
salting fish in the Turkish Black Sea region. In 1928 one scholar estimated that about half of
the hamsi consumed by humans (half of the catch was utilised as fertiliser), was salted for
local consumption (İhsan 1928, in Yüksel 1989:28). Today the export of salt fish from the
Black Sea region is limited, and although salt hamsi and palamut is still highly esteemed in
20 CHAPTER 1

Trabzon, there is now almost no market for salt fish and no plant that is engaged in this
activity. The salting is generally done by the householders themselves or, for the wealthy, by
trusted fishmongers. A fish trading company in Trabzon once produced packets of salt hamsi,
most of which was exported to Europe. I was told that people in Trabzon did not buy them
because they believed it was made from stale fish. There seems to be widespread concern that
if you do not check the quality of the fish yourself, people will sell you salt fish made from
stale leftovers. When catches of hamsi and palamut are good, people will clean the fish and
put it in plastic containers with ample salt. Salt palamut is consumed during the winter and
spring, while salt hamsi is kept until the summer, the season when little fresh fish is available.
Salt hamsi and palamut are both traditionally called salamura, but are now more frequently
simply spoken about as ‘salt’ hamsi (hamsi tuzlusu) and palamut. Unlike lakerda (cleaned
filets of mackerel or palamut salamura marinated in herbs and olive oil), for example, both
are boiled or steamed before they are eaten. People, or at least those connected to the
fisheries, also know of other techniques for conserving fish, such as lakerda and çiroz (salted?
and dried mackerel). However, they emphasise that these are typically eaten uncooked
(pişmemiş), and in the company of içki.
Apart from hamsi there are not many kinds of fish represented in this culture. The
most important are: tirsi (shad), zargana (garfish), palamut, istavrit/kıraca, kefals (grey
mullets) and mezgit (whiting). All of these may be regarded as intermediate priced fish which
many can afford to buy once in a while during the season, depending on their abundance.
Valuation of fish generally resembles the preferences evident in Istanbul culture, but there are
some notable exceptions. For instance, tirsi, zargana and whiting are much better known and
more highly esteemed in the eastern Black Sea region than in Istanbul (Knudsen 1997:47).
The luxury fish barbun, turbot, kötek and to some extent lüfer are also fished and consumed in
this region. They are highly esteemed by most people - if they know about them. During
Ramadan people want their evening meals to be more prestigious, appetising and varied (çeşit
olsun!) than during the rest of the year, and they are prepared to pay for that. They will eat
fish (for example barbunya and turbot) which they usually do not consume. The evening meal
iftar yemeği during Ramadan is also characterised by a higher degree of intimacy and
sociability than is common for family meals.
Generally speaking, although fish consumption is much higher in the Eastern Black
Sea region than in other parts of Turkey, it is concentrated on very few species. Some reasons
for the much smaller selection include the fact that the Black Sea contains fewer species and
that fish from a wider region and different seas are available in Istanbul. But these are not the
only reasons. Locally available species such as crab, black mussels (karamidye), sole (dil),
flounder (pisi), eel (yılan balığı) greater weaver (trakon) and scorpion fish (iskorpit) are not
preferred along the eastern Black Sea coast, unlike the ‘restaurant fish’ mentioned above.

18
Trabzon Vilayet Salnamesi (Yearbook of the Province of Trabzon) No. 17 (1879) mentions that turbot
is traded from Trabzon to Istanbul. Since turbot, especially during the winter, keeps fresh for up to ten
days, this was probably trade in fresh fish (in those days 4-5 days to Istanbul by boat).
 CULINARY CULTURES 21

However, they are quite popular in the Istanbul seafood culture. When it comes to fish as
prestige food in restaurants and in the homes of the rich it is difficult to distinguish between
the two cultures. But I would claim that in Trabzon the more expensive species tend to be
consumed within the cultural framework of the all-Turkish, upper-class Istanbul seafood
culture, perhaps with the exception of Ramadan. Average non-fishermen in the Black Sea
region, also in fishing communities, will know more about fish than the average inhabitant of
Istanbul, but the world of ‘fine cuisine’ and expensive seafood, with its many species, is
indeed alien to them. If a poor fisherman catches a (legal size) turbot he will certainly not take
it home; it's too valuable for that. It will most likely end up in some expensive restaurant in
Ankara or Trabzon. During the 1990s new species such as imported Norwegian mackerel (not
actually new fish, but no longer to be found in the Black Sea), Rus kefalı (‘Russian’ mullet, a
new species of grey mullet) and farmed trout (havuz/çiftlik alabalığı) were incorporated into
the Trabzon seafood culture. However, these are not complete strangers since they are
extensions of known species. The reason these species, along with the local whiting, have
been accepted into the repertoire is the gradual decline in the stocks of the more popular
species. Fishermen say that 15 years ago they swore if they got whiting on their hooks, and a
1950 publication states that “whiting does not taste very good” (mezgit pek lezzetli değildir)
(Sınır 1950). Now whiting has become one of the more important species both for fishermen
and consumers. Although there has been some change, the basic paradigm of this seafood
culture remains. Fish is the only seafood eaten, it is always cooked before consumption, and
alcohol is excluded from this domain.
One may say that a key characteristic of the Istanbul seafood culture is the great
variety of species. In contrast, the Trabzon ‘fish-food’ culture is difficult to understand if one
does not grasp the focus on the single most important species, the hamsi. The hamsi makes for
an exception to the general lack of fish metaphors in Turkish mainstream discourses and has
become a very potent symbol. Both in local self-definition and in popular nationwide
imagery, the hamsi is portrayed as a symbol, a metonym, for the eastern Black Sea region and
the people living there. Once when I was riding in a taxi in Istanbul, the radio was tuned in to
a local (Istanbul) call-in radio programme. When one caller said that he had his roots in
Trabzon, the programme leader immediately sang “hamsi, hamsi, hamsi”, mimicking the folk
song style of Trabzon. Alan Davidson (1981:352), who has written extensively on
Mediterranean and Black Sea seafood cuisine, remarks that hamsi “...inspires remarkably
intense feelings [that]...have found expression in folk poems of a kind which I have not found
elsewhere in the Mediterranean area.” Hamsi is said to embody many of the region’s
characteristics, primarily the vibrant activity of its people - often considered to be most clearly
expressed in the region's famous folk dance horon. In addition, it fills an important place in
peoples lives, by providing a focus of desires, by contributing to a feeling of abundance in
otherwise poor families, by constituting a common topic of peoples conversations and
attention during the high season, the cold winter months.
Since there was a crisis in the hamsi fisheries during the 1990/91 season, I didn't quite
22 CHAPTER 1

appreciate this atmosphere then. The pervasive mood in fishing communities was rather that
“when there is no hamsi, there is no social life”. When I arrived in Çarşıbaşı in December
1998, the hamsi season had made a promising start. At the centre of the village Keremköy,
between the teahouse and the main road, the local bakkal (shopkeeper), who does not usually
sell fish, had set up a table from which he sold hamsi to the villagers. Men bought one or two
kilos each, which they took home in small plastic bags. Before noon all the fish had been sold.
Another man kept a mangal (grill) going on which hamsi was grilled. Other men and I were
duly invited to sit down and share the meal consisting of nothing but very hot hamsi and fresh
bread - a hurried but satisfying meal eaten, as the custom is, without use of any utensils or
plates. The men sitting outside the teahouse passed many remarks about hamsi, and they
nodded satisfied when I confirmed that “Yes, I just ate some grilled hamsi”. The loud sound
of a local folk tune with its characteristic rapid rhythm emanated from the cassette player in a
parked car. Someone commented that this was the right combination, folk music and hamsi.
Poems are written about hamsi, songs are sung about it. No other fish in Turkey, and no other
produce in the Black Sea region, is as exalted, as familiar, as beloved as the hamsi. The
importance of the fish is nicely summed up in a short excerpt from one hamsi-poem:

The life-giving food of the poor, the cure for the very ill.
(Çok fakire can gıdası, çok hastaya derman olur)19.

The prominent role of the hamsi in the economy and culture of the eastern Black Sea people is
probably very old. Already in the 17th century the traveller and writer Evliya Çelebi noted
that the population of Trabzon had a special love for this fish (İhsan 1972:14-15). He noted
down what has come to be one of the best known lines in praise of the hamsi:

Trabuzandur yerimuz Trabzon is our home place

Ahça dutmaz elumuz Our hands hold no penny
Habsi paluk olmaza If there were no hamsi
Nice olurti halumuz20 What would our situation be?

As early as 1928 a book - Hamsi-name, ‘love poems/letter to the hamsi’ - was published in
Trabzon, describing every conceivable aspect of the hamsi (İhsan 1972). More recently a
collection of hamsi stories and poems was published (Yüksel 1989). All poets in Trabzon are
expected to write a hamsi gazeli (poem) (Michael Meeker, personal communication).
Hamsi catches have generally been very high and prices low. Indeed, catches have
even been so high that surpluses have been used for fertiliser (formerly) and for production of
fish meal and oil (since approximately 1980). Prices are very low. In the winter of 1998/9 a
kilo of ‘large’ hamsi cost around US$ 1.7; in Trabzon a kilo even sold for as little as US$ 0.5,
which is very much cheaper than other fish and meat (US$ 3 – 7 per kilo). Contrary to the
pervasive idea about seafood in general, hamsi is the food of the poor as well. These ideas are

19
This is the version adapted to modern Turkish. The original text was written: “Çok fakire kut-i can,
çok hastaya derman olur”. From the poem ‘Muhammes’, pp. 43-46 in Yüksel 1989.
20
Seyahatname, cited in Yüksel 1989:16.
 CULINARY CULTURES 23

nicely summed up in a magazine article from 1945:

Nothing creates among the rich, the middle and the poor the same love and joy. And no
foodstuff is as democratic and liberal as it. 21 (appendix 2, item 4)

The other focus in the hamsi-‘cult’ is the belief that it is şifalı (has healing, health giving
properties) and empowering, for example stimulating sexual potency. Fish in general is
believed to be nutritious, but the praise of hamsi surpasses this. Its life-giving power is
emphasised in many articles and poems, and during my fieldwork in 1990/91 I saw that many
interpreted the absence of hamsi as the death of the Black Sea (Karadeniz öldü). Even the lack
of other kinds of fish, such as barbunya, was associated with the shortage of hamsi: “There is
no hamsi. And when there is no hamsi, there are no other fish either.” Hamsi can to a certain
extent be said to be a staple food for the eastern Black Sea population in general and to
symbolise the halk (people). On the other hand, the mere existence of poems and books about
this small creature, the refinements of some of the hamsi recipes and so on indicate that there
may also be a high culture of hamsi. However, I would maintain that hamsi finds expression
in local high culture simply because it permeates so much of the eastern Black Sea existence.
It simply cannot be overlooked. And hamsi in itself - unlike the seafood of the Istanbul
culture - cannot be used to signify the elite as opposed to the halk. The differences lie in
refinements in the cooking and consumption of hamsi, resulting in a cultivated and less
cultivated approach. Yet even the cultivated approach partly defines itself in opposition to the
Istanbul seafood culture. One writer ridicules the ‘Istanbul’ way of eating hamsi with spoon
and fork, which makes it impossible to appreciate the fish' taste, and praises the ‘Trabzon’
way of eating hamsi with one’s fingers22.
Hamsi has attained such economic and symbolic importance in the coastal
communities along the eastern Black Sea coast of Turkey, that it has become a multifaceted
key symbol, standing for life, health and prosperity as well as being a potent symbol of the
region. Thus, in contrast to the symbolism of seafood in general, it is not used to signify the
difference between classes, but rather the identity of a region. Furthermore, in contrast to
seafood in the Istanbul culture, when hamsi is involved, alcohol does not enter people’s mind.
In the texts and poems about hamsi there is not a single reference to içki, and in people's talk
and practice it is rare to combine hamsi and alcohol. The only situation in which hamsi and
içki are associated is seaside open-air picnics where hamsi is grilled. This way of consuming
hamsi is probably codified partly in accordance with the Istanbul seafood-culture, and in
particular according to the all-Turkish picnic tradition - joyous outings where people make a
mangal of köfte (meatballs) or, especially in Trabzon, hamsi, drink rakı, and often dance. The
hamsi poems make allusions to becoming sarhoş (drunk, intoxicated), but this is used as an
idiom to convey the elation and joy of indulging in the pleasures of various hamsi dishes. A
recurrent theme is the praise of the taste of hamsi and all the ways to prepare it.

21
Abdullah Günel, ‘Hamsi Bayramı’, İnan, p. 25-27, March 1945, No. 17. Reprinted in Yüksel
1989:17.
24 CHAPTER 1

Taboos
As we have seen, people in Trabzon and in the eastern Black Sea region in general consume
only a limited number of species of sea animals. When I asked people why they do not eat
mussels, or dil balığı (sole), or crabs, they would often reply that other species are so
abundant that they do not need to. Some say that they are simply not accustomed (alışmamış)
to eating them. As other species disappear they start consuming new species. To exemplify
this they often mention that they have now become accustomed to whiting and have recently
started to eat gobies (kovit/gobit). This is probably the way it is experienced by most people.
They are familiar with and know how to prepare some species that both taste good and are
readily available. Quite a few, however, also explain the taboos, both with regard to species
and treatment (for example, not cutting up live fish) by referring to Islamic laws. Thus
people’s attitudes to fish taboos in Trabzon resemble their attitudes to various other local
customs. I was struck by the emphasis people put on explaining to me that the spring ritual of
hidrellez and the belief in göz/nazar (the eye) are truly Islamic, that they are described in the
Koran.
However Islam is not only referred to when explaining seafood taboos. It is also very
common to declare, also with reference to Islam, that “if my father comes out of the sea, even
he is edible (denizden babam çıksa bile yenir)”. Thus, there is disagreement about what is
haram (forbidden), and one may interpret this as an attempt to give local traditions a vein of
legitimacy by anchoring them in Islamic law. This is also seen in parts of Iran where the taboo
against eating fish without scales is legitimised by (Shia) Islam (Bromberger 1994:189),
although it may seem difficult to find any ‘Islamic’ justification for that (it resembles more
closely Jewish dietary rules). Similarly, it has been argued that there is a “…taboo against
consuming nonscaled fish of all kinds, including shellfish, in the Hamito-Semitic cultures of
North Africa.” This prohibition is allegedly associated with the Judeo-Islamic tradition
(McGoodwin 1990:119, citing Bell 1978).
What do the authorities of the great religions of the region, especially Islam, say about
eating fish and seafood? I will take a brief look at this before I go into more detail about the
local interpretations. To start with the oldest tradition, Jewish dietary laws in general are very
clear and this applies to defining which sea animals are acceptable as food: one is permitted to
eat fish that have both fins and scales (Douglas 1966:42, Latham 1993:388). These dietary
laws have been instrumental in Jewish identity management and were probably followed by
the large population of Sheparic Jews living in Istanbul and some other cities (notably
Saloniki) during the Ottoman era. In contrast, the Christian religion has had fewer dietary
laws (Latham 1993:388). This does not mean that the Christian people have had no dietary
rules, only that they have not generally been religiously defined. Nevertheless, the Roman
Catholic and Orthodox Churches have had some impact on food consumption in that they
encourage people to abstain from eating the most prestigious/desired food (most notably

22
Peyami Safa, ‘Balıkların Şâhı’ (The Shah of the fish), Hamsi, 1951, No. 4, p. 4. (Yüksel 1989:25)
 CULINARY CULTURES 25

meat) during periods of fasting. The fasting rules have been of a very general kind and have
become more lax over time, for example in the Greek Orthodox Church. But, as I will suggest
below, the difference between fish and other sea animals may have acquired some importance
during Lent fasting. In addition, fish has attained an important position in Christian
symbolism and plays a part both in baptism and as a symbol of blessing.
Turning to Islamic dietary laws, it is obvious that these reflect many elements taken
from Mosaic Law, especially those regarding the uncleanness of blood and pork (Latham
1993:388). However, Islam does not posses as clear-cut a dietary rule for sea animals as the
Jewish faith. Under the entry for Hayawan (‘The animal kingdom’) in The Encyclopaedia of
Islam Pellat (1995:306) writes that “...the juridical schools have endeavoured...to draw up lists
of animals the consumption of which is lawful (halal), prohibited (haram) or reprehensible
(makruh), without reaching any agreement.” With regard to animals from the sea, the Maliki
school is in general the most liberal while the Hanefi school, which was the school the
Ottoman emperors supported and which is still the most influential school in Turkey, is much
more strict. Sea animals (but not fish/samak) are mentioned at least three times in the Koran.
According to sura V, verse 96 “You are permitted the game of the sea (sayd al-bahr) and the
food which is found there.” This is interpreted as meaning that “...all fish [or rather sea
animals] are lawful and their flesh may be eaten without ritual slaughter; however, some
marine or aquatic animals are declared haram or makruh, or are still the subject of
discussions, for they come within the sphere in which other criteria are applied...”(The
Encyclopaedia of Islam 1995:306).
Viré, under the entry samak (Arabic for fish) in the same encyclopaedia, without
considering differences between the schools, lists four categories of forbidden sea animals: (1)
fish of cartilaginous skeleton (sharks, rays and skates), (2) marine mammals or cetaceans
(whales, porpoise, dolphin), (3) the amphibian mammals (seals etc.), and (4) the sirenian
mammals or ‘sea cows’ (manatee). However, it is lawful to catch these animals for purposes
other than eating (The Encyclopaedia of Islam 1995:1022). Pellat notes that the Hanafis “go
so far as to declare unlawful all marine creatures which have not got the shape of fish” and
“aquatic animals which have names resembling those of unlawful land animals...” He also
notes that “[t]he crustaceans [crabs, squids etc.] are often unlawful or reprehensible, as is the
whole class of animals with shells” (The Encyclopaedia of Islam 1995:306-7).
The well-defined body of Jewish dietary laws has made it very accessible to structural
analyses along Levi-Straussian lines (see Douglas 1966, Soler 1979). The Christian and
Islamic religions do not lend themselves as easily to this kind of analysis. There may of
course also be good reason for doubting whether a structural analysis would provide a
complete picture of even the Jewish dietary laws. It must at least be socially contextualised.
With regard to Islam, it is difficult for me to ascertain to what degree the principles laid down
in the holy texts penetrate or influence local culture and practices. Some educated people
attribute the above-mentioned saying about one’s father coming from the sea to the Islamic
scholar Maliki (for example Üner 1992:151). This saying has developed into something of a
26 CHAPTER 1

proverb known by many in Turkey (for the Aegean coast, see Nicolas 1974:4). All fishermen
know this proverb very well. However, like other uneducated people, they seldom refer to the
Koran or any other written source. However, some refer to popular stories, for example about
the prophets Yunus (Jonah) or Nuh (Noah). Local religious experts are more concerned with
explaining the taboos with reference to the Koran or other Islamic authorities. The following
extract from a discussion with some fishermen and an elderly man who, despite his lack of
formal Islamic education and position, was known in the village as an authority on Islam,
illustrate the way they talk about some of the rules:

Ståle: According to Islam, with regard to sea produce...

‘Kosov’ Çelal: According to Islam, this snail....well you can eat it, but mussels are forbidden,
the black mussel. It [i.e. Islam] says it is forbidden. But the children here find and eat
it. (......) In other words, according to Islamic jurisprudence [fıkıh] mussels are not
edible [are not eaten]. But snails are edible. Other fish, for example dolphin, are not
edible, köpekbalığı [‘dogfish’, small shark] is not edible...
Fisherman 1: You have eaten snail; it has no blood, right?
K.Ç.: The snail is the same, the snail on land and sea snail are about the same.
[probably implying that the land snail has no blood]
Fisherman 2: This mussel we were talking about...
K.Ç.: You know it well, it is this black shelled mussel.
Fisherman 2: It is not edible?
K.Ç.: It's not edible, Yaşa [presumably a local Islamic authority], who lived for many years by
the stream in the central square, talked about the wrongfulness, saying that the black mussel is
not edible.
(......)

Ståle: In other words, in the Koran it is written about the mussel?

K.Ç.: Eh...yes it is, yes it is. It is found in the interpretations (tefsir) of the Koran.
S.: Your children seem to like the black mussel very much. When you were a child...
K.Ç.: The children around here collect mussels every summer that they cook and eat.
But they [his parents?] didn't let me...perhaps they taste good, but...
Fisherman 3: Ruminating [gevşiyen]...23
K.Ç.: Ahh, animals that bring up [and eat] cud are edible.
Fisherman 3: yes, like this [demonstrating] four times...korada probably do not
ruminate like this.
K.Ç.: Ah, you probably mean the snail [that lives] on land.
Fisherman 3: [Yes,] it doesn't ruminate, right?
S.: Do you eat the land snail?
Fisherman 3: Yes, that's right, that's right.
K.Ç.: Yes, that's what I'm saying. It is edible, but people around here do not eat it.

What emerges from this is that people in general have no well-known list and no clear
authority stipulating which fish and sea animals are, according to Islam, edible. However, if a
particular fish or sea-animal is regarded as forbidden to eat, it seems that various ‘other
criteria (of Islamic jurisprudence) are applied’. Common Muslim concerns and principles with
regard to food and drink are invoked. The primary Islamic food taboos concern blood (there

23
This alludes to one of the criteria for meat to be edible, and is most commonly associated with the ban
on pork, which do not ruminate, but have cloven hoofs. It is not obvious that this criteria should be
 CULINARY CULTURES 27

should be no liquid blood in the meat to be consumed), pork and alcohol (Tapper & Zubaida
1994:14). Contrary to the rules cited by this expert, there is some consumption of the black
mussel, but sea snails are absolutely not eaten by the people along the eastern Black Sea
coast. Catching of this ‘invader’ species started only 20 years ago and it is all exported,
primarily to East Asia. There has not (yet) developed a market for it in the Istanbul seafood
culture. A variety of different reasons are given for why it is not eaten, almost all connected to
Islamic rules24 (the relevant rule is added in parentheses): that it, like its counterpart on land,
does not ruminate (pork); that it, as the sea-version of the leech25 (which is haram) is
forbidden (pork, blood?); that it menstruates and is forbidden since it is impossible to
ascertain its periods (blood, menstruation); that it is boiled alive without letting the blood first
(blood); that it is haram because it is consumed as meze26 together with rakı (alcohol). In
these cases the (Islamic) principle of qiyas (jurisprudence by analogy) is also employed to
explain certain ‘taboos’27. In particular, this operates as an extension of well-known taboos
concerning land animals to explain or create sea animal taboos. Furthermore - congruent with
the dictum of the Hanafi school but not cited by people themselves - the fish not consumed in
Trabzon are the less prototypical fish28.
However, most people are actually hard put to explain the taboos, and a range of
diffuse reasons is referred to. Secularists may say that ‘fundamentalists’ do not eat
dogfish/shark, crab and mussels because they have no blood, implying that they cannot
therefore be ritually slaughtered by letting their blood. I once learned that a young man from
Çarşıbaşı, son of one well-known owner of a purse seiner, came under the influence of an
Islamist group while studying the arts in Ankara. He had adopted the view that he could not
eat fish since sacrificial slaughter (kurban kesmek) is not usually undertaken on fish. He held
the fish to be mundar (unclean). However, this ‘Anatolian’ approach to fish is not widespread
along the Black Sea coast. Others say that yobazlar (religious fanatics) do not eat mussels
because they resemble female genitals. Some will simply say that they do not know why they
do not eat certain species, that it's simply an ‘inheritance from our grandparents’. In addition,
‘impractical’ fish such as the poisonous ones are often not consumed, although people
acknowledge their culinary value. It may actually be erroneous to regard the non-consumption
of several species as being due to taboos. Since there are often no clear rules and no obvious

relevant to snails (since they do not even have legs...), but people here probably follow a very common
human impulse towards analogical extension.
24
This is, among other things, reflected by the fact that some fishermen believe that it is haram
(forbidden according to religion) to dredge for sea snails during Ramadan.
25
In some places the sea snail is named sülük (leech).
26
The same interpretation applies to mussels. Sea snails are often put in the same class as mussels
(shellfish, kabuklular) and Black Sea fishermen very commonly even called them by the same name:
midye (see Chapter 4).
27
Interestingly, some say that in the sea one can find all the living kinds that are found on land, except
humans. Other reasons I have heard for prohibitions against eating certain sea animals are that sharks
(köpek balığı) eat humans, and that animals which eat their own carcass, for example rats (and sharks?)
are not edible. Again, analogical extension from land...and from Islam...
28
But this does not then explain the popularity of turbot (which presumably has been a popular fish
since the time of the Greeks) and of zargana.
28 CHAPTER 1

repulsion or disgust, it may be better to regard it as unaccustomedness. But I also believe that
physical appearance plays a role in some cases. The seasnail, with its alien appearance and the
very strong odour (produced during boiling, and from the empty shell houses) may be enough
to make it disgusting to people. Thus, I take the view that this repulsion does not need to
emanate from the snail's position in any symbolic system. Rather I believe that the odour
emanating from the boiling snails has a direct impact (It does smell awful! I can myself attest
to that).
Thus, there is good reason for speculating whether these ‘Islamic prohibitions’ and
taboos are post-hoc explanations, explanations chosen because they are known to be
acceptable in public discourse. However, while some sea animals are not consumed because
they are poisonous, not tasty or impractical, the non-consumption of others is more clearly
connected to rules drawn from the Islamic ‘repertoire’. While I accept that Islamic principles
come into play, I would claim that some rules or issues achieve more significance than others.
Some issues are perceived as being more critical than others in managing one’s Muslim
identity. In contemporary Turkey, in addition to such common themes as gender and dress -
which have been analysed at length by scholars - alcohol is one of the issues which has been
invested with such importance. When asked why they do not consume certain sea animals and
fish, people in Çarşıbaşı often simply say that “they eat it in Istanbul”, or “it is possible to sell
it to meyhane/restaurants”. Fishermen in Çarşıbaşı say that in principle crab (yengeç) is edible
(however, some expressed repulsion at the idea of eating the brown intestines), but that it is a
typical meze which people from Istanbul consume together with alcohol (içki). “It's the
business of rich men (Zengin adamının işi)”. Other typical meze, they say, are istakoz
(lobster), supya (cuttlefish), kalamar (squid) and ahtapot (octopus) (none of them to be found
in the Black Sea). When a friend in Çarşıbaşı caught a big flounder (pisi), which is never sold
by local fishmongers, he commented that it would be easy to sell at the kahve (teahouse) since
it is ideal with rakı.
Of the locally available species which are not consumed or are regarded as
objectionable by Black Sea Muslims, those associated with rakı, meyhane and so forth
include: flounder, sole, mussels, (sea snail), prawn, eel and angler (fener balığı). In addition
various conserved products such as lakerda, çiroz, ‘anchuez’ (canned hamsi) as well as
smoked (fumé) fish and caviar (both sturgeon and grey mullet), all of which are eaten cold and
uncooked, are associated with the meyhane culture. One marine biologist interpreted the
Hanafi school's approach to seafood as: “It is forbidden to eat living sea products (deniz
ürünleri canlı canlı yemek haram)”. This may help to explain why pişirmemiş (uncooked)
sea products are objectionable, although most people seldom cite this reason themselves. The
association with alcohol may be more important. In contrast, conserved seafood products as
well as octopus have a prominent place in the Greek seafood culture (Davidson 1981).
It is interesting to note that the ambitious study undertaken by the English Fishery
Consultants’ Macalister Elliott (1996) (and funded by the World Bank) fails to perceive this
common association of seafood with alcohol. The reason is probably that the study has relied
 CULINARY CULTURES 29

too heavily on pre-designed questionnaires (the issue does surface in some of the group
discussions they organised, but the importance of that is not acknowledged in the analysis). In
my experience, the issue of alcohol seldom surfaces in explicit statements about various sea
animals. Nevertheless, a closer survey of the material indicates that the association fish-
meyhane-alcohol (-infidels) - elite does seem to have retained much of its power in
contemporary discourse. I believe that for many ‘taboos’ the main operating principle is the
association to alcohol (and, by implication, infidels, gambling, loose women and so on) and
not Islamic prescriptions of fish/animals per se. Because of their association to alcohol,
prawns are not eaten by the Black Sea Muslims. However, among Arab Muslims, who lack
this Greek context, prawns/shrimps are very popular (personal communication Anh Nga
Longva, Tutunji 1996).
On the other hand, it was fairly common among Turkish Black Sea fishermen to
‘drink’ (içmek) the fat of dolphins until they stopped hunting them in the middle of the 1970s.
It was believed to be very good for one’s health. According to Islam, however, the dolphin is
usually regarded as one of the most sacred animals. In Turkey it is generally loaded with very
positive connotations and is widely used as an emblem. If it is taboo to kill and eat it, this is
not because it is ‘dirty’ but rather because it is somewhat sacred. It's haram to hurt them.
Dolphins have not become part of the Greek cuisine either, nor are they consumed within the
Istanbul seafood culture. It therefore resists the association with alcohol that makes so many
other sea animals objectionable to the Black Sea Muslim.
Some prototypical fish, especially the lüfer, are also associated with restaurants, but
are not objectionable to the Black Sea Muslims. The lawfulness of these is probably too
clearly manifested in Islamic law to make them dubious, while all the species and products in
the border zone are ‘contaminated’ by their association to the meyhane. Furthermore, the fact
that most people in Trabzon regard some species as haram is possibly also connected to an
allusion to female sexuality. Although I can supply little evidence, there seems be a tendency
to regard some species as female in the sense that they resemble female genitalia. One
fisherman, in a rare construction of a fish analogy, talked about the penis as blind mullet (kör
kefal) and female genitals as sole (dilbalığı, ‘tongue fish’). Molluscs, crustaceans, sole,
flounder and so forth are regarded as typical meze. As seems common in other parts of the
Muslim Middle East (Hafez 1994:272-5), the meyhane and alcohol are often also associated
with erotic and illicit sex (for men). Seafood and alcohol are considered to draw one closer to
tempting, but immoral, erotic adventures. I suspect that this is why it is acceptable for young
boys to eat black mussels; alcohol and sex are not relevant temptations for them. But once
they enter puberty mussels may pave the way for other - and more dangerous - temptations.
Thus the seafood taboos as articulated within the ‘Trabzon fish culture’ cannot be said
to operate according to, or be reducible to, some cultural logic a la Douglas (1966) or Sahlins
(1976). As Goody (1998:148-160) has demonstrated, animal classifications answer to more
concerns than cultural logic, which nevertheless may be of importance. The classifications
discussed here are largely connected to a moral universe of consumption, which in itself is
30 CHAPTER 1

organised around a range of concerns. To summarise, there seem to be at least three different
kinds of reasons or concerns associated with the seafood ‘taboos’ found in the Trabzon fish
culture: (1) Islamic rules (broadly conceived - including analogical extensions), (2)
association with alcohol/infidels/elite, and (3) ‘dangerous female attraction’.
In the popular conception, going to a restaurant or meyhane, but not usually to a
birahane, also implies the possibility of mixed company (men/women). Many meyhanes and
seafood restaurants, as well as most expensive restaurants, are also frequented by women.
These women are most often uncovered or açık (‘open’, as seen in opposition to ‘decent’
covered or ‘closed’, kapalı, women), and display what many regard as ‘Western style’
behaviour, such as wearing trousers/short sleeves and drinking alcohol. The dichotomy
covered/uncovered is the subject of a controversy that increasingly crosses class lines (White
1999), but patronising seafood restaurants/meyhane is primarily the prerogative of those who
combine an açık way of life and wealth. It is a common practice for lokantas in Turkey to
have a separate room for aile (‘family’) - men's female companions and children; i.e. in
practice for women with or without the company of men. Such seclusion is not common in
fish restaurants or meyhane. For those who make an effort to live as pious Muslims, be he a
poor Anatolian peasant or a wealthy urbanite, this obviously creates and reinforces an
association between seafood, alcohol and indecent gender behaviour (illicit sex). One will
therefore seldom find Islamists in fish restaurants.

Comparing the two seafood cultures

Istanbul seafood culture Trabzon fish culture

(Secular upper class, ‘Rum’) (Common Black Sea people, ‘Islam’)
Restaurant/meyhane Home/public open air space
Alcohol No alcohol
Garlic, bay leaves etc ----
Cooked and un-cooked Cooked
Fish and non-fish Fish
Few taboos Many taboos
Lüfer Hamsi
Exceptional occasions Normal -> exceptional

Figure 3 Characteristics of and contrasts between the Istanbul and Trabzon culinary
cultures of seafood.

The existence of different cultural streams of fish and seafood consumption is not something
that is explicitly articulated in Turkey. It is a construction, or frame, that I believe is
illuminating and helpful in understanding the ways of fish in Turkey. The boundary between
the Trabzon and Istanbul seafood cultures is probably impossible to demarcate clearly, since
they merge into each other. In several small fishing-towns in the middle of the Black Sea
 CULINARY CULTURES 31

coast (for example Sinop and nearby Yakakent) it is possible to find a more liberal attitude
towards alcohol and fish restaurants, and it is difficult to distinguish local components from
extraneous (for example tourism). However, the core, the metonyms of the cultures, are
clearly identifiable: hamsi in Trabzon; restaurant/meyhane, species variety, alcohol and
seaside in Istanbul. These symbols are mobilised to signify the contrast between different
interpretations of eating seafood. The outline of the Trabzon seafood culture gives some
indication that it defines itself in opposition to the Istanbul culture. The Istanbul seafood
culture is more self-contained, at least with regard to alternative interpretations of fish
consumption, although people patronising seafood restaurants in Istanbul may notice and
comment on the occasion as being different from the common man’s.

Is a new shared seafood culture evolving?

So far I have presented a picture of two very different seafood cultures, the one being national
and associated with the elite, the other regional and associated with the common people
(halk). However, there have recently developed intermediate forms of fish consumption on a
national scale. It is becoming increasingly common for lower and middle class people
throughout Turkey, including Istanbul, to eat cheap fish such as hamsi and mackerel
(imported from Norway) as well as medium priced trout (alabalık). These fish are typically
sold by vendors in outdoor markets in the lower and middle class suburbs of cities. The
customers are housewives or men on their way home from work, and the fish is for household
consumption. Some vendors will only offer one or two species, crying out loudly “taze, taze,
taaaze hamsi”. During the peak season (midwinter) prices are generally well below the prices
for meat. It was even reported that the poorest people started queuing in front of fishmongers
to buy cheap anchovies (US$ 0.5/kg) (Turkish Daily News 10.12.97). Friends in Istanbul tell
me that they have noticed a spread of the hamsi culture in Turkey. Thus the spreading
consumption of hamsi may be accompanied by a spreading culture of hamsi: hamsi as staple,
as the food of the common people (compare with Hann's (1990) discussion of tea as a symbol
of equality and of the common people in Turkey). Although hamsi is still not among the
favourites on the restaurant table, it is one of the fish preferred by the high-income groups
when preparing fish meals at home (Elliott 1996:210).
One of the most notable developments in the Turkish fish markets during the last
decade is the increased importance of farmed trout. Prior to 1990 the production of farmed
trout was negligible, but since 1993 it has taken off and now accounts for almost two thirds of
all farmed ‘water produce’ in Turkey with an annual production (1997) of 30.000 tonnes
(Çelikkale et al 1999:101). Most of this fish is produced by small family firms in small rivers
and streams, primarily in the Black Sea Mountains and inland in Eastern Anatolia.
32 CHAPTER 1

High consumption Medium consumption Low consumption

Trout (alabalık) All income groups
Hamsi Low income Average income High income
Lüfer High income Average income Low income
Figure 4 Relative consumption of fish in different income groups
Excerpt from table 13, p. 187, Elliott 1996. The table is based upon results from a questionnaire distributed to
2200 women all over Turkey.

This table is very telling for the position of the trout. While hamsi consumption shows an
inverse relationship to income, the consumption of lüfer (together with most other species)
rises with income. This report rightly comments that hamsi and trout can now be regarded as
‘national’ species (Elliott 1996:186). Trout is consumed by all income groups and in all
regions of Turkey. Almost 90% of the respondents say that they have tried this fish. Other
farmed species are much less well-known. Of course one may speculate as to the reason for its
popularity. One reason is that it is not very expensive. During the winter of 1999 prices fell to
US$ .75 for one fish (Approximately US$ 2.5 a kg). Moreover, trout is very ‘fishy’; it is a
very prototypical kind of fish, and is not overtly tainted with association to alcohol, although
it is also an acceptable associate for rakı. It is acceptable to all – even the good Muslim. It has
one other advantage: it is associated with fresh, running water - the preferred setting for
weekend and holiday picnics. Many of the fish farms (almost all of which are inland fresh-
water farms in or near streams and rivers in Anatolia and in the Black Sea mountains) provide
picnic facilities or have open air restaurants which have become very popular with the
increasing number of Turks who go on weekend trips. This has probably contributed to
spreading the knowledge and acceptance of trout. In addition, the fish are commonly the ideal
portion size and are still esteemed in the restaurants. Trout, as well as other farmed fish such
as sea bream (levrek) and gilt-head bream (çipura), are often preferred by large hotel
restaurants that need reliable sources of fish if they are to serve large groups in association
with conferences and the like. But trout is especially popular among those who did not
consume fish earlier (Elliott 1996:183). It may be one of the pillars in the nascent
development of a new (middle class) fish consumption culture in Turkey, together with
introduction and acceptance of dip fris (deep freezing) and canned tuna. It is attainable and
acceptable to most people. It is a ‘democratic’ fish, a fish concerning which there is national
consensus. Fresh trout defies easy association with either the Istanbul seafood culture or the
Trabzon fish culture (extra processing, such as smoking, is required in order to make it high-
culture food). In the household sphere conserved fish and frozen ‘fish-fingers’ are becoming
accepted. A ‘chain’ is also establishing outlets to sell fish burgers in the modern shopping
centres that are frequented by the urban middle and upper classes.
The importance of farmed fish is likely to increase rapidly in Turkey. There are now
projects under way to develop large-scale farming of carp in the bodies of water being created
 CULINARY CULTURES 33

by the GAP dam complex in South-eastern Anatolia. One project aims at an annual
production of 30.000 tonnes (Para Dergisi 05.04.1998). This figure is allegedly set
unrealistically high in order to use the project to white wash money, but still indicates some of
the potential. Thus, processing and marketing of ‘water produce’ by large corporations is set
to become increasingly common. Development of ‘brands’ is still nascent in this sector, but
the Dardanelle company does sell a much-promoted canned tuna product. Seafood may
increasingly come within the scope of the expanding ‘modern’ industrialised economy of
Turkey, an economy where products are increasingly ‘designed’ in offices, and strategies for
marketing are worked out. The farming and processing, as well as the marketing and packing,
may serve to reduce or even eliminate the often ambivalent status of fish as ‘game’. Unlike
meat, fish is not treated in rituals which make it possible to clearly differentiate the clean from
the unclean. Fish is potentially ambiguous and dangerous. For most people the farmed fish is
first and foremost a ‘modern’ and healthy food. It is a ‘product’ reared under human control,
which makes it less dangerous, but also less potent. The fact that it is less potent also implies
that it is not as significant or critical, it is easier for all to accept. It can more easily find its
place in a ‘national’ repertoire of foods.
This development has few immediate effects on the fisheries. Competition from
farmed fish is still not a problem for the fishermen since quantities of farmed fish are small.
But since seafood, and especially prototypical fish, are being increasingly incorporated into
the modern middle-class, urban lifestyle, marketing and perhaps also branding will become
more important. Will it be possible to ‘stylise’ the hamsi? Building on the powerful identity of
hamsi as a symbol of the Black Sea region, it would probably be possible to develop effective
marketing strategies for convenience hamsi dishes. However Black Sea family fishing firms
and fish trade companies lack the capacity to handle this successfully. Such a development
confronts economic, technological and marketing challenges than only the large corporations
in western Turkey can handle.

Despite these new trends, the semiotics of Trabzon versus Istanbul seafood cultures retains
much of its potency. It is evident that many aspects of the Trabzon fish culture are formed,
and can only be understood, in the context of the two main imageries of seafood that I have
sketched. The Trabzon fish culture can partly be explained as a response to the Istanbul
seafood culture and whether it amounts to a popular reaction or even resistance to elite culture
is open to debate. The cultures diverge along three main axes or themes: (1) Islamic
morals/alcohol, (2) Istanbul (sahil) vs. Anatolia and (3) elite versus the common people
(halk). Sociologically as well as semantically these often overlap, especially (2) and (3), but
when I in the next chapter proceed to discuss the development and role of seafood imageries
in identity negotiations in Turkey I think it is important to analytically treat them separately.
34 CHAPTER 2

2 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION THROUGH

SEAFOOD AND ALCOHOL

In the previous chapter I presented the two seafood cultures of Istanbul and Trabzon as
alternative semiotics of identity. In this chapter I position these semiotics in history and in
contemporary social practice. This implies that I take a more critical view of the popular
stereotypes that tend to collapse identity formation into two opposed constellations:

elite/secular/infidel-Greek/Istanbul/alcohol
versus
folk/Muslim/Turk/Anatolia-Trabzon/no-alcohol

In pursuing this I follow two main strategies. (1) I survey some historic material (primary and
secondary sources) in order to arrive at a historiography that transcends the popular imagery
of history. How was seafood consumption transported from being associated with lower and
middle class Rum culture to becoming a symbol of upper class Istanbul culture? This involves
an attempt to untangle the purported historical foundations for the link between Greek identity
and seafood (as well as alcohol and the elite). How straightforward was the connection? Why
did seafood become an effective means to communicate social distance? (2) Relying more on
my fieldwork material I ask: what role does the consumption of seafood have in articulating
lifestyles in contemporary Turkey? This section illustrates some of the complexities and
creativity, as well as continuities, evident in the ways people relate to these imageries. I
primarily concentrate on how people in the city of Trabzon and in Çarşıbaşı relate to these
frameworks. The discussion will reveal some of the major lifestyle patterns and concerns in
Turkey. This framework of lifestyles as expressed in consumption (and education, see
Chapter 11), constitutes a very important aspect of the social matrix through which scientists
and fishermen relate to each other.
It is relevant to note here that difference in consumption as a way to convey position in
society has a very long tradition in this region, especially as an expression of a very rigid
dichotomy between the urban palace culture (high culture, Great tradition), and the rural
masses (Little tradition). Şerif Mardin (1969) has argued that the hierarchy in the Ottoman
Empire was primarily established on the basis of ‘status’ (in the Weberian sense), and not of
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 35

class, by the control of the means of productions. What characterised the rulers was their
monopoly of material goods that could be used to express exclusiveness and distinction. Thus,
the Ottoman rulers’ traditional policy of stimulating imports (no tax) and taxing exports
“…may be interpreted as a function of the patrimonial bureaucrats’ belief that their
consumption patterns were essential to the perpetuation of their power” (Mardin 1969:262). In
this extremely hierarchical social context, why did consumption of seafood become such a
good vehicle for demonstrating social distance? There may be several reasons. I perceive
three possible explanations: (1) relative scarcity of fish/seafood, (2) association with (limited)
prestigious sahil, and (3) historically constituted association between new secular Turkish
elite and a seafood loving Greek bourgeoisie.
First, although unavailability or scarcity may have played a role in placing a prestige
tag on some species, it is in many cases an inadequate explanation of why seafood
consumption has become an important instrument for demonstrating social distance (see
further discussion towards the end of ‘exclusion of Istanbul seafood…’). A second reason
may be the fact that the sahil is greatly appreciated and most fish restaurants are situated
along the coast, often on prime sites. I will return to the importance of the sahil imagery
below as I believe that this constitutes an important aspect of the prestige of Istanbul seafood.
Before doing so I will consider the possible association of seafood, alcohol and the Greek
culinary tradition. As demonstrated in the previous chapter, the seafood taboos in the Trabzon
fish culture may to a large extent be connected to concerns about alcohol. Is this, as is
indicated by the people themselves, an Islamic-Turkish reaction, or opposition, to elements of
Greek tradition that have been appropriated by the urban secular upper classes? Perhaps the
modernising Turkish elite, both before and after the Kemalist revolution, came to associate
seafood with a secular, Western lifestyle (like Western classical music, Western dress styles,
and balo (ball) were incorporated into their lifestyle).

But before I proceed, I would add a note of caution. The distinctive path of Turkish
nationalism has contributed to the shaping of both the seafood and maritime cultures, and to
the memory of the past - the historical imagination. There are two aspects to this that are
difficult to hold analytically separate, although this is crucial. First, the historical roots of
practices and images - the traditions of seafood consumption - constitute models for
interpretation and continued practice. Yet this history is at the same time constructed in the
present, often in terms of timeless authencities (Friedman 1994, Handler and Linnekin 1984,
Anderson 1991). In seeking an ‘objective’ history of the traditions of identity management
and seafood consumption, one risks charting it in terms of the contemporary hegemonic
constructions of tradition and history, for example by adopting the Turkish (Kemalist) state’s
excessive emphasis on the break with the past that the establishment of the Republic has been
interpreted as. Analyses in such terms may for example lead one to compact all Ottoman
history into one coherent experience. Although I do not possess enough material to undertake
a detailed survey of variations in Ottoman seafood cultures, I try to remain sensitive to this,
36 CHAPTER 2

which means acknowledging that important changes took place in this field, especially during
the 19th century. It is even more challenging to avoid the danger of reifying and essentialising
the socio-cultural groupings of the Ottoman (as well as early Republican era) in terms of the
charged ethnic-national labels (especially ‘Turks’ and ‘Greeks’) that are the currency of the
day. Evidence seems to support a general claim that seafood (and alcohol) has been an aspect
of identity management and marking of group borders for many centuries. But the borders and
emphases have been shifting, and differences in seafood consumption have been related to
various (overlapping) distinctions such as religious-ethnic communities, class, and
‘cultivation’. As the juxtaposition of these variables to each other has changed, seafood
consumption (as well as a whole range of other potent symbols connected to daily practice
and consumption) has taken on different meaning and constituted a shifting material for the
communication and negotiation of identity.
Weber claimed that ‘status groups’ were not stratified on the same basis as classes, but
“…according to the principles of their consumption of goods as represented by special ‘styles
of life’ ” (cited in Mardin 1969:264). Bourdieu has elaborated upon this insight in his
Distinction (1984). He claims that certain sets of tastes tend to go together so as to form
identifiable lifestyles within a social space, and that these lifestyles are seen as expressions of
a total capital volume (made up of economic, cultural, and social capital). As both France and
the Ottoman Empire/Turkey are highly centralised and hierarchical societies, I think that it
may be illuminating to explore the relation between consumption of seafood, social classes,
and identity in Turkey by attending to lifestyles. Thus, one may reformulate the question
regarding the ‘Greek connection’: was a Greek (Rum) lifestyle appropriated by the new
Turkish elite? I argue below that one may be mistaken in according lifestyles too much
historical continuity and seeing them primarily as expressions of ethnic-religious identities.

Seafood - a Rum tradition?

In Ottoman Istanbul seafood seemingly constituted one of the few culinary distinctions
between the different ethnic-religious groups. “Greeks, Armenians and Turks shared the same
food as well as the same city. ... Differences of materials and preparation owed more to
wealth and region, than to race or religion (although Christians had special Lenten food such
as dried fish)” (Mansel 1995:170)29. Rum, the Greeks of the Ottoman Empire, used to make
up a considerable portion of the population in the empire, and were prominent in both
Trabzon and Istanbul (as well as many other places, especially in the Marmara and Aegean
regions). Most left Trabzon before or around 1920. The Greeks left Istanbul more gradually,
but only a couple thousand remained after 1964, when Rum with Greek citizenship were
forced to flee (Mansel 1995). Since there are not many Greeks left in Istanbul today, they
cannot be said to be bearers of the Istanbul seafood culture. However, most people hold that

29
Pork may also have been an important culinary marker of ethno-religious differences. However,
Mansel (1995) does not discuss this.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 37

they (together with the Armenians) are the originators of the contemporary Istanbul seafood
culture. But it is difficult to find sources that confirm this assertion that seafood played an
important part in the culture of the Istanbul Rum. Many scholars studying Istanbul refer to the
famous Ottoman traveller and writer Evliya Çelebi's observation that the Rum were the
sailors, sea captains and fishermen of the city (see for example Kuban 1996:305). The theme
of the Greek roots for the fishing and maritime culture will be elaborated in Chapter 3.
Drinking, Rum and maritime life may have come together in the Galata meyhanes, the Greek
tavernas.

Taverna - the connection between alcohol and Rum?

In Istanbul during the early and middle phases of the Ottoman era, seafood as ‘restaurant’
food (where the establishment provides an infrastructure for eating and socialising), was
probably primarily consumed in tavernas, and these in turn were most often run by Greeks.
Kömürciyan, himself an Armenian, often notes that the Greek quarters of 17th century
Istanbul were ‘full of’ meyhanes (for example Kömürciyan 1988:36). In particular, the market
in Galata was apparently closely associated with meyhanes. “Here there are 20 fish monger
stands. Close to these are meyhanes and a promenade between the big city and the sea”
(Kömürciyan1988:35). The meyhanes also came to be associated with the (European)
foreigners living in or visiting Galata (seamen etc.). The search for an association between the
three - Greeks, seafood, and alcohol - in Ottoman Constantinople, must therefore start with
the taverna where the connection between fish and alcohol (and infidels) may have been most
obvious. Greeks, but also other Christians and Muslims of an urban neighbourhood would
come together in the taverna for companionship aided by drink and a selection of meze.
Meyhanes were usually frequented after sunset and were lit by oil lamps. The popular
conception of a meyhane usually envisages a fairly small and intimate place, heavily
decorated and with subdued light, producing an intimate atmosphere.
However, although the meze has an established position in Greek culture (mezede or
mezethakia in Greek), it also occupies an important place in the social matrix of the Muslim
populations of large parts of the Middle East (Hafez 1994:268). Offering of an almost
unlimited array of small hot and cold appetisers is one of the most characteristic elements of
the cuisines of the Middle East. Their ingredients and preparation have developed over the
centuries as a result of the confluence of many cultures (mazza in Arabic, mezelicuri in
Romanian) (Encyclopædica Britannica: gastronomy, Middle Eastern). In present day Turkey
the ‘rakı table’ with its spread of meze is seen as inherently a Turkish custom, while wine
drinking is more clearly associated with the Greek culture. Also, in large parts of the Middle
East seafood is probably regarded as a meze, which again is part of extra-domestic occasions
where alcohol is invariably served. This male social world of intimacy marked by meze,
seafood, alcohol, dance, beautiful ‘loose’ women, and gambling is a sweet, tempting world,
but alas, morally suspect. Although a certain segment of the Muslim Turk population does
visit meyhanes - a common word used by most outsiders for all places that serve alcohol –
38 CHAPTER 2

these are considered morally suspect by most good Muslims. Most of the meyhanes were run
by Rum or Jews. Both Evliya Çelebi and Kömürciyan are clear about the predominance of
Rum in the meyhane business in early Ottoman days. Although there can be little doubt that
the seafood meyhanes such as those in Kumkapı and behind the Çiçek pazarı in Beyoğlu are
direct ancestors of Rum tavernas, most now have new, Turkish owners. Greeks and Istanbul
intellectuals of today complain that contemporary meyhane lack the atmosphere and etiquette
of the original Greek taverna (see e.g. Deleon 1989b: 54-55).

Figure 5 Map of central modern Istanbul

When drinking rakı there are certain rules of etiquette and behaviour that apply
(Sülker 1985, Oğuz 1976: 851). The mezes were primarily consumed for the taste and not for
filling the stomach, and the issue of which meze go well together with rakı is a recurring
theme. There was apparently a sophisticated way of drinking, and the regular customers of
meyhanes are often called ‘eveningers’ (akşamcı), which has fairly positive connotations. In
contrast, those drinking in private, outside of the customs and practices of the (civilised)
company at a meyhane would be conceptualised as ‘drunkards’ (ayyaş or şarapçı). Different
sources give disparate accounts of the range of meyhanes, probably because they tend to
collapse all of the Ottoman era. What seems evident, however, is that there used to be
sophisticated and less sophisticated ways of drinking, and this was also seen in the range of
Ottoman meyhanes (Oğuz 1976:740, Deleon 1989a)30. Boza, a lightly alcoholic beverage

30
See for example Sülker 1985, Zat 1993/4, Oğuz 1976. During the later Ottoman era the ‘refined’
(kibar) patrons had their selatin meyhanes, the commoners would go to a gedikli meyhane (where one
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 39

made of corn was also popular in Ottoman Istanbul. However, the refined Ottomans did not
hold it in high esteem and considered it more suited to the lower levels of society (Oğuz
1976:735).

Alcohol in Ottoman Constantinople

In many social contexts, spanning both time and space, alcohol has been one of the primary
materials for demonstrating (or constructing) the difference between people that profess
Islamic and Christian beliefs. The Koran mentions alcohol in six different places (Sülker
1985:22). More than once it is listed together with other sins, such as fortune telling and,
especially, gambling. The pleasures of these are acknowledged, both in the relevant verses
and (implicitly) in the description of Paradise, whose pleasures also include rivers of wine.
But it is stressed that they cause the believer to lose both reason (akıl/aql) and material
possessions (Sülker 1985:22-29). It is also important to note that the Koran speaks of wine
and that many Muslims therefore have come consider wine to be more haram than beer and
stronger liquor, such as rakı. Despite the very clear Islamic prohibition against alcohol31, and
the de facto rather low alcohol consumption in Turkey, it has at times been a very
controversial issue and important symbol in inter-community relations during both Ottoman
and Republican eras.
During the Ottoman era alcohol was one of the sensitive issues that the Sultans had to
handle and one which was often central to inter-religious relations. The Ottoman Sultans and
Muftis had to balance popular Islamic demands that production, distribution and sale of
alcohol be restricted against the very substantial taxes they secured from this sector. The
general interpretation of the Koran and the specific regulations enacted by the Sultan (for
example closing the guild of taverna keepers to Muslims, Faroqhi 1994:590) meant that
production, distribution and sale of alcohol became primarily a task for the non-Muslims in
Constantinople, especially Greeks and foreigners who were granted special concessions
(Sülker 1985:151). However Muslims did join in the consumption. In the 17th century,
complaints were heard that alcohol consumption had become too widespread among Muslims
(Pamukciyan 1988:219). Pre-Ottoman meyhanes in Constantinople sold mainly wine, but
during the Ottoman era rakı gradually became the main drink (Zat 1993/4:437), indicating the
importance of Muslim customers. According to Evliya Çelebi there were as many as 1400
tavernas in Istanbul in the 17th century (Mansel 1995:173), many along the Bosporus, but
particularly numerous in Galata (Pamukciyan 1988:219). In addition, still according to Çelebi,
6000 non-Muslims sold wine (Pamukciyan 1988:219, Oğuz 1976: 741). Other intoxicating -
and therefore suspect - pleasures such as smoking tobacco and drinking coffee were initially
forbidden, but eventually gained acceptance; both of these came to constitute important

would sit down/squat – or guild meyhanes??)/koltuk meyhane (quiet place at the seaside, Oğuz
1976:740), and the poor (and youngsters) had recourse to the itinerant (usually Armenian) sellers of rakı
and wine (Sülker 1985:59-62, 161).
31
Of course, modern ‘secular’ commentators such as Sülker (1985) and Oğuz (1976) interpret the intent
of Islamic sources to mean that too much alcohol (aşırı içki) is harmful.
40 CHAPTER 2

elements of Ottoman economy and culture (Mansel 1995:170-1). Wine was forbidden and
tavernas were closed repeatedly up until 1754 (Mansel 1995:173).
The Tanzimat era (1839-71) is generally considered to mark the initiation of
westernising reforms in the Ottoman Empire. One effect of these reforms was that fewer
restrictions were placed on the operation of the meyhanes (Sevengil 1985:170). Towards the
end of the Ottoman Empire meyhanes proliferated in Galata and Beyoğlu, areas dominated by
Greeks and foreigners (Zat 1993/4:436). But certain restrictions on the location of meyhanes
remained (they should not be close to mosques, prayer houses and Muslim quarters), and
alcohol in general remained a sensitive issue. In 1909 a group of clerics marched on the
Sultan’s Palace in Yıldız to demand (unsuccessfully) the closing of meyhanes and theatres
(another ‘Western evil’) (Sülker 1985:160).
During the first years of the Republic alcohol remained a sensitive and heated issue
(Sülker 1985:151-8) and for a short period in 1923a regulation banning the serving of alcohol
was in force in Istanbul32 (Arkan 1993/4:222). But the secular state and elite classes of the
early Republic generally had a liberal attitude towards alcohol. The state nationalised the
production and distribution of alcohol, and tried to redirect consumption to beer, but the
reasons for this seemed to be as much concern about the economy and the population’s health,
as Islamic morals. Atatürk himself was known to be a heavy drinker, and he died of alcohol
related diseases. With the ascendancy of new elite groups the situation has become more
complex. In general alcohol consumption is associated with the ‘secular’ groups (elite or not),
but the picture is too complex to sketch in detail here. From the 1970s onwards the number of
meyhanes (serving meze and the like) has been steadily declining while other forms of
drinking establishments, more overtly Western in style such as bars/pubs, have proliferated.

Seafood and alcohol: connections?

The preceding historical sketch should serve to confirm that there has been considerable
continuity in the concern about alcohol. Especially from the standpoint of the Muslim
believer, it has been one of the most important markers distinguishing different lifestyles and
peoples. But what about the association between fish and alcohol? Kömürciyan's 17th century
text indicates that along the Golden Horn and Bosporus marinated or dried sturgeon (probably
from the northern shores of the Black Sea) and grilled swordfish were usually consumed
together with alcohol (1988:17-18). Lord Kinross (1954:150-51) who travelled in Anatolia at
the beginning of the 1950s mentions that in the pools within the bazaars of Urfa (southeast
Turkey) there were ‘millions’ of fish which were considered ‘untouchable’ by the local
Muslim population. He cites older sources, which indicate that the Christian population that
used to live in the region in the beginning of the 19th century ate the fish accompanied by arak
(Arabic for rakı). Moreover the fish was said to be cooked in wine. Although Kilross does not
draw the conclusion himself, it is probably not too far-fetched to suggest that the fish was
untouchable to the Muslims in the 1950s because of its association with alcohol and infidels.

32
The ban lasted for three years in Anatolia.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 41

Seafood had, and still has, a central position among the meze and other dishes served
at meyhanes. Salted, dried and marinated fish were regarded as ideal meze dishes when
accompanied by a glass of wine or rakı. A Turkish encyclopaedia article about meyhanes
provides a very comprehensive list of typical meyhane mezes in Istanbul during the 1950s;
about half of the around 50 mezes that are listed are various kinds of seafood, for the most part
various forms of conserved fish (for example lakerda) or non-fish seafood (Zat 1993/4:437)33.
The Muslim customers of the tavernas generally avoided these establishments during the
month of Ramadan when it was, and is, regarded as especially important to comply with the
rules and rituals of Islam. However, on the first day of the fasting month the taverna
proprietors sent their best Muslim customers a note asking them not to forget them; a plate of
mussels, or even a stuffed mackerel was sent to each (for the evening iftar meal)! (Sülker
1985:69).

Lent: Christian sophistication in non-fish seafood

Thus far I have identified the taverna as the main connection between seafood and Rum/non-
Muslims. However, other traditions may also be of importance, and even precede the taverna
culture. The special status of non-fish seafood among the Christians, especially the Greek
Orthodox, may have cultural-historical roots in their ritual approach to seafood. As
mentioned, the Orthodox (as well as Catholic Levantines) seem to have had a special
preference for non-fish sea animals during Lent. Gilles, who visited Istanbul in the 16th
century writes that “…they catch such a multitude of oysters and other shellfish that in the
fish market every day you may see so many boats full of them that there are enough for the
Greeks all their fast days when they abstain from all sorts of fish that have blood in them”
(Gilles 1988 [1561]:xliii, Pamukciyan 1988:218). Evliya Çelebi (n.d.:160) mentions an
oyster-fishers guild who sold their produce to their ‘wine drinking brethren’ in their own
shops.
In an e-mail communication Alison Cadbury (01.03.1999), a food enthusiast who is
well acquainted with Greek culture, writes that the Greeks' preference for non-fish sea
animals during lent

...derives from the prohibition against animal products of any sort, including eggs, milk, and
cheese and FISH with scales. I believe this, as many practices in Orthodoxy, derives from old
Jewish dietary laws. For instance, I never found an instance of Greeks using milk products in
association with flesh34 ... However, the prohibition against fish WITHOUT scales seems not

33
One writer, Ahmet Rasim, writing in 1950 about the meyhane culture at the beginning of the century,
produced the following (extensive, but not exhaustive!) list of appropriate mezes (seafood
underlined):Her nevi salata, sardalya, çiroz, likorinoz, ringa, ançüvez, taze balık, ciğerin kebabı, tavası,
yahnisi, fasulyenin piyazı, pilakisi, sarı ve siyah havyar, beyin, her türlü peynir, muska böreği, turp,
midyenin tavası, pilakisi, istiridiye (herkes yiyemiyor) ihtenya, pavurya, istakoz, karides, kuzu sövüşu,
turşular, balık, midye, munbar, dalak, yaprak, lahana, patlıcan, biber, domates dolmaları, işkembe
tuzlanması, patates ezmesi, her tür köfte, hatta şiş kebabı, pirzola (Sülker 1985:138).
34
Here we may have an example of one of the culinary characteristics that the Trabzon fish culture and
the Istanbul seafood culture share and which they have in common with the Greek: fish and yoghurt are
not mixed or eaten one after the other; it is thought to be dangerous to the health. The same rule is found
42 CHAPTER 2

to have taken hold. So in Lent, the only ‘flesh’ allowed is sea creatures (and, by the way,
snails) like mussels, other molluscs, crawfish (lobster), octopus, sea urchins, and squid.

This was a practice that was probably common to the Orthodox (as well as Catholic
Levantine) Christians throughout the coastal regions of the Ottoman Empire. Clams were also
important food during Lent for the Greek community in Izmir in the 17th century (Anderson
1989:15).
It is important to note that there seems to have been a slackening of the Lent rules over
the centuries to include fish (with blood). A three volume work by Charles White is arguably
accepted as ‘the best and most complete account of the manners and customs of the various
inhabitants of the Turkish capital’ (Mansel 1995:276). Charles White stayed in Istanbul for
three years in the early 1840s as a correspondent for the Daily Telegraph; he mastered
Ottoman Turkish and generally had a more intimate knowledge of various parts of Ottoman
society than most other visitors and travellers of the time. He comments on the large catches
of palamut, noting that: “[a] portion is eaten fresh, but the greater part is cut up, salted, and
preserved in casks for winter consumption, and for food during the Greek and Armenian
Lents” (White 1845:75). Another European observer at the beginning of the 20th century, also
states that the Greeks during Lent “…lived entirely on vegetables cooked in water, fish, olives
and red caviare” (Neave 1933:205).
This concern with Lent food has probably transformed such sea animals into important
ritual food and stimulated a rich ‘Greek’, non-fish sea animal cuisine. Its close association
with religious life probably made it an important symbol in inter-religious border
constructions. However, I find it amazing that this distinction, which likely developed over
hundreds of years, still retains much of its rhetorical force and still constitutes a major
influence on seafood consumption in present day Trabzon, 70-80 years after the Greeks left
the region. How did seafood develop from being important Lent food for the common Rum to
being associated with upper-class Istanbul culture?

From Rum Taverna and Lent to Turkish High Culture?

Consumption of seafood in Ottoman Constantinople

The actual importance of seafood consumption and its ethnic distribution during Ottoman
times is difficult to ascertain. With regard to the culinary culture of the Rum, Çelebi and
others have little to report, but Çelebi does note that in Istanbul all fish cooks (nine hundred
men!), who belonged to their own guild, were Rum (Çelebi n.d.:161). According to a 17th
century account of Istanbul there were then two main fish markets in the town, one near the
present day Egyptian bazaar in Eminönü, and one in Galata on the other side of the Golden
Horn. The fish market in Galata was regarded as being much better and more important than

in Lebanon, Cyprus, Bulgaria et cetera, and has probably its cultural roots in Judaism. However, people
in Trabzon do not know the cultural roots or reasons for this rule, they simply say “so they say (öyle
derler)”.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 43

its counterpart on the Istanbul side (Tournefort 1717 in Pamukciyan 1988:218, Oğuz
1976:592). This leads Oğuz to conclude that although fish was cheap, it was generally of
interest for the non-Muslims, especially the Greeks (Oğuz 1976:592). Moreover many visitors
to Istanbul during the 16th and 17th centuries stressed that fish, although very cheap, was not
the favourite food of the Turks in that city (Kuban 1996:312, Reyhanlı 1983:67).
However, fish consumption in Constantinople was not confined to the non-Muslim
population. According to Bryer, fish, especially salt fish, was the cheap staple protein in
Constantinople (1980:VII:382) and likely remained one of the cheapest and most important
protein sources for many layers of the population, including the urban poor, even after the
Ottoman occupation. Half the population of the early Ottoman capital used to eat seafood
(Kuban 1996:312), including the “common and poorer sorts of Turks [who] bear [the
Christians] company in that diet” (Bon 1996:102). Moreover, fish had a place among the
more varied dishes on the tables of the noble and rich in 16th century Istanbul (Reyhanlı
1983:68). Seafood was even to be found in the imperial kitchen. The catch of some dalyans
(large trap nets) was appropriated by the Sultan (Kömürciyan 1988:5). In 1526 the menu of
the Sultan even included non-fish such as oyster, lobster and prawns (Oğuz 1976:593). Even
so seafood was rarely mentioned in the lists of purchases for the imperial kitchen (ibid:592,
Reyhanlı 1983:69). In the beginning of the 17th century the Venetian representative in
Istanbul, Ottaviano Bon (1996:96), stated that the Sultan seldom ate fish. Most likely, the
consumption of seafood in the palace varied quite a lot over the centuries, with the personal
preferences and whims of the Sultans and other notables.
According to Charles White (1845:Volume III, Chapter 3), most cooks in the ‘cook
shops’ (‘take away food’) in the early 19th century were Greek and Armenian men. He
supplies a detailed outline of the cook shops along the Divan Yolu - the main road leading up
to the palace at Sultanahmet in the ‘Muslim’ quarter of Istanbul - where the majority of the
customers must have been Muslims. These kababs, as they were called, were divided into two
classes (separate guilds), one of which specialised in pilafs (rice dishes), dolmas (stuffed
vegetables), stuffed mussels and boiled fish. In addition, there were also itinerant vendors
selling various foodstuffs, including fish, and the diet for the slaves of the Imperial household
included fish. Thus, although seafood has carved a place for itself in the contemporary
popular imagery of elite consumption, eating seafood has probably been fairly common
among the Istanbul poor and middle classes, irrespective of religion or ethnicity. Seafood has
been included in semiotics of class identity, but the identities expressed and the kinds of
seafood that were critical markers must have changed throughout the centuries. Salt
palamut/lakerda, for instance, has moved from being the food of Greek lower and middle
classes to that of the Turkish upper or cultivated class. To say that seafood only expressed a
difference between Turks and Greeks is simplistic. Religion as well as class was implicated,
as the following quotation clearly reveals: “[Salted] [p]alamood are the principal sustenance
of the poorer classes of Christians during these [Lent] periods, but they are little esteemed at
any time by the rich, and are rarely eaten by the Turks, who consider them unwholesome and
44 CHAPTER 2

hard of digestion. Toon (tunny), large, coarse, and indigestible, [are] principally eaten by the
lower orders” (White 1845, volume III:75). Moreover, consumption clearly changed over
time: “Testaceous kinds [molluscs and shellfish], now freely consumed by the Turks, are
abundant, and in great demand among Christians, especially midia (muscles) and istridia
(oysters)” (White 1845, volume III:79).
After the Kemalist revolution many kinds of fish were still cheap and must have been
food for ‘commoners’. In 1938, for instance, palamut and mackerel cost only about one sixth
of what one had to pay for lamb meat (Tutel 1988). Many ‘Turks’ seemingly remained
sceptical of seafood, although still eating it. In one of his novels, the Turkish writer Sait Faik
(1944:28) describes catches of torik (large palamut) so large that the fishermen had to dump
some of it. Only after (illegal) sales to Italian and Greek trading vessels did they sell it in the
poor quarters of Istanbul, claiming it was lamb meat (kuzu diye satılır). An Istanbul fish trader
has related how, when he was in the armed forces in 1943, he got his father to deliver 1000
fish that they cooked for the soldiers. Only the ‘children of Istanbul’ and the officers ate it, he
lamented. Our biggest customer for seafood, he continued, is Greece (Yarar 1982:270,276).
So the ‘Upper class’ and ‘Istanbul’ consumed seafood - we could have added Trabzon. Thus,
seafood consumption varied along both class and regional lines. In the novel Deniz Küstü
(‘The sea-crossed fisherman’) Yaşar Kemal (1992[1978]:217-18), in his characteristic
colourful style, depicts how the poor along the shores of the Sea of Marmara in the 1970s
feasted on palamut (balık bayramı yaşarlardı) when catches were good.
Today, non-Muslims, especially Greeks, may still be the main consumers of Istanbul
lakerda and çiroz35. One fishmonger in Istanbul told me that most of the lakerda is exported
to Greece, and an Istanbul Levent related how a Greek who had moved from Istanbul to
Athens now sells Istanbul lakerda and çiroz in his small shop (Scognamillo 1990:114).
However, lakerda is not cheap food any longer. Today the price difference between fish and
meat has levelled out (Tutel 1988), partly because some of the more prestigious fish are now
virtually unobtainable (swordfish) or rare (lüfer). Previously unpopular fish (for example
palamut) have gradually been incorporated into the Istanbul seafood culture. Except for a few
seasonally available species (hamsi, istavrit, sometimes palamut36), it is harder to find cheap
fish at the market.
Although, or perhaps precisely because, Greeks have been great consumers of a wide
range of seafood, there is little reason to believe that they have considered seafood to be elite
food (this may be changing now with rising world market prices for most seafood products). I
am not very familiar with Greece, but it is reported that seafood is something most people can

35
The earlier widespread consumption of çiroz gradually declined, having reached a peak around 1900
(Türkiye Ansiklopedisi 1983:2324). However, it is unclear whether the preservation of fish (salted,
dried) waned because of (1) a gradual shift from the stationary dalyan (fishing weirs, see next chapter)
to mobile fishing with boats, facilitating more continual catches (the market probably couldn't consume
big gluts of fresh fish), (2) because the stock declined (stopped entering the Bosporus after the 1960s),
or (3) because the Greeks gradually left Istanbul.
36
When catches of palamut were record high during the autumn of 1998, it was said that it had become
gariban yemeği (poor man’s food). Even the southeasterners were eating palamut.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 45

afford to eat, so this is not regarded as a special occurrence (Vemund Aarbakke, personal
comm.). There is an old Greek adage: “The child of a good (well-to-do or aristocratic) family
doesn't eat fish” (Alison Cadbury, personal communication). Moreover, it is wise to
remember that during Lent people were advised to abstain from eating the most highly
esteemed foods, such as meat. Thus, if seafood was eaten during Lent it may indicate that it
was not very prestigious food.
There is thus reason to think that elite groups among the Turks have not simply
adopted a Greek upper-class codification of the social meaning of seafood consumption. That
is not to say that seafood was not important among upper-class Greeks. Some revealing
glimpses are provided in the novel Loksandra: İstanbul Düşü (Loksandra: The dream of
Istanbul) (Yordanidu 1990), written by an elderly Greek woman. Her half-fictional memoirs
of her grandmother's life in Istanbul around the turn of the 20th century presents a colourful
description of the important role of fish and other sea animals in upper-class Rum home
cooking. The novel describes the preparation and cooking of a variety of fish, stuffed mussels,
lobster, and caviar, as well as conserved fish such as lakerda and çiroz. It also draws a vivid
picture of the pleasures of seafood consumption and mentions how sea animals and fish figure
in songs, dreams and fantasies as symbols of abundance and blessing. But that does not mean
seafood was always prestigious food among the Rum in Istanbul.
More detailed work on the history of fishing and seafood would be needed in order to
gain a more informed understanding of developments over time and of regional variations.
Yet, historical records, although insufficient to provide a full account of seafood consumption
in Ottoman Constantinople, do show that it is too simplistic to claim that seafood was
primarily a Rum business. However, Lent rules and Muslim concerns about alcohol probably
meant that Muslims and non-Muslims had a tendency to approach seafood from different
standpoints, with the Muslim’s attitude being more ambivalent. The direct association linking
seafood, alcohol and Rum is contradicted by the following excerpt from Reşat Ekrem Koçu’s
(1960:2023) description of the meyhanes near the fish market in Eminönü: “In accordance
with [the idea that] fish is the most suitable meze with the special (has) Turkish drink rakı,
one could here at any time at orders readily find the desired most delicate (nefis) fish for the
table of the Istanbul ‘eveningers’ that drink (demlemek) here”. Indeed, here consumption of
seafood and alcohol appear to be a Turkish tradition.

New Ottoman elite lifestyles

A mapping of identities and lifestyles as they are conceived in contemporary Turkish society
onto Istanbul of the Ottomans could imply surrendering the terms of academic inquiry to
politicised identity discourses of the present. This modern mapping, among other things,
includes a strict dichotomy between Turk and Rum, the pervasive idea being that the Rum are
and always were more Western than the Turks. However, the Rum were an integral part of the
Ottoman empire. Some even claim that the empire is best seen as a ‘Turkish-Greek Empire’
(Kitsikis 1996, cited in Tayfur 1997:115). The development of Greek/Rum and Turk as
46 CHAPTER 2

collective national identities only started with the Greek uprisings in 1821 and the
establishment of the Greek State in 1830. Newer historical works increasingly stress that
combinations of several identities were common (Mansel 1995:25), especially during the
early and middle phases of the reign of the Ottomans. Millet organisation, as conventionally
understood37, probably did not exist before the 18th century: “barriers previously regarded [by
scholars] as watertight and impassible are now considered lower and more permeable”
(Faroqhi 1994:605). Most guilds, for instance, grouped men practising the same trade in the
same locality, irrespective of religion (Faroqhi 1994:590). Reminiscent of the internal
ideological debates in Greece about the Eastern (Byzantine-orthodox) and Western/European
(Hellenism) foundation of the national culture (Herzfeld 1987), the ‘eastern’ and ‘Byzantine’
Orthodox Patriarch in Istanbul long fought against Hellenism and westernising trends. During
the 18th century “…the Greeks as a whole remained remarkably faithful both to the sultanate
and to church authority” (Murphey 1999:135).
The Tanzimat reforms (1839-71) changed the situation of the ‘minorities’. New laws
made political activity and cultural expression easier. At the same time many Greeks and
Armenians profited considerably by the trade privileges they were accorded by the
‘capitulations’ that the Ottomans had to accept in a deal with the European powers. Prior to
about 1840 most Greeks were not especially well off, and the Galata district with its majority
Rum population was regarded by the Muslims as well as some Western observers as dirty and
filthy (for example White 1845:Volume II, 195). According to some studies, Galata was not
very ‘European’ or wealthy before 1840. But the new wealth created during the 19th century
made Galata, and especially Pera/Beyoğlu, the fastest developing quarters in Istanbul. New
lines of social and economic differentiation were expressed, for example, in architecture,
consumption, and ‘cultural activities’. The main source of inspiration of these new elite ways
was Europe; hence the establishment of the opera house, Western style restaurants, hotels, and
the like. There evolved new elite lifestyles that by and large were perceived as ‘Western’.
Economic and political developments were “…fast transforming Galata from an oriental
suburb where Franks (i.e. Levantines) used to live to a city that had become European in its
pretentions and semi-European in fact” (Rosenthal 1980:16). Thus, it was from this point
onwards that the Rum started to bring Western-style ways of life to Istanbul, including new
forms of inter-gender behaviour (Millas 1993/4:366). Before this the Rum did not see
themselves, and others did not perceive them, as representatives of the West in the East. To
the Rum, Istanbul remained the centre of the world, the city, the polis. It had been their
homeland for thousands of years, just as the Pontus Rum (the Rum in the Black Sea region)
did not dream of any homeland elsewhere: they were at home in Trabzon, Batum and Sinop
(Ascherson 1996).
The Rum may have led the way in adopting ‘Western’ lifestyles in Istanbul during the
th
19 century, but, “… even at this early date [1850s] there was considerable cultural

37
Religious-ethnic groups that for most practical purposes lived separately and handled internal affairs
according to their own law/tradition.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 47

intermingling. Well-to-do Turks from across the Golden Horn were increasingly attracted by
the European goods and styles of display in the shops of Grand Rue de Pera” (Rosenthal
1980:16). This cultural intermingling, especially among the elite groups (Mansel 1995:290-
296), likely resulted in similar patterns of elite consumption across a range of ‘nationalities’,
for example in food and drink. Lifestyles were as much a class or status phenomenon as an
expression of ‘national’ identity. Already in 1836 Julie Pardoe (1837), on a visit to Istanbul,
was served almost identical food in the homes of wealthy Greek and Turkish families. The
food that was served closely resembled what I have described as the Istanbul culinary culture,
with a variety of seafood playing an important role. In both families, after a spread of
appetisers that included typical seafood mezes, the first main course (of many) was fish on a
bed of rice - this during Ramadan when the Turks would have taken care to avoid haram
(forbidden) foods. The only notable difference seems to have been the lack of wine/alcohol in
the Turkish home. I would not claim that this menu was ‘European’; rather it can be seen as
an expression of a cosmopolite Ottoman culinary culture that was open to European impulses.
An Ottoman cookbook from the period includes a range of seafood recipes (also shellfish and
molluscs) along the lines of the contemporary Istanbul seafood culture (Turabi 1987 [1864]).
This shared upper class elaboration of seafood as an articulation of refined manners
and cultivation may be a relatively recent phenomenon, partly developed in accord with the
rise in the restaurant culture which drew in several ethnic-religious groups. There was a long
tradition of ‘cook shops’ in Istanbul, but the practice of offering customers a comfortable
place to sit down and enjoy the meal only surfaced during the Tanzimat era, especially among
the Levantine in Galata. The meyhanes/tavernas constituted a separate culture, being
primarily considered places to drink; the main function of the meze that was served there was
to enhance the pleasure of drinking. Thus the taverna/meyhane culture was not primarily an
upper class, refined culture and cannot be said to be a direct forerunner of the more
sophisticated meyhanes and restaurants. A taverna was not primarily a place sought for the
sake of good food. Some have even questioned whether tavernas were at all important as
places to eat (Dalby 1996:196). Restaurants and hotels were new institutions, introduced to
Istanbul during the 19th century. The new eating establishments were called lokanta, taken
from Italian. These lokantas were primarily frequented by the minorities, but were a general
expression of a cosmopolitan Ottoman culture38. In parallel with this the fishing industry is
believed to have developed during the middle and late 19th century, drawing for instance the
fishing communities on the Marmaras Islands closer to the expanding urban economy of
Istanbul (Salamone 1987:7039). Perhaps also the habit of decorating the seafood developed
during the second half of the 19th century, parallel with the growth in the bourgeoisie class.

38
The prohibition of alcohol in 1923 was a severe blow to many lokantas, and when the majority of
Rum left Istanbul during the 1950s and 1960s an empty space was created especially in the culinary
culture of lokantas that catered to the middle classes. Little by little the empty space was filled by
kebapçılar and the like, chiefly run by newly-arrived southeasterners.
39
This very interesting study unfortunately came to my knowledge too late to fully exploit its
comparative potential.
48 CHAPTER 2

Charles White (1845, Volume II:74) noted that fishmongers in Istanbul in the 1840s, unlike
their European counterparts, thought it “…unprofitable to embellish the exterior of their
shops…”; another writer (Orga 1958a:14-15) a century later enthusiastically describes how
the fish at the fish markets are beautifully decorated in ways that closely resemble my
observations.

The exclusion of Istanbul seafood culture from ‘Turkishness’

There was no single elite lifestyle in Istanbul during this period, but rather a number of
competing lifestyles. It was a period when much effort was put into the search for new
ideologies and lifestyles. The new bureaucratic elite, which was primarily Turkish/Muslim,
mixed old Ottoman and Western styles. Istanbul-style consumption of seafood was one
component in this new constellation. Ideologically the new intelligencia was looking for a
new cultural basis for the empire while the sultans continued to stress Islam. During the
second half of the 19th century many young bureaucrats and others started to entertain ideas of
an Ottoman constitutional state. An attempt to establish a constitutional system (1877-78) was
curbed by Sultan Abdülhamid II, and subsequent war losses and ethnic conflicts discredited
the ideas of the Young Ottomans. From the close of the 19th century a new group called the
Young Turks grew out of the ranks of the Young Ottomans, eventually rising to power with
the revolution and restoration of the constitution in 1908 (Zürcher 1993). As they developed
their Turkish-nationalist ideas during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, they increasingly
located the core or home of the newly constructed national identity in Anatolia. Istanbul
remained suspect to the new nation and Republic, and Istanbul was generally excluded from
the symbolism of the new national culture. The prototypical Turk was to be found in Anatolia,
especially among the peasants.
It is possible therefore to claim that in many respects Istanbul was not and is not
considered as a place that harbours an authentic local culture. The Istanbul culture is rather an
idea, an image, that is adopted or opposed in various larger cultural schemes, be it political
Islam, secular Turkish nationalism, Islamic-Turkish nationalism, or a nostalgic search for the
cosmopolitan Istanbul coupled with new programs of globalisation and postmodernism. On
the one side were the Ottoman modernisers, non-Muslims or their Muslim fellow travellers,
and on the other side the local Muslim establishment. Both sides symbolised suspect forces
(European imperialism and traditional anti-modern Islam respectively), and left no Istanbul to
represent the local. In the early Republic “...Istanbul embodi[ed] all the imagined
impediments that had to be expurgated” (Keyder 1999:11). Perhaps that is why scholars
considering subjects such as Turkish culture, Turkish food and so forth hardly pay attention to
the urban traditions and practices of Istanbul (and Izmir). The urban and rural populations that
had earlier been culturally separate were with nationalism seen as a single Turkish population.
Oğuz (1976:693), in his monumental work about the cultural roots of the Turks, only
sets aside half a page for seafood (notably hamsi) in his 50 pages about ‘Turkish’ food. This
was done on the basis of a very special and hegemonic construction of the ‘Turk’, a definition
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 49

that excludes the cosmopolitan, urban experiences of many of the people that lived and live
within the borders of the new Republic. Oğuz’ presentation of ‘Turkish’ food contrasts starkly
with Turabi’s ‘Turkish Cookbook’ (1987 [1864]) where seafood figures prominently. In the
same vein as Oğuz, the anthropologist Mahmut Tezcan in a paper presented to a symposium
on the ‘Turkish kitchen’, claims that it is wrong to say that Anatolian cuisine belong to the
‘Byzantine kitchen’. He maintains the food culture of Anatolia was actually established before
the spread of Christianity so that what is called ‘The Byzantine Kitchen’ is actually the
‘Anatolian Kitchen’ (Tezcan 1982:121)40. Here the historical experience of Istanbul (and
other urban centres) and the processes of historical change are sacrificed for an idealised,
essentialised ‘Anatolian kitchen’, a strategy typical for modern nationalism.
In his discussion of Middle Eastern food cultures, Sami Zubaida makes the point that
the nationalist attitude to food is eminently historical, in the manner of a national-historical
essentialism. It strives to demonstrate historical continuity, and “[t]here then follow
excursions into speculative etymology and folk history to prove the point” (Zubaida 1994:39).
Thus, on the other side of the Aegean divide, Greek nationalism rejects any mention of the
Ottoman period in their culinary mythology (ibid.:40). To modern Greek nationalism the
Romii (the Greeks of the Ottoman Empire) are suspect because of their ‘oriental’ and corrupt
practices, while the Hellenes (ancient Greeks) are held up as an ideal and secure a connection
to Europe (Herzfeld 1987). Interestingly, the same tradition - the tradition of the Rum/Romii
of the Ottoman Empire – is constructed oppositely in two contemporary nationalisms: as
‘oriental’ in Greek nationalism, and as degenerate ‘Western’ in the Turkish-Islamic
nationalism.
In his partly scholarly, partly journalistic discussion of Turkish identity, Demirtaş
Ceyhun (1992) makes the point that the new Turkish identity overwrote a more primary
Byzantine/Ottoman distinction between Istanbul and the countryside (taşra) and in this
process the urban and ‘Byzantine’ traits were ‘forgotten’. There is a certain irony in this
reminiscent of the urban elite’s role in the early development of many European nationalisms.
Those who plotted the new Anatolia-based Turkish identity were intellectuals of the Ottoman
bureaucratic and military elite living in Istanbul. Many of them were born and bred in
Istanbul. They may well have been indulging in rakı and seafood at a meyhane while
discussing and elaborating their ideas of ‘Turkishness’, and it is easy to read between the lines
that Oğuz regards himself as more cultivated (for example as having a more liberal attitude to
seafood) than the Anatolians.
But Istanbul culture, despite official efforts to discount it, remained the cultural source
for elite articulation, be it in language, clothing or food (see ‘cultivated Istanbul seaside’
below). There has been a tendency to articulate the virtues of Istanbul culture not by claiming
it as local Turkish culture, but as civilisation, thus implying that one has transcended culture

40
This position, I think, typically shows the inherent ambivalence of the Turkish nationalism project,
between a nomadic/Anatolian Turkish tradition (roots) on the one hand, and a civilised European
culture (ideals) on the other hand that the ideologues struggle to hook on to those roots. Early history
writing, language reform and so on can clearly be viewed as attempts to establish such linkages.
50 CHAPTER 2

(hars, or tradition) (Navaro-Yasin 1999:74). In the language of the Young Turk ideologist
Gökalp, one might say that Istanbul was still often seen as the centre or gateway of
civilisation (medeniyet), while Anatolia (and Central Asia) was the home of Turkish culture
(hars). When Black Sea people today tend to denounce Istanbul style seafood consumption by
saying that it is ‘Rum’, they implicitly articulate a certain definition of Turkishness that
combines Anatolian and Islamic elements; in other words Turkishness as elaborated in the
doctrine of the propagators of ‘Turkish-Islam synthesis’. The Turkish-Islamic synthesis was
first developed in the early 1970s by a group called the Aydınlar Ocağı (Intellectual Heart),
and unofficially adopted by the military leadership during the first half of the 1980s as basis
for reconstructing the state and society after the 1980 coup (Kramer 2000:65). The leadership
perceived that this stimulation of Islam would constitute an antidote to communist activism
among youths. However, the Islam that was reconstituted in this ideological amalgam was a
particular variety of Islam, an orthodox, Sunni Islam (Magnarella 1998:245-254).
Today it is common among conservatives in Çarşıbaşı to state that 90% of the people
in Istanbul are Rum. They say this in such a serious tone that I took them to really believe this.
However, the real implication of the statement is probably more in the vein of “90% of the
Istanbulites behave as if they were Rum”. Istanbul (and sometimes also the Aegean coast) is
by many seen as a place where it is difficult to avoid getting involved in indecent and immoral
behaviour. When the fishing season in the Black Sea ended early in 1991, two young men sat
in a kahve and discussed the prospect of going to Izmir to sign on as crew on some fishing
boat there. One of them said that they should go before the upcoming Ramadan. His friend
was sceptical: “That will be difficult. People there do no fast, you become very sinful (Zor
olur, orada millet tutmaz, çok günahkâr kalırsın)”. This conception is echoed in a widespread
image of Izmir and Istanbul still being Greek cities, and “…rests upon both the notion of
some kind of folk memory able to transmit the ancient primordial essences of a past otherwise
invisible, and that the real Turkey is not ‘Western’ as the Greeks were Western, but ‘oriental’”
(Marcus 1992:11).
There used to be a substantial Rum population as well as a sizeable Armenian
community in the eastern Black Sea region41. However, it is difficult today to say what these
ethnic-religious categories implied ‘on the ground’. For instance, it was not uncommon that
Christians, for reasons of tax evasion and the like, were nominally registered as Muslims, and
that many Muslims spoke the local variety of Greek (Bryer 1980:XI). Bryer (ibid:40) even
speculates whether “…Greek became the prestige language among some Muslim settlers.”
There were also sizeable communities of Crypto-Christians (Andreadis 1995), and there
remain to this day Greek-speaking Muslims in the region (especially in Of and Tonya). In
daily practice as well as in local ritual activities there may have been a high degree of overlap
between these populations, with religious identity as a surface marker. The agricultural
terminology and technology, the folk dances, the various seasonal rituals such as the tradition
of celebrating Paskalya (Easter) with red eggs, the spring celebration Hıdrellez and the

41
For a detailed study of the Greeks of the Black Sea region, see Bryer 1980.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 51

Kalandar New Year rituals (children go around to neighbours and sing songs), as well as the
heavy influence of Greek in the local Turkish dialects, all bear testimony to Greek or Greek
Orthodox influences on a shared culture and praxis. The obviously Greek-Christian tradition
of Kalandar, for instance, was practised up until the 1960s in Çarşıbaşı. Moreover, almost all
place names were of Greek or other non-Turkish origin. These have gradually been Turkified
(many places as late as the 1960s), but many continue to use the old names, for example
İskefiye in place of the neologism Çarşıbaşı.
It may be claimed that in many respects the Turkish State has tried to erase the
Rum/Greek legacy in this region, and for most people today the scheme which sets up Greece
as the main threat to Turkey makes it difficult for them to accept a ‘Greek’ past which may
live on in their own practices. However, it is not my intention here to chart the ‘real’ influence
or importance of the Greek past. My point is simply to stress the locals’ ambivalence and
sensitivity on this issue. If someone in Trabzon articulates a position that claims a
Western/Rum/Christian influence on his practices, or traditions, he stands the chance of being
accused of being Rum, atheist or leftist, in other words of being unpatriotic. Likewise, when
left-of-the-centre ‘native’ Cypriot Turks claim that they share a common food culture with the
Cypriot Greeks42, they are often accused of being Rum by nationalists (Kjetil Fosshagen,
personal communication).
The Turkish intellectual elite, those who aspire to Istanbul civilisation, can be seen as
individuals who try to hook on to ‘Western universal civilisation’. Thus, they will not accept
Istanbul culture as ‘local’ or ‘authentic’; this is because they have ‘surpassed’ culture
(Navaro-Yasin 1999), they represent civilisation. Scientists play a special role in this: they are
among the primary defenders of civilisation, and belong to a universal or global culture.
However I would claim that to subscribe to such an interpretation is non-symmetric: the
‘local’ ‘Istanbul’ culture, as expressed in for example the (local) culture of the scientists,
should also be studied. The tendency in Turkey to accord authenticity/locality only to
traditions that are articulated within an Islamic idiom (Navaro-Yasin 1999) reminds me of the
excessively sympathetic and essentialising approaches to indigenous knowledge (see Chapter
4). The discourses around the secular women’s body and clothing practices in Turkey may be
a case in which this distinction is gradually being transcended as more and more ‘secular’
women argue, in order to be publicly convincing in face of a ‘local’ Islamic challenge to their
manners, that their ‘açık’ behaviour is local Turkish culture (Navaro-Yasin 1999:67). But will
there be men standing up in a similar way to claim that it is ‘Turkish’ to eat mussels?
In his characteristically generalising and comparative approach, Goody claims that
stratified societies (in Eurasia) typically produce rebellious or revolutionary streams of
thought that oppose the activities of the rich. This especially takes the form of puritanical
reactions to the luxuries displayed by the rich. However, with the spread of contemporary
consumer culture, symbols of luxury are prone to erosion (Goody 1998:180-181). I think it is
correct to say that the widespread non-consumption of many kinds of seafood in Turkey is in

42
Unlike most people in Turkey, Cypriot Turks eat snails and are proud of it!
52 CHAPTER 2

part a kind of resistance to the manners, activities and luxuries of the rich. “Crab, that’s the
business of rich men!” ‘Lokanta’ used to have a luxury tag, but this was ‘eroded’ when the
middle and even lower-middle classes started to eat at lokantas. Thus, during the 1970s, the
eating places that were frequented by the upper classes increasingly called themselves by the
French term ‘restoran’, and had increasingly complex codes of conduct, such as making table
reservations, leaving one’s car at the restaurant entrance to be parked, and so on (Arkan
1993/4:220-223). Many new seafood restaurants clearly belong to this class.
It is interesting to note that the erosion of seafood’s luxury tag is hindered because of
the emphasis on it being served fresh and because of the limited supply. This may be why
seafood has generally retained an important position in ‘cultivated’ lifestyles. Relative
scarcity of some of the species may have been one reason for the luxury tag attached to
seafood. During the Ottoman and early Republican period catches may simply not have been
large enough to support more general consumption. This is certainly true now for species such
as lüfer, turbot, swordfish and barbunya. But in Istanbul, Trabzon and possibly Izmir, catches
of palamut, kolyoz, hamsi, sardines and other pelagic fish must certainly have been substantial
during their migration season, and providing important food for the poor as well. Moreover,
better infrastructure and rising catches since 1980 have (again) made some pelagic fish
(hamsi, sardines, istavrit, in good years also palamut) available and affordable to the common
man in other regions. Furthermore, it is striking that certain non-fish sea animals such as sea
snails are, despite their abundance, not consumed in Turkey but exported43. It is also
important to keep in mind that both alcohol and seafood are subject to internal differentiation,
for example between whiskey and beer, lüfer and palamut.
To be a good Muslim, it is considered essential to demonstrate one's distance from or
non-involvement in objectionable and infidel practices. The Istanbul seafood culture is
perceived by the Black Sea Muslim as expressing a non-Muslim, Greek (Rum) and infidel
(kafir) lifestyle and identity. Alcohol plays a focal role in this imagery and the Black Sea
people’s concern with this issue can be illustrated by sketching (1) the contrasting images of
Beyoğlu and (2) the restaurant and drinking culture in Trabzon. I have argued that the
different seafood cultures in Turkey are a matter of representing or constructing identities,
especially regional identity (hamsi), Turkishness, or upper-class cultivation. I will now extend
this analysis: many Black Sea people’s concern about the kind of seafood they eat is not only
a rhetoric of difference or resistance; it is not only predicated upon different ‘tastes’, but upon
a concern about ‘our way of living’ and personal morals.

43
Even a substantial part of the not very high prawn catches (0.15% of world catches) are exported, and
only about 1000-1500 tonnes of the total mussel catch of 42-43.000 tonnes is consumed in Turkey
(Çelikkale et al 1999:274-5).
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 53

Alcohol and morality: Istanbul and Trabzon

“Alcohol is the source of all kinds of evil”

Beyoğlu
Typically, the Beyoğlu and Galata districts in Istanbul are known not only for their meyhanes,
but also for their brothels and açık (‘open’) women. But there are several competing visions
and histories of Beyoğlu: For some, Beyoğlu is the symbol of (foregone) ‘cosmopolitanism’,
‘civilisation’, and ‘elegance’. For others it is a symbol of all vices, the brothel, and for yet
others the symbol of ‘foreign heritage’. For those who consider themselves the ‘real owners’
of the city, Beyoğlu now represents the ‘peasantisation’ of the city (Bartu 1999:36). For
many, Beyoğlu has become the focal point of a nostalgia mourning a lost cosmopolitan
civilisation (Bartu 1999:37). One example of the latter – the complaint about the degeneration
of the civilised meyhane - was mentioned in the previous chapter (‘Alcohol’). The nostalgic
view of Beyoğlu roughly corresponds with the Istanbul seafood culture, while the ‘brothel’
perspective is more often linked with the Trabzon approach to seafood. I do not have very
much field material on the first version, regarding the manners and lifestyle of the secular
elite. As certain subtle distinctions in taste are articulated within the upper class lifestyles,
there are probably also ‘internal’ distinctions within the Istanbul seafood culture that I fail to
see, for example between the ‘ostentatious consumption’ of the newly rich and ‘civilised
dining’ of the old guard (see Chapters 8, 11 and 12 for some further elaboration of ‘Istanbul
manners’). Here my main concern is the ways these images are handled in the popular culture
that most fishermen in Trabzon are part of.
The ‘brothel’ imagery of Beyoğlu is, I believe, familiar to all Turks, and one of the
most common among fishermen and others in Trabzon. Already the first time I joined a
Turkish fishing vessel in Trabzon, a young man praised the skipper, his uncle, for being a
very good captain and continued: “Even though he is 56 years old, he is very strong. He has
many women in Istanbul. He is rich.” This example also illustrates another symbolic aspect of
this world of illicit sex and alcohol, namely conspicuous consumption. Consumption of
alcohol - together with keeping lovers and concubines, and displaying of material wealth (big
cars, houses and so forth) – is a very common way to demonstrate wealth, especially newly
acquired riches. Powerful and rich ‘big men’ (büyük adamlar) - those who have succeeded,
who have ‘turned the corner’ (köşyeyi dönmüş) - are often thought to indulge in such
pleasures as illicit sex, luxury food, alcohol, expensive cars and so on. Many poorer people
consider both these practices as well as the riches themselves to be morally questionable. The
established, cultivated elite, on the other hand, consider such conspicuous consumption
tasteless (see Öncü 1999).
I have argued that it is the association with alcohol that may be the imperative reason
for the taboos in the Trabzon fish culture, but there are actually various intertwined
54 CHAPTER 2

considerations which do not present themselves as separate spheres of reference for the people
themselves. Rather, underlying all of them is the common concern about morally correct or
‘good’ behaviour. Thus, many of the seafood taboos common among the populations of the
eastern Black Sea coast seem to have their origins in a need to demonstrate moral integrity,
primarily within an Islamic idiom. That means staying on the straight or ‘true’ path and
avoiding the temptations that can lead to ruin. For a man, that first and foremost involves
avoiding alcohol, gambling, and illicit sex. Involvement in such practices will consume his
money, erode his moral standing, and ruin his family. This is a common theme in popular
Turkish ‘arabesk’ films (for example those of the actor and musician Ferit Tayfur, who is
very popular among many Çarşıbaşı fishermen) and is constantly drawn upon by people in
Çarşıbaşı when they explain their own and others’ failure in life. Wealth earned, businesses
established or property inherited have been squandered on alcohol, gambling or karıkız
(women, loose women).
However, it is also important to understand some of the attractions of alcohol. Apart
from its obvious role as an intoxicator for the disillusioned, lonely impoverished immigrants
in big cities, alcohol is also one means of demonstrating one’s maleness (erkeklik), vigour and
strength (kuvvet) through occasional, but massive drinking (rakı is also known by the
euphemism ‘lions’ milk’). Another way to demonstrate one’s prowess is through sexual
conquests; in practice it is a ‘conquest’ of prostitutes, who are often regarded as infidels.
Beyoğlu has been the primary site for occasional all night partying which include good food
(often seafood), alcohol, sex, and perhaps gambling44. Writing about Beyoğlu one writer
claims that visiting traders to Istanbul regarded it as an incomplete visit if they had not gone
to Beyoğlu to prove their maleness. However, he characterises this picture as a dream or
fantasy (düş) (Kaptan 1989:45). In Beyoğlu fortunes are made, celebrated, and above all,
consumed...45
With the advent of a strong Islamist party, alcohol has again entered the national
political agenda. Pera/Beyoğlu was, in a cultural sense, never captured by the Muslims, and
has remained suspect to Islamists during the Republican era as well. In the more extreme
views of post-1950 populist nationalist-Islamist agitation, Beyoğlu was considered as a
“…temptation to contaminate the Turkish-Islamic purity, it was a whore, an enclave of
evil…” (Bora 1999:54). When the Welfare Party (Refah Partisi, later re-established as Fazilet
Partisi) won the 1994 municipal elections in Istanbul (as well as in many other large cities
around Turkey), masses of young Refah Party followers rushed through this area to celebrate
the party’s victory. Erbakan, the leader of the Refah party, came to Istanbul and made a
speech in Taksim square (in Beyoğlu) where he spoke about the ‘second conquest’ of Istanbul

44
See the novel of Kemal 1978:234 for a very typical example of the popular association of fishermen
with Rum, drinking, sex and Beyoğlu.
45
The districts of Aksaray and Laleli now seem increasingly to be taking over this role, but lack the
veneer of ‘cultivation’ that Beyoğlu has. I once met a rich young man from the upper class district of
Levent in a pub in Beyoğlu. He and his mates had come there to get in the right mood (watching upper-
class girls having a good time on the dance floor) before moving on to Aksaray in order to ‘finish their
business’.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 55

(the 1453 conquest by Fatih being the first). Both because the Greater Istanbul Municipality
does not have very wide powers (it does not control the police force or the tax revenues), and
for various strategic reasons, the Islamist imprint on municipal policies was not as great as
many had feared. Thus, “restrictions on alcohol…may be the only [policy]… through which
the City Administration explicitly assumes an Islamist identity” (Çınar 1997:37).
This restrictive policy on alcohol was shared with other Refah municipalities such as
Trabzon. It was implemented by banning alcohol on all premises owned by the City, and by
harassing private establishments with unrelated charges. The major concern was to ‘open up’
public spaces to Islam by removing morally undesirable practices that made the places
inaccessible (a similar policy was adopted for restricting prostitution) (Çınar 1997).
Underlying this there seems to be a general preoccupation with physically isolating the
‘forbidden’ (or haram, günah) activities; a kind of socio-geographic seclusion of the
‘forbidden’ to the private sphere in order to prevent temptation and contagion. This approach
is also manifested in national policy, even of ‘secular’ governments. For instance, a new
regulation that applies to Turkey as a whole, requires that schools be located no closer than
200 metres to places that serve alcoholic beverages (Anadolu Ajansı 13.01.1999). Also the
Islamist activism represented by the headscarf (türban, başörtü) protests in which Islamist
women students cover their hair at University (Göle 1996, Özdalga 1998) is seen as a move to
open up more spheres – here the universities and institutions of higher education - to
Muslims, making them accessible without compromising their beliefs.

Restaurants and drinking in Trabzon

Trabzon is presently, by Turkish standards, thought to be a conservative place. People in
Trabzon are popularly regarded as being muhafazakar (conservative) dindar (religiously
devout) or tutucu (‘holding on’ to the traditions). This is reflected in the voting pattern. The
political leadership of Trabzon Belediyesi (Municipality) has since 1994 been in the hands of
the Islamist party. However, Trabzon is a very old urban centre and contains a substantial
secular and culturally refined upper class. In addition, a University was established there
already in 1955, ensuring a substantial influx of people with secular ideals and lifestyles.
Many upwardly mobile rural people also aspire to the secular ideals and readily embrace the
‘Istanbul’ way.
Thus, there also exists an urban-rural contrast between the city of Trabzon and its
hinterland. While Rum and Armenians, both rich and poor, used to constitute an important
component on the urban side of this opposition, most of the Rum in the region actually lived
in the countryside. Starting around 1830 and levelling off after 1870, Trabzon experienced an
economic boom due to its function as a re-loading and transit point on the re-opened route to
Tabriz (Iran) via Erzurum (Turgay 1982). As in Istanbul, the Rum and Armenian commercial
bourgeoisie probably benefited most from the trade boom during the middle of the 19th
century, and the commercial elite probably came to be associated primarily with the Christian
minorities. This took place at the same time as tensions between the different ‘nationalities’
56 CHAPTER 2

(millets) were increasing. But it is difficult to ascertain whether the Trabzon Muslims' dislike
for non-fish sea animals developed in opposition to the general Rum population in the region,
to the local urban Greeks, or - more recently - to the ‘Istanbul’ way (or any combination).

Figure 6 Map of Trabzon region

Unfortunately, it is very difficult to find any material about communal life in the Trabzon
region prior to the establishment of the Republic46. But in all likelihood the rural Rum would
have been more prone to drinking than the Muslims. Elderly men interviewed in 1978
described how the Rum had had large stocks of wine at their yayla (mountain summer pasture)
in Maçka, south of Trabzon. Like many Turks, the Rum spent the summer at the yayla. At the
beginning of the century this yayla boasted several meyhane and kahve which served alcohol.
It was very lively. This ended when the infidels left. Although this was primarily seen as a
Rum pastime, another man relates how the Turks in Sürmene around World War I also used to
participate in drinking parties consuming locally produced (by Rum) rakı47. One source stated
explicitly that local making of wine and rakı was also undertaken by Muslims in Sürmene
during the closing years of the Empire (Yıldırım 1990:510-11). Wine used to be among the
primary exports from Trabzon, but today there is to my knowledge no wine production
despite the favourable local ecology, especially around the city of Trabzon and Akçaabat.
However, it has been difficult to ascertain whether there were any differences in
seafood consumption between the Turkish and Rum villagers. The only reference to fish I
found in connection with the Pontos Rum is a statement that, unlike elsewhere in the Christian
Orthodox world, fish was accepted as a main course for the Easter meal (Hionides 1988:241).

46
Ömer Asan (1996:52), who has explored the shared Pontos cultural roots of the eastern Black Sea
region, regrets the lack of sources regarding communal life during the Ottoman Era. History writing on
both sides has tended to be extremely nationalistic and focus on the massacres and expulsion of the
Greeks on the one hand, and on the Russian occupation, Turkish liberation and Greek moves to
establish a Pontos state on the other hand.
47
I am indebted to Bernt Brendemoen who generously shared these excerpts from his fieldnotes with
me.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 57

Lent rules may have stimulated the Rum to higher intake of seafood in periods, while the local
ecology supplied less of the non-fish sea animals highly esteemed in Istanbul. So, it is
difficult to judge the relative importance of religion/ethnicity, class and sophistication in the
development of a regional culinary fish culture that partly defined itself in opposition to a
Rum/elite/Istanbul seafood culture. What we do now, however, is that Rum merchants in
Trabzon had close ties to Rum in Istanbul as well as in other parts of the Greek world (Black
Sea ports, Greece, the Aegean). Moreover, many Greek merchants from these regions came to
settle in Trabzon (Turgay 1982). Thus it is probably not too far-fetched to postulate that a
lokanta culture not very different from the one in Istanbul was widespread in the city of
Trabzon. The French envoy Theophile Deyrolle, who visited Trabzon in 1869, writes about an
unexpectedly good Levantine hotel/lokanta in the quarter where Rum and Armenian traders
lived (Deyrolle n.d., cited in Şen 1998:231). The 1876 ‘Province of Trabzon Yearbook’
(Trabzon Vilayeti Salnamesi Vol. 8: 263) records as many as ten gazinos and 51 meyhanes in
the city of Trabzon. In addition there were 150 coffee-houses. In 1933, after the ships and
caravans had stopped visiting Trabzon and after the Greeks had left, there were together only
102 coffee houses and gazinos in the city (Odabaşıoğlu n.d.:171). A local commentator writes
that the high number of meyhane and gazino during the latter part of the 19th century was
probably an expression of the very rich and lively trade and high living standard during those
years (op.cit.).
As in Istanbul, alcohol consumption was very likely one of the practices of the Rum
and Armenian urban elite that was considered morally suspect (but nevertheless participated
in) by the local Turks. Alcohol was clearly an important issue in the local articulation of
Turkishness in the heated years around 1920. At the very first meeting of the Meclis
(Parliament) in Ankara (1920), a Trabzon MP called for a very strict and broad law on
alcohol. He complained that the numbers of Rum meyhanes in Trabzon had increased from
four to 73. “A handful Pontos Greeks produce rakı and exploit the local people (memleketi).
They smuggle this money to Greece.” He complained that people lose their property to the
Rum and Armenians. “People from seven to seventy have become drunk.” He saw alcohol as
leading to spiritual (moral) ruin and one of the main problems of the region he represented
(Sülker 1985:152).
Alcohol is today a central concern for many people in and around Trabzon. I was very
often asked “Do you use alcohol? (içki kullanıyor musun?)”48. In local communities most
people knew who ‘used’ alcohol. The moral tone of the majority of the population was also
reflected in the Islamistic political leadership of Trabzon Municipality. They expressed their
attitude clearly in their public policy, even campaigning for their view on large signboards
along some main roads which declares that “Alcohol is the source of all kinds of evil
(‘badness’) (Içki her türlü kötülüğün kaynağıdır)”. Of course, Islamists are in principle
opposed to all kinds of establishments that serve alcohol, and will try to ensure that alcohol is

48
I felt that my answer - ‘I drink a little, for the taste of it’ - was not usually fully understood. If they
drink, they do so to become drunk.
58 CHAPTER 2

not served close to schools or mosques and that alcohol consumption is not generally
conspicuous. In the small inland Municipality of Uzungöl east of Trabzon, the Islamist
Municipal leader (1994-99) prohibited consumption of alcohol even though it is a very
important tourist site (Sabah Gazetesi 27.04.1999).
In Trabzon, restaurants, lokantas, hotels, gazinos and birahanes have traditionally
been concentrated to the area around the Municipal Square (Belediye Meydanı), which was
previously known by the name ‘The Infidel Square’ (Gavur meydanı) because of the large
Greek and Armenian populations which used to have their businesses in this area. When I first
came to know this quarter in 1990 there were several gazino, birahane and even a fish
restaurant here. However, this became the centre for meetings between Turkish men and
Nataşalar (plural of Natashas - women from the neighbouring former Soviet republics). This
activity was sharply criticised by women's groups and conservatives, and the Islamist
leadership tried to isolate the activity. Now the Nataşas are only to be found in a very limited
area near the square, in, as is emphasised by many, belli (evident, well-known) places. Much
of this activity has moved some distance outside of the city centre, to a more run-down
district close to the harbour and to better quality new hotels along the main road. It has also
spread to many small towns east of Trabzon49.
All in all, the Nataşa ‘incident’ has strengthened the association between alcohol and
illicit sex in Trabzon. A young, married fisherman friend told me that when he went to
Trabzon to meet his blond arkadaş (friend) they would sit down and drink a glass or two of
some alcoholic beverage before having sex. If the shares paid at the end of a season are large,
it is regarded as rather common among young fishermen to spend much of this on alcohol and
women in a couple of weeks intense activity. Like alcohol, the Nataşas are blamed for marital
problems, personal bankruptcy, criminality and uncleanness. It has become even more
important than before for ‘good Muslim’ men to avoid places serving alcohol; likewise it has
become critical for the drinking establishments to guarantee the anonymity and seclusion of
their customers. A man from Trabzon will, for a one night ‘stand’, visit a hotel in Rize, and a
rich man from Rize will travel by Mercedes to some hotel in Trabzon. An upper-class female
friend complained that when they approached Trabzon by car from the west and were looking
for a place to have a meal (not an ordinary lokanta, which would be seen as temizsiz,
unclean), they could not find a decent place (i.e. without alcohol and Nataşalar) before
arriving to Akçaabat.
The border between ‘ordinary’ upper-class hotels and restaurants on the one hand, and
hotels and restaurants involved in the Nataşa business on the other, is not easy to see,
especially for ordinary people who cannot frequent such places often. Upper-class fora for
immoral behaviour often collapses in public imagery, although there are clearly also typical
lower class ways of indecent behaviour (birahane, more run-down gazinos and the like). Thus
there are almost no ‘ordinary’ places that serve alcohol: you either have to go to an expensive

49
See Beller-Hann 1995, also for a discussion of local conceptualisations of the presence of the
Nataşas.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 59

restaurant or to one of the newly established kafeterya of dubious reputation. In Trabzon

today there is perhaps only one ordinary birahane that is outside of the Nataşa traffic, as well
as one open-air ‘park’ where beer is served during the summer months. Furthermore, there is
no ordinary seafood restaurant on or close to the meydan, which is remarkable since the
people of Trabzon are known as the supreme fish eaters in Turkey. There is one new seafood
restaurant within walking distance of the city centre (Karides [Prawn], in the Moloz quarter).
Both the name of the establishment and the fact that fish is even transported all the way from
Istanbul - for example the typical restaurant fish kırlangıç - attest to the fact that this belongs
to the Istanbul seafood culture. According to a marine scientist friend, in 1999 there were in
Trabzon around ten places which served fish (four which served only seafood), including a
couple expensive hotels. Most of these can only be reached by car. To go to such a restaurant
is, for the common man – as a fisherman expressed it - a fantasi. Fishermen say that eating
fish in restaurants is the business of rich men. In 1998-99 a full meal with alcohol cost around
US$ 20. Seafood served at restaurants in Trabzon clearly belong to the Istanbul seafood
culture50.
When I asked people in Çarşıbaşı why there were no lokanta or restaurants that served
fish in the town, they usually answered that everyone can eat fish at home since fish is so
easily available. But when I pressed the issue, stressing that this applies to most of the food
that is served in the lokantas, some replied that fish smell. One fisherman said that a lokanta
would need a tall chimney so that the neighbours would not complain. Moreover, the cook
would be standing in the fish smell all day. I commented that “eating it is nice, cooking it is
dirty (yenmesi güzel, pişirmesi pis)”. He agreed. Another fisherman had similar responses, but
after being unable to explain why there is no place which serves fish, he said with a smile:
“Moreover, there is this: if there is fish there should be alcohol (Bu da var, balık olsa içki de
olmalı)”. Another man commented that “With the fish you drink alcohol (Balıkla içki içilir)”.
Discussions about fish as food easily develop into discussions about alcohol. In
Çarşıbaşı I once observed three men (fishermen and others) discussing fish as food. From this
they slipped into talk about what drink goes with fish, and ended up discussing whether it is
haram to pray after one has been drinking (alcohol). In contrast to Çarşıbaşı, nearby
Beşikdüzü, a somewhat larger town, has four fish restaurants, all serving alcoholic beverages
(içkili). Beşikdüzü is generally considered a more liberal place – people being more ‘free,
social, modern, left-wing’ (serbest, sosyal, modern, solcu) and less religiously devout
(dindar). During my first fieldwork, two brothers opened a birahane in Çarşıbaşı. But, it was
closed after only a few months because of pressure from the local branch of a Muslim
brotherhood (Süleymancılar), or because of intervention by the authorities following a fight
there, or because the proprietor-brothers couldn't agree...

50
In addition to the establishments mentioned here, there is also the Kalepark which is in a military area
open only to military officials (and their offspring) and other higher ranking government officials. Here
alcohol is served, and fish is always to be found on the menu. In the autumn of 1998 a portion of
palamut cost only US$ 3. These establishments are found in the same form all over Turkey, and their
existence cannot be said to reflect the attitude to seafood and alcohol in Trabzon.
60 CHAPTER 2

Drinking is indeed haram at home, and ayıp (a shame) in public or semi-public spaces
such as in kahves, on the streets and so on. And since there is no place that serves alcohol,
people drink in spaces which are away from both the public and private fora - in the back
rooms of shops, in the reception room of an influential man, under some trees in a garden, or
at the sahil. It is possible to buy beer, wine and various spirits in a couple shops, but the
bottles are always properly wrapped in order to disguise the ‘forbidden’ content. Alcohol is
clearly a very sensitive issue, and the association in public imagery between fish restaurants
and alcohol prevents anyone from trying to set up a fish restaurant here. In the second half of
the 1970s there was a fish restaurant in Keremköy just outside of İskefiye for a while. Alcohol
was served in this place which was, interestingly, called ‘The Gazino’. Now, twenty years
later, this place is just an ordinary kahve, but is still known by the name Gazino. Today the
local population regards itself as being conservative and devout. The brief existence of the
gazino was probably due to increased circulation of money, upward mobility and local self-
confidence created by heavy involvement in smuggling during the politically turbulent second
half of the 1970s.
Although eating fish in Çarşıbaşı and Trabzon is not generally associated with alcohol,
the associations connected with the Istanbul culinary culture prevail when eating fish in a
restaurant/lokanta. The Istanbul seafood culture has a dominant position in the national
discourse on seafood and fish and is drawn upon for interpreting the meaning of eating
seafood in restaurants or similar places. Trabzon fish culture therefore finds no expression in
restaurant life. However, there are a couple exceptions whose semiotics of self-presentation
are very interesting. On the Municipal Square in Trabzon there is a fish lokanta, which is
immensely popular. It opened in 1984 and remains the only lokanta of its kind in Trabzon.
They serve three to five species of fish, mostly cheap and middle-range kinds. All the fish is
fried, which means that it is not prepared in ways peculiar to the Trabzon fish culture. Service
is fast and the fish may be served with a salad, but there are no appetisers or sweets. Only
fried fish. Single businessmen, often unaccompanied women - both açık (‘open’) and kapalı
(covered) - come to have a hurried, cheap meal. In the autumn of 1998 a whole fried palamut
cost me only US$ 4 which is comparable to a meal at a normal lokanta and far cheaper than
fish in restaurants. People do not linger for hours, engrossed in deep muhabbet. No alcohol is
served and the premises are very well lit and fully open to the street. The Islamic identity of
the lokanta is conspicuously demonstrated by the proprietor's well-groomed (Islamic style)
beard and the Arabic (Islamic) scripts on the walls. All this establishes a distance between this
and more objectionable places; it is impossible to mistake this lokanta for a meyhane or
birahane. Yet, they apparently could not resist the temptation to add a touch of the
atmosphere of the Istanbul seafood culture: the fish are served with their heads, and in a
corner beside the television there is a somewhat inconspicuous decoration consisting of a
dried sturgeon and half a bottle of rakı, with the label turned away but still recognisable due
to the pink colour that marks some kinds of rakı.
Thus there are clear parallels between the lack of drinking establishments and the lack
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 61

of places that serve seafood in Trabzon. Both are Muslim reactions to the immorality of a
non-Muslim (secular) life, often associated with Western Turkey, Istanbul, and lifestyles of
the rich, such as the indulgence in seafood and alcohol. Thus, an Islamic/morally correct or
acceptable way to eat fish in restaurants leaves one with little room for manoeuvrability and
flexibility; the complex elaboration of seafood cuisine and restaurant atmosphere is too
saturated with objectionable practices. However, I do not want to give the impression that
people from Trabzon, or even from its hinterland, are all poor people who oppose the secular,
Istanbul elite culture from a position based in the moral universe of Islam. The situation is
certainly more complex as the following cases will demonstrate.
On the waterfront around the fishing quarter Faroz in Trabzon there are some
interesting new seafood establishments. There are two new lokanta/restaurants named Deniz
Köfte & Balık Tesisleri (Sea Meatballs and Fish Facilities) and Faroz Et ve Balık (Faroz Meat
and Fish). They cater more for up-market patrons, with their seaside location and emphasis on
being temiz (clean) and spacious. However, these are not ordinary restaurants, in that the
proprietors of both are Refahlı (‘supporters of the Welfare party’). No alcohol is served, the
menu is composed of soups and main courses (no spread of mezes), and they do not
exclusively serve fish, as is clearly indicated by their names. Furthermore, the premises are
decorated, among other things, with Koranic citations, and are conspicuously well lit and easy
to look into from the outside. All of this is an outright denial of the semiotics of the meyhane
culture to which these establishments are in clear opposition. This is a new development:
Islamic style upper-class restaurants, an expression of a more self-confident class of devout
nouveau riche Turks. One can visit these places ailecek (as a family, i.e. with wife and
children) since one can expect people to behave decently.
However, I must stress that such restaurants are frequented by all kinds of people. It is
not morally degrading for a ‘devout’ secular to sit at a table in these restaurants, and it is the
ideal place for mixed parties (from work places and the like) since it is acceptable to all. Thus,
there are clear parallels between these new seafood restaurants, the Refah municipalities’ ban
on consumption on alcohol in public, and headscarf activism: all are strategies to open up
more arenas to Muslims. But there is one more somewhat ironic dimension to this, and that is
the new elitism that it implies. Socio-economic development, especially since 1980 has
created new elite groups in Turkey, many of whom ascribe to an Islamic way of life. These
groups create new ways of expressing elite identity (Göle 1997). It is now possible to dine on
seafood in an Islamic way, or to express wealth and cultivation in ‘chic’ styles of covering
(türban, tesettür) (White 1999). Thus, when political Islam is in power, or when economically
powerful Islamic elite groups develop, the anti-elite rhetorical potential of Islam is partly
corrupted. These new elite groups tend to implement policies that end up “...resorting to
another elite sensibility” (Bora 1999:55) and shaping new kinds of daily practices that turn
previous symbols of political Islam into potential signs - if refined/costly and so on - of socio-
economic (elite) status. The new ‘Islamic’ fish restaurants, like ‘Islamic chic’ tesettür (White
1999:83), are not merely, or primarily, protest symbols; they are true fashion and expressions
62 CHAPTER 2

of a refined taste in a new cultivated Islamic lifestyle appropriate for new-rich believers.
On the other hand, the secular codes for elite behaviour are also attractive to many in
Trabzon. Some of the native urbanities of Trabzon visit the seaside in the vicinity, for
example in Çarşıbaşı, during the summer in order to swim and eat mussels on the beach. A
man working as a technical assistant at a marine research institution and a native of the city
was unfamiliar with the ‘prohibition’ on using the knife on live fish. Many Black Sea people,
including middle-class people from agricultural/fishing backgrounds in Çarşıbaşı, aspire to a
modern, secular, urban life. In 1991 a young unmarried women and the daughter of a trawler
owner, explained her family's liberal (çağ) lifestyle – reflected, for example, in the fact that
she could meet me at a pastry shop (pastane) in Trabzon – by claiming that, “almost all of us
[the family] have seen and know Istanbul (bizde hemen, hemen herkes İstanbul'u gördü,
İstanbul'u tanıyor)”. She exemplified this by saying that since she had lived for an extensive
period in Istanbul, she knows how to behave properly in pastanes. “Since I have been to
Istanbul I have been irritated by the boy serving us. He does not know the pastane etiquette.
This is not like Istanbul: there is only one Istanbul and in Istanbul you can find everything. If
you have seen Istanbul, you have seen the world.” She went on to emphasise that she did not
like to visit the village and that she despised the hard work required in the gardens. Instead
she prefers to “attach to the Society, in other words to the city (sosyeteye takılmak, yani
şehre)”. Here she is very bluntly stating that she is aspiring to elite/Istanbul/secular lifestyle.
Although many in small towns and villages along the eastern Black Sea coast hold such
ideals, they may find these difficult to realise locally. The reasons for this are both economic
(limited employment opportunities for the educated) and socio-cultural (the daily ‘pressure’ of
traditions, the rigidity of social norms, the difficulty of living açık). If possible they move to
Trabzon, one of the industrial towns near Istanbul, or Istanbul itself. When I met her again in
1998 she was married and the mother of a child, living a ‘modern and secular’ middle-class
life in Istanbul.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 63

Multiple seasides

The civilised Istanbul seaside

The sahil, the seaside or waterfront, holds an important, though ambivalent, position in the
imageries surrounding seafood and identity. My fish-trader friend Alparslan says that the
preference for eating seafood at the seaside is a universal law. He is probably right. However,
in Turkey this rule is reinforced by the special significance attributed to the sahil, and to the
cultural divide between the coastal areas/Istanbul and Anatolia. In Turkey the sahil, and
especially the seaside in Istanbul - the urban seaside with its history, monuments, human
activities, and unique natural beauty - is invested with an air of exceptionality. It stands in
contrast to the (physical and psychic) hardships of ordinary daily life. The Golden Horn and
Bosporus seaside has a long history as a zone of pleasure, recreation and refinement. The
Ottoman upper classes, of all ethnic/religious backgrounds, used to escape the heat of the
urban landscape and spend the summers in yalıs (coastal mansions) along the Bosporus.
During the 19th century Tarabya was centre of the upper-class social life, with people strolling
the quay and drifting around on the Bosporus by kayık (boat) at night. This was a
multicultural Ottoman or Levantine culture (Mansel 1995: 325-7). Another favourite
recreational area was the stream of Kağıthane, which empties into the Golden Horn.
Thus the waters of Istanbul came to symbolise the pleasure culture of the late Ottoman
Empire. The ‘Istanbul way of life’ came to be known by the joint pleasures of food, wine,
music, taverna/lokanta and, often, the sahil. Already in the 17th century “[a] perception of the
city as a place of comfort, sophistication, culture and opportunity...” (Murphey 1990:116)
began to take shape. This is expressed in the common saying “Under the rocks and soil of
Istanbul there is gold (İstanbul taşı toprağı altında altın)”. This epitomises the dream of
Istanbul, of the fortunes that can be made there, which the Anatolian migrant coming to
Istanbul may hold. In his analysis of Turkish literature Stone focuses on the writers'
preoccupation with the stark contrast between Bosporus and Anatolian cultures and notes that
“[t]he Istanbul writers conceive of water [the Sea of Marmara, the Bosporus and the Golden
Horn] as a source of romance, free breathing space, and a channel for communication” (Stone
1973:55).
It may even seem as if the elite tried to re-create some of the Istanbul seaside
atmosphere in their new capital in Anatolia. During the early years of the Republic the ‘New
Ankaraers’ visited newly constructed gazinos and the like on the ‘shores’ of pools constructed
in the shape of the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea, to drink alcohol, dine and dance (Şenol
1998:98). In addition to the great importance of the balls, the social life of the new Ankara
elite had a distinctive Levantine tone (Şenol 1998). Moreover, as Sülker tellingly notes,
during the Republican period all drinking poems have been about Istanbul. In these poems
seaside, fishing boats, and seafood meals play a not insignificant part (1985:168). Irfan Orga
(1958b:25-27) tells of how, when he was a junior officer in the early days of the Republic
(1930s or 40s) he experienced that some Ankara generals now and then telephoned their
64 CHAPTER 2

subordinates in Izmir and ordered fresh fish for a minister. A large operation, including the
use of dynamite, was set in motion in order to procure the fish. Six perfect ones were selected
for the minister and six others for the general who had first thought of the idea of “demanding
a dish of fish for the mighty”. The fish was immediately flown to Ankara by seaplane.
To sum up, it seems evident that the new republican elite in Ankara reproduced a
particular version of Istanbul upper-class lifestyle, one which attributed high prestige to
seafood and the seaside. Actually, the Ankara elaboration of the seafood culture may have
heightened the upper-class nature of this culinary culture since fresh fish must clearly have
been a much more precious (and expensive) resource in Ankara than in Istanbul. The new
rulers in Ankara probably had very ambivalent feelings about Istanbul. It was the source of
cultivation and upper-class manners and style, but also symbolised decadence. Istanbul was
the symbol of most of what they were trying to distance themselves from ideologically, but at
the same time it “…seemed to represented a temptation they tried very hard to keep away
from: Mustafa Kemal did not visit Istanbul for five years in an attempt to resist the siren’s
call”51 (Keyder 1999:11). Istanbul was ideologically suspect, but at the same time the
‘Istanbul lifestyle’ was embodied and reproduced in the everyday practice of refined lifestyles
(eating seafood, going to the theatre, speaking ‘elevated’ Turkish, and so on).

Fishermen and seaside drinking

In Turkish films the sahil, and in particular the urban sahil of Istanbul, is the place people go
if they are in emotional turmoil, whether they are in love, experiencing great anxiety or are
fraught with rage. It's not uncommon for music videos to picture the artist in front of some
fishing boats in a harbour. This is also a zone of relaxation, recreation, beauty and muhabbet.
The sahil may, like the arabesk music, be described as a mediator of strong emotions,
muhabbet and relaxation. Of course this is not the only contemporary imagery of Istanbul.
The daily experience that millions have of traffic jams, pollution, noise, heat and so forth is
too penetrating. But this idealised, or perhaps romanticised, seaside Istanbul and the Istanbul
of opportunities is still an important aspect of a shared imagery of the city.
I think it is fair to say that there are (at least) two different social frames for social
gatherings, muhabbet, at the seaside. First there is the world of private coastal mansions,
expensive cafes, seafood restaurants and hotels - a world of rich men and ‘modern’ women.
But pockets of urban sahil can still be found that are pleasant and accessible to the non-elite,
especially in the fishing harbours. Because of this the fisherman’s environment is often
romanticised by the elite. Under the headline “Oh, that fisherman’s shelter! (Ah şu balıkçı
barınağı!)” one journalist relates how he forgets his problems and worries when he dives into
this world:
In the fishermen's shelter there is peace of mind and friendship. What are the pleasures of the
‘liner’...A little tea, a little imbibing, and, yes, plenty of conversation. Is there anything more
beautiful in this life? (Ünsal, Radikal Gazetesi 19.05.1998) (appendix 2, item 5)

51
However, towards the end of his life, Atatürk spent most of his time in Istanbul where he died as a
result of excessive drinking…
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 65

This non-elite sahil is surely a romanticised world, but its ‘inhabitants’ are also very easily
stereotyped as pleasure seekers and drunkards. It is viewed as a world in which a group of
shabby men, typically small-boat fishermen and şarapçı (‘wine drinkers’, drunkards) get
together in some shed or barrack, or on a kayık (small-boat), in the harbour area to enjoy some
glasses of rakı, a simple meal of fish and ‘sweet conversation’.
In Trabzon the ‘sophisticated’ version, or pretensions of it, is represented in the small-
boat harbour that is located within the large commercial harbour area (Büyükliman). Here
‘hobby’ fishermen have been granted permission by the Municipality to maintain small dams
(small house, boat shed) for the purpose of fishing activities. However, most have added a
second floor with a balcony looking out over the harbour area and the sunset. This is an ideal
place to get together with family and friends to eat fish and drink. The ‘renters’ arrive in their
private cars and although many own a small kayık (but rarely nets), they buy their fish at the
fishmonger at the entrance to the area. They have formed an association (dernek) which,
according to the leader of a nearby ‘true’ fishermen’s cooperative, ‘works to ensure their right
to drink in the harbour’. Here it seems that a segment of the local middle and upper-middle
class elite have exploited the common romanticised idea of the fisherman’s environment and
appropriated a portion of the public sahil for their private use in order to emulate one aspect
of a lifestyle that conveys – or imitates? - the image of the elite ‘Istanbul lifestyle’.
But the association of fishermen with the ‘non-cultivated’ variety of sahil world
contributes to a negative stereotype of fishermen, especially small-boat fishermen. However,
there seems to be pronounced regional variations in this. My impression from a one-day visit
to Tekirdağ, in the centre of the wine and rakı producing area of Trace, west of Istanbul, is
that eating fish and drinking alcohol is both more common and more publicly accepted
there52. There is regional variation also within the Black Sea region, with Sinop for example
displaying a very liberal attitude – there are several seafood restaurants that cater to both
tourists and locals, and fish is served in some ordinary lokantas during peak seasons. In
Istanbul there is a widespread stereotype that small-boat fishermen drink. In the eastern Black
Sea region most of this would be hidden since the mainstream population look down upon
public consumption of alcohol. Fishermen and other coastal people agree, however, that the
best place to prepare and eat fish is at sea or at the seaside. Fishermen’s ready access to fresh
fish results in a common belief that they participate in quasi-Istanbul style seafood
consumption even though they are not rich and cultivated. But, drinking goes together with
fish, not with fishing. Thus, fishermen have to tread very carefully to cope with these limits53.

52
Thus there seems to be a very high correlation between the acceptance of alcohol among the regional
populations and the number of seafood restaurants in that same region. In Tekirdag, which lies at the
centre for wine and rakı production on the shore of the Sea of Marmara, consumption of alcohol is
widely accepted and seafood restaurants, which cater not only to the weekend tourists from Istanbul,
abound.
53
Small-boat fishermen who do drink say that they may drink when they work very close to the shore
(for example when catching kefal), but not when they work on the open sea. This also corresponds well
with my observations.
66 CHAPTER 2

Small-boat fishermen in Trabzon seldom prepare fish meals in the harbour or at the seaside,
therefore, but rather on the boat. Or if they do prepare seafood on the seaside, it is primarily
done in the private atmosphere of a boathouse. On the larger boats in Trabzon drinking (and
card playing) is ‘forbidden’, being regarded as a ‘sin’ (günah). This rule is also enforced by
skippers who are otherwise known to drink and/or have a liberal attitude to alcohol.
Furthermore, fish traders (kabzımal) also make a point of not mixing business and alcohol. A
newspaper interview with some middle range-traders in the fishing port and market of
Kumkapı in Istanbul was rounded off as follows:

- Both our material and spiritual state is good. ....For example, we do not encourage [drinking
of] alcohol. Cola goes better with fish. The fish requires a salad and a tahin helvası [sweets,
eaten after the fish]. Alcohol drinkers are slapped here.
- Well, then, do fishermen now and then visit cinemas and theatres?
- Whaat! No cinema and theatre [for us]. But there are [soccer] matches.
(Akman 1997, see appendix 2, item 6)

In Çarşıbaşı drinking parties centred around small-boat fishermen attract other men at the
fringe of society. I know about only one fisherman who regularly ate fish and drank within the
harbour area in Çarşıbaşı. More than anyone else Coşkun (pseudonym) spoke enthusiastically
about the tastes of different fish, about his preferences. He was regarded as a very skilled
fisherman and a kind man, but people avoided him and said that he was not doing well
because of the drinking. His family was in ruins. During the autumn of 1990 he put up a tent
in the harbour area. When not working he stayed there most of the time. Rumour had it that he
had been cast out of his home. Under cover of the evening darkness other men would come to
share the fish and rakı: a postman, a half crazy ballad singer, a poor young man trying to set
himself up as a shop keeper, a pitiable 40-year-old bachelor, and a young man wanted by the
police for illegal use of a gun. All were known to be regular şarapçı (drunkards). A matter of
primary interest for them was the taste and preparation of various fish. One man described
one such party as saray (‘palace’ - a clear, but ironic allusion to the Istanbul culture).
However, such activity is believed to lead ultimately to misfortune and ruin. A few years later
three (of the four that I have information about) attending the party were dead (traffic
accident, murder, cancer).
The negative stereotype of small-boat fishermen is reinforced by the belief that they
smell (of fish). While prepared fish and sea products are regarded as a visual and especially a
culinary delight, raw fish is almost invariably considered to have a very unpleasant smell.
Interestingly, few talk about any unpleasant ‘feel’ of raw fish. Anyway, while eating fish is
attractive, all processes before it reaches that stage are regarded as unpleasant, as pis (dirty).
This general idea about the unpleasant smell of raw fish even causes many small-boat
fishermen in Istanbul to have special kahve. They themselves feel that they smell too bad to
visit other teahouses. And small-boat fishermen in Çarşıbaşı commonly change clothes on
their boats. They do not usually enter the kahve wearing their work outfits. To summarise,
even though it may be a ‘fantasi’ for the common man to visit a seafood restaurant, it is still
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 67

possible to enter a sahil world of seafood, alcohol and muhabbet, albeit a morally dubious
version. This version of the sahil also carries the negative connotations of being pis (dirty),
koku (bad-smelling), fakir (poor) and pitiable. Especially fishermen and others who have their
business in the border zone have to watch their step in order to maintain a good reputation.

The Black Sea seaside

There is another seaside in the Black Sea region, another set of daily practices, rituals and
imageries of the coast and the sea. The seaside along the Eastern Black Sea coast seems never
to have been very attractive. It was, and still is, seen as a damp and unhealthy place. During
the summer coastal villages were almost deserted as people fled the heat and malaria
mosquitoes54 and followed their flocks to the high summer pastures at the yayla. For the
coastal populations, both Rum and Muslim, work and recreation during summer were
traditionally at the yayla, which was and is praised for its cleanness. Ritual activity, drinking
parties and so forth flourished. The physical shape of the coast, with its very straight
coastline, lack of islands and few bays, makes the contrast between land and sea very
pronounced. There is almost no border zone, no diffusion. I believe this has a powerful impact
on people’s experience and codification of the sea. The sea is there, always present, but
almost never ventured out upon or into. The rural populations do not regard the seaside as an
attractive place. Only a few young boys play around and swim on warm summer days, and a
few of the secular professionals may go to the secluded ‘family’ beaches.
The Greek fishing communities in the Marmara region seemingly used to start the
fishing season each year with an Orthodox Christian blessing on May 21. The ceremony was
led by the local priest and took place on the boats. This was followed by rowing contests and
a communal feast where the boat owners offered his guests food and drink (Lambadaridis
1973, cited in Salamone 1987:55). This ritual seems to be very similar to the more common
Greek Orthodox ‘blessing of the waters’ on the day of Epiphany, January 6th (Megas
1963:50). Interestingly, there seems to be no such ritual among contemporary Istanbul or
Black Sea fishermen to mark the beginning of the fishing season. The only indication that
there have been some rituals connected to the fisheries are stories told by elder fishermen in
Faroz (in city of Trabzon) about communal meals in connection with the collective production
of the large nets (until the 1960s). Yet, even though there presently are no rituals connected to
the fisheries, for instance no communal ceremony marking the start of the season, there are
other sea rituals that seem to be unique to the Black Sea region.
In people’s experience Karadeniz (The Black Sea) has two very distinct seasons:
winter and summer. In many places in the region, the beginning of summer and the move to
the yaylas was marked by sea festivals that were sometimes codified as hıdrellez (a common

54
I do not know when malaria stopped being a problem in the region, but it was certainly a problem in
19th century Sürmene (Bilgin 1990:336), and was probably so also in the ecologically very similar
Çarşıbaşı region.
68 CHAPTER 2

spring ritual throughout Turkey), but more commonly as ‘Mayıs yedisi’55. I have reports of
such rituals in Giresun, Ordu and in Beşikdüzü. One commentator identifies these as rituals of
the Çepni- (Alewite) Turks and sees continuities with similar rituals still practised by Central
Asian Turks (Sırtlı 1993:151). But local populations, both nominal Muslims and Christians,
probably participated side by side in these festivals. It is claimed that the festival in Giresun
builds on a 4000-year long tradition (Anadolu Ajansı 20.05.1999: Karadeniz’de festival
coşkusu). Once I observed the ritual in Beşikdüzü together with fishermen friends who went
there to earn money by ferrying passengers in their boats. People were taken out to the sacred
place where those wishing for fertility or health would throw some coins into the water. The
number ‘seven’ seems to be important (crossing seven rivers, ambulating around an island or
hollow stone seven times). Notably, most of the participants are women and children from the
inland. Many believe in the health-giving power of the seawater and collect some to sprinkle
on cattle, houses and so on56. The ritual is especially thought to be good for women who want
to become pregnant. It is clearly a fertility ritual. Many of these people only get close to the
seawater on this occasion each year. The mixing of seawater and freshwater, which pours
down from the mountains into the sea during springtime, may be an important aspect of the
ritual, possibly symbolising the mixing of male and female substances. The island off Giresun
is important in their version of the ritual (kayıks circulate seven times around it), and was
previously known as Arrenotilos (Greek?), meaning ‘male and female’ (Bıjışkyan
1998[1819]:79).

Figure 7 Map of eastern Black Sea region of Turkey

Unlike the yayla festivities and the ‘Istanbul’ seaside, these sea festivals seems to have no
association with alcohol, or the elite for that matter. There also used to be a sea festival in
Trabzon. This festival, called Aladurbiya/Alaturbiya, was celebrated in midsummer and was a
day of joy. People came from the interior and went to sea on boats, and the women ‘swam’.
The urban and upper-class population of Trabzon also seemed to participate in this ritual that
took place (at least until World War II) on the seventh of July where the large river

55
‘Seventh of May’, in accordance with old Julian calendar used by the Greeks, but celebrated on the
20th of May according to the new Gregorian calendar.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 69

Değirmendere poured out into the sea just east of the centre of Trabzon (Karaduman
1987:22). It is claimed that this belief is especially widespread among Çepnis (Emiroğlu
1989:35: Alaturbiya), but another source (Greek nationalist) claims it as a Rum ritual where
young men would assemble at the seaside to party (and drink) (Papadopoulos 1984).

Zones of intimacy

Istanbul seafood culture and the sahil is thought to invite an atmosphere of intimacy, of
muhabbet. It is interesting to compare this with another context for intimacy/muhabbet,
namely the popular culture of arabesk. The term arabesk was first applied to a musical genre
which was inspired by Egyptian popular music from the 1930s and onwards, but became a
full-blown phenomenon during the 1970s and 1980s. The secular elite saw it as a hybrid and
degenerate musical form that deviated from the national project, and it was therefore banned
on the state radio and television channels until the end of the 1980s. The ban was not
effectively broken until new private television channels started to broadcast in the beginning
of the 1990s (Özbek 1997). Gradually ‘arabesk’ became en epithet that encompassed a whole
range of socio-cultural phenomenon. The cultural elite saw it as emblematic of the
undesirable developments brought about by mass migration to the cities: degeneration, return
of Islam, eastern passivity and pessimism, and incongruent modernity in the hybrid forms of
the gecekondu dwellers. The main critics of arabesk are found among the secular, educated
elite that has easy access to the national media. Now, their criticism has not passed
unchallenged, and even the former Prime Minister and President Özal publicly endorsed the
style (see Stokes 1992, Özbek 1997).
Thus, like Istanbul seafood consumption, arabesk is criticised - although from another
standpoint - within a framework that associates ways of consumption, or even the lack of
good taste, with moral qualities. But the similarities are not only between the critiques, but
also between the ‘internal’ imageries. Arabesk music and films evoke the longing for
community/communion, and praise muhabbet, friendship and ‘drunkenness’ (facilitated both
by alcohol and music). Arabesk is, according to Stokes (1992:11), “…a language of the
emotions of the inner self (the gönül)…”. At the experienced level it is a discourse of
sentiment. In the discourses about it, arabesk denotes degeneration, hybridisation, and
tastelessness. It is considered as being reactionary and incompatible with the Turkish
modernisation project.. While it was initially employed as a label for the lifestyles of certain
kinds of people, the non-urbanised urban dwellers, it has increasingly become a label for a
condition. As the musical genre achieved recognition, the term arabesk developed into “…an
all encompassing metaphor to describe and identify a general malaise that seems to plague
every aspect of life in Turkish society…suffering from neither-nor situations of indeterminacy
and degeneration” (Öncü 1999:110).

56
This is clearly associated with Greek religious practice, but also with the zamzam water brought home
from Mecca by Muslims.
70 CHAPTER 2

Thus there are many parallels between the sahil and arabesk: both are the territories of
muhabbet, both are associated with alcohol, friendship, and escape from the problems of daily
life. And both are from certain positions seen as morally suspect: to put it somewhat
simplisticly, the sahil primarily from the perspective of the Muslim Anatolian, arabesk from
that of the educated elite and middle classes. But unlike arabesk, the Istanbul seafood culture
and its appropriation of the sahil semiotics, its association to alcohol and infidels, has not
been the issue of national public discourse, of public criticism.

Cultural form: Arabesk Seafood, Istanbul style

Associated socio-space: Gecekondu Sahil
(squatter settlements)
Associated ‘class’ category: Fakir (poor)->new rich Zengin (rich)
(fishermen) (fish eaters)
Associated cultural stream: Islam Laik (secular)
Perceived by ‘proponents’ as: Folk, ‘our culture’ Civilised culture
Popular culture
Perceived by ‘opponents’ as: Anti-modern Anti-Islam
Kind of consumption: Mass consumption Elite consumption
Moral evaluation of consumption: tasteless/hyper-materialism Infidel/alcohol
___________________________________________________________________________
Shared characteristics Borderland
Intoxication
Muhabbet/intimacy

Figure 8 Comparing popular perceptions of Arabesk and Istanbul style seafood

consumption.

The sahil may seem suspect or unclean also to the elite, especially the helter-shelter sheds put
up by the small-boat fishermen57, the smell of rubbish and fish, and the unsophisticated way
of drinking. The negative stereotype of the small-boat fisherman is closely connected to this.
By and large fishermen’s lifestyles would, from an outsiders point of view, fall within the
category of arabesk, while scientists’ tastes would make them fit the refined Istanbul lifestyle.
Many teachers also aspire to and try to emulate the symbols of a secular Istanbul lifestyle. In
Çarşıbaşı there was a group of young men consisting of small-boat fishermen and crew plus a
few students and a teacher. They saw themselves as a secular and leftist group. The teacher
spoke on behalf of the group, stressing, among other things, that ‘we who are educated’ like
musicians such as Zülfü Livaneli. He made a point of the fact that Livaneli had lived for a
long time in Europe. Common, cahil (ignorant) people, he continued, like arabesk. A few

57
When President Evren was to pass through Çarşıbaşı some time in the 1980s, the Municipality
ordered the destruction of the fishermen's sheds (dam) in the harbour area.
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 71

weeks later the teacher and I went to sea with some fishermen. The fishermen were playing a
tape with arabesk music (Bülent Ersoy) in the cabin of the boat, but the teacher ‘ordered’
them to switch it off, which they did. Nevertheless, fishermen continue to listen to arabesk
music both at home and on their boats. However, they do not make a point of it being
arabesk, nor do they use this label much at all, for example to characterise a certain lifestyle.
The sahil-seafood-alcohol cultural expression of the (secular) elite can be said to be a
‘cultivated’ and elite ‘equivalent’ of the arabesk. But the seafood culture has not been the
subject of similar assaults to those directed at arabesk. However, in their practices, in their
individual choices - in choosing not to go to Izmir during Ramadan, in playing their arabesk
tapes - the ‘good Muslims’ continue to oppose and to dissociate themselves from the immoral,
secular upper classes. One may interpret this as a subversive or counter hegemonic strategy,
but the focus is not so much on attacking the elite, which is relatively insular anyway. The
main reason for not visiting a seafood restaurant or preparing grilled fish on a mangal in the
sahil, is to protect one’s own moral standing, to appear before one’s fellow villagers and
friends as a responsible father and good Muslim. Moreover, their approach to this Istanbul
seafood culture and its ‘degenerate’ non-cultivated parallel is ambivalent. It is a tempting
world and they may occasionally indulge in it, when far away from home, or if one becomes
rich. Thus, unlike the main battlefields of the secular - Islam confrontation in Turkey - the
female body, clothing and hair/beard, education, use of public space, and so on – the
‘immoralities’ of the Istanbul seafood culture have not received the same attention in the
public discourse, but continues to be important concerns in daily practice, and indirectly
surface in the public discourse about alcohol.
What about other ‘resistance’ options besides stressing Islamic norms, for instance
articulating an alternative folk-seaside culture based upon the tradition of the local sea
festivals, for example, which were non-elitist and alcohol-free affairs? Interestingly, this
seems to be a dying tradition. Aladurbiya does not appear to have been celebrated for several
decades. The festival in Giresun has been appropriated by the folklore agenda and
transformed into a huge four-day cultural festival. The festival in Ordu has only slowly been
recovering following an accident in the 1980s. The one in Beşikdüzü is still popular (but see
Chapter 11) and carried out without any kind of formal organisation. However, almost no one
from the coastal region attends it. Many claim that it is improper to participate in the festival
since it is a Rum affair and attendance has decreased. For many this day is now just an
occasion for joy and travel (gezme), and my fishermen friends played down its symbolic
importance58. Other local ‘syncretistic’ rituals, such as hıdrellez, have all but disappeared
from the ritual agenda. The yayla festivals are apparently still very popular, but also seem to
have been ‘folklorised’.
I have wondered why such local forms of ritual and belief have all but lost their
importance. There are clear causes to be found in the socio-economic transformations of the

58
But I did note a certain tendency to join the celebration if one had constructed a new boat – to ensure
its ‘fertility’?
72 CHAPTER 2

Turkish society. Also, some intellectuals from the region claim that such ritual/festival life
was prohibited or repressed for some years after the 1980 coup. The formal justification was
that the yayla-festivals used to involve a lot of weapons and shooting, but these intellectuals
claim that the ulterior motive was to ‘purge’ practises that were not entirely ‘Islamic’. Black
Sea Turks are today very concerned to present their practises and rituals as Islamic, for
example by emphasising that the belief in the Evil Eye is grounded in the Koran, and by
generally distancing themselves from all ritual practices or beliefs that are not overtly Sunni
Islam (or State). Sabine Strasser (2000) describes popular beliefs and practices among
Trabzon women relating to spirits (cin), possession (perilenme), and spells (muska). During
my periods of fieldwork I did not observe anything like this. I did not particularly look for
this, but people may also have been reluctant to present such ‘unorthodox’ and ‘irrational’
beliefs and practices to a ‘scientist’.
There is also evidence to support a claim that people in this region increasingly adopt
‘Istanbul’ ideas of the seaside. A recent study (Gülez 1996) of ‘recreation demand’ in the
eastern Black Sea region shows that the seaside was by far the most popular natural landscape
type for recreation among all age groups and populations in towns and cities in the region.
The seaside is seen ‘as the place where novelty forms of leisure are carried out’, especially by
the younger and the better-educated people. The study sees a clear shift from yayla festivals
(preferred by the elderly) to seaside activities. Thus, the urban population in the region
seemingly appropriates the Istanbul seaside semiotics, further contributing to national cultural
uniformity, leaving ‘local tradition’ on a dead-end and empowering Islam as the only feasible
idiom for resistance to the elite as well as an alternative expression of elite identity.

Conclusion

Seafood semiotics has less to do with ethnicity and religion than native imagery seems to
imply. Seafood consumption is more expressive of class or lifestyle identities. Have the
conditions for taste and lifestyle changed with the transformation from empire to nation state?
Perhaps the nation state develops quasi-historical ethnicity myths that invest lifestyles with a
‘national’ importance. Thus, because it was framed by the nationalistic project, Istanbul style
seafood was excluded from ideological elaboration of Turkishness. Nevertheless, the
association between the elite and seafood that was consolidated during the 19th century (but
had earlier roots) was in practice - in the articulation of lifestyles - reproduced in the Republic
despite the national myths. It is surely not only Ottoman village practices (read ‘Islam’) that
have survived the Republican attempts to produce through social engineering a new Turkish
citizen. With the new dynamism of the economy after 1980, economic capital has become
more important, but the new economic elite groups try to convert their economic capital into
(partly novel) forms of cultural capital. It used to be the Istanbul lifestyle vs. the rest; it is now
much more complex. New economic elite groups make creative compromises, such as
patronising the new kinds of fish restaurants where elite consumption without immoral
associations is possible. There is now a plurality of forms, of lifestyles. But arabesk and
 IDENTITY CONSTRUCTION 73

perhaps Istanbul style seafood consumption continue to be emblematic figures mobilised in

discourses about lifestyles and morals.
In some respects, the same tendency of national integration as was seen in ritual life
(as well as in music) can also be observed in food-ways. On the national level there is an
increasing complexity and multiplicity of food-ways – associated with the spread of local
cuisine, increasing interest in ‘exotic’ or emblematic ‘Western’ food, and new ‘Islamic’ elite
styles. At the same time this complexity is an expression of a kind of national integration: it is
increasingly the same choice for all, throughout the country. There has been a standardisation
of many food-ways, for example of breads (Sauner-Nebioglu 1995:369), and also by hamsi
and trout becoming dinner options for all Turks. Differences are less between regions, and the
division between the urban upper-class (or saray/palace) culinary culture and the country food
is less clear-cut than before. A few items from some regions have been folklorised into
emblems of the region, but at the same time appear as a choice in the national cuisine (for
example hamsi). Although stratification in food-ways may be more important than ever
before, the lines of stratification are less obvious as the state has retreated somewhat from
dictating norms and forms (Yenal 1998).
One may ask whether the elite and the people have different concerns: cultivated taste
vs. the common man’s moral? Is arabesk and Trabzon fish culture about more than taste?
Perhaps ‘taste’ is more important to the upper classes? Bourdieu (1984) makes a similar
observation: those with more capital are freer to ‘stylise’ their lives. But, contrary to
Bourdieu’s observations of France, it seems that here the lower and middle classes not only
try to copy the styles of the upper classes, although that clearly is one option. Fishermen and
others who are critical of Istanbul ways seem to have more integrity, and a clearer
independent agenda that does not simply grow out of their class-specific dispositions. They
oppose or even invert the hierarchy in social space and construct an alternative frame of
reference, a model of a moral hierarchy.
The two first chapters have focused on the role of seafood consumption in lifestyle
formations in Turkey. The next chapter surveys the development and characteristics of the
production of seafood. This shift in perspective will ensure that subsequent discussions of
relations between fishermen and scientists are not addressed solely within a semiotics of
lifestyles, but also remain rooted in particular practices that are historically constituted. At the
same time it will also become evident that, while the culinary cultures of seafood have a great
influence on the ‘production’, the state policies and associated dramatic societal changes
during the last 100 years have influenced consumption and production differently.
74 CHAPTER 3

3 FISHERIES AND SCIENCE IN THE

TURKISH MODERNISATION PROCESS

“We scientists want there to be no place for the word ‘randomness’ (or ‘chance’, rastgele) in
science. In science, in the exact/positivist sciences (müspet bilimde), there are definite results.
While ‘randomness’ is expressed in the fisheries of all continents, this is at odds with science.
As everyone knows, the Black Sea is now exhausted (yorgunmaktadır) by a range of
problems. How can we find answers, solutions, to these problems? Who are going to give the
answers? Those who know (tanımak) the Black Sea very well, the scientists of the Black Sea
countries, will provide the answers.”

(Professor Çelikkale of Sürmene Marine Research Faculty, addressing scientists, fishermen and
a general public at the opening of a panel discussion about the Black Sea during the
FISHECO98 symposium in Trabzon)

One day in 1991 the old small-boat fisherman Muzaffer Çulha told me about fishing in bygone
days. We were sitting on the sand among the small fishing boats and looking across the
harbour at the large fishing boats and the factory of the Çarşıbaşı cooperative I asked him
whether he had been a member of the cooperative. “No, that’s not my business (işim olmaz)”
he replies, “the cooperative is only for the owners of the large boats (mal sahibleri,
proprietors)”, and adds, “They call it the ‘water produce’ cooperative. We used to say fish!”

While the previous chapters focused on the role that fish and seafood play in consumption and
identity management in Turkey, the present chapter will chart how fish is handled, or
‘treated’, in other contexts. This principally includes the state’s policies towards fisheries and
the catching and handling of fish. It will be seen that in these contexts fish enters other
discourses besides the fish-as-seafood discourse. The description in this chapter of
developments in the state’s approach to fisheries, as well as the technological developments
within the fisheries, is simultaneously an outline of the genesis or the transformation of the
main traditions of knowledge with which I am concerned here. In Foucault’s terms, I survey
the emergence of the discursive formation that made possible the practice domains of marine
science and technologically advanced fishing. The knowledges brought to the fisheries and
the sea by these categories of people can only be understood against the background of
changes in technology, organisation and state policy and involvement. Thus this chapter will
provide a backdrop and introduction to the chapters on fishermen and scientists.
I examine the changing approach of the state to fisheries from the Ottoman era until
the present. What interests did the state have in the fisheries? To what degree and in what
manner did it influence fishing practices? In particular, I argue that the changing interface
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 75

between state and fishing can be traced in (1) a new approach of the bureaucracy, and,
growing out of this, (2) the ascendance of the marine sciences, which were accorded an
important role as modernising agents. Thirdly, I survey the technological changes in fisheries
during this century as well as general developments and changes in the social structures in the
fishery sector. Finally, this chapter situates and contextualises the fisheries by discussing its
place in the socio-economic fabric of Çarşıbaşı, my main fieldwork site. However, before
turning to outline the fishing practices of pre-republican times, I first discuss whether fishing
traditions have been circumscribed by ‘ethnic’ organisation. Were the Greeks so dominant in
the fisheries that the large scale population exchanges between Turkey and Greece in the early
1920s had dramatic consequences for the continuity of traditions of knowledge in the
fisheries?
A history of fisheries in Ottoman waters
‘Who were the fishermen?’
The issue often first raised in texts discussing pre-republican fishing in Turkey is “who were
the fishermen?” In the previous chapters it was evident that in public imagery as well as in
historical sources, the association between fish and Greeks keeps popping up. This issue is of
importance here since the alleged dominance of Greeks in this sector raises the question of the
continuity and fixity of traditions of knowledge in the fisheries. Were the fishing traditions
swept away with by wars and population changes in the years before and after the
establishment of the Republic? Was there no ‘traditional’ knowledge base to build on in the
fishing sector? It is often claimed, even by contemporary Turkish fishermen themselves, that
the Turks learned the art of fishing from the Greeks. Evliya Çelebi “…especially stressed
[that in the middle of the 17th century] the sailors, sea captains, fishermen and tavern keepers
[in Constantinople] were Greek” (Kuban 1996:305). It seems to have been a common
conception among European travellers and commentators from the turn of the 19th century
that fishing and seafaring was yet another occupation that the ‘Turks’ didn’t have a liking for
or competence in. In his detailed and ‘new Hellenistic’ travel account of 1840 W. J. Hamilton
(1984:284) simply notes that “…along the [Black] sea-coast the Greeks are still, as they have
ever been, the only fishermen”. Aflalo (1911:193), in his analysis of Turkey, declares that
“[t]he fisheries are at presents in the hands of Greeks, Lazes and Armenians, with the Turks in
the minority.” This observation echoes the common European preoccupation of that time to
differentiate ‘national’ groupings. In such a context the category Laz remains ambiguous
since it can refer both to a small, linguistically distinct population east of Rize, and to the
population along the eastern Black Sea coast in general (see Meeker 1971).
In contemporary writings by Turks the view of the Europeans are reiterated. In an
encyclopaedia entry on ‘Water produce’ (Su Ürünleri), Ahmet Günlük (1983) claims that
most fishermen in Istanbul and Izmir, as well as those operating village fishing weirs (dalyan)
in villages along the coasts of Marmara and the Aegean, were Greek. Greek sources (mainly
autobiographies) also indicate that most or all fishermen in some communities, such as
Gemlik/Kios (on the Sea of Marmara) (Kulingas 1988), Marmaras Islands (close to the Strait
76 CHAPTER 3

of Çanakkale) (Salamone 1987), and Şile (on the Black Sea coast, near the Bosporus) (Terzis
1997), were Greek at the beginning of the 20th century. These populations departed for Greece
and were replaced by Muslims under the population exchange program agreed upon by
Turkey and Greece. This is known to have happened in the important fishing village
Rumelifener at the northern mouth of the Bosporus, as well as on the Marmaras Islands for
instance. As Greeks left Rumelifener, their houses were given to Turks coming from Greece.
However, these newcomers soon moved out and were followed by Black Sea Turks, primarily
from Rize (Taygan, Cumhuriet Gazetesi 14.06.98). The magnitude and implication of this
migration of Greek fishermen can also be gauged by its effect in Greece. “After 1922, the
development of the [Greek] fishing industry received a marked stimulus from the arrival of
refugee fishermen who settled on the Greek coast. Many of them came from
Constantinople…and brought with them better vessels…and better tackle…” (Naval
Intelligence Division 1944:88). In her study of The Fisherman’s problem in the Marmara
Sea, Leyla Taner (1991:83), who relies primarily on Günlük (1983), claims that “[a]fter the
Independence War…the demographic changes, exchange between Greece and Turkey have
swept away the fishing sector.”
However, I believe it would be far too simplistic simply to regard the fishing sector as
purely ‘Greek’ before and during the Ottoman era, to be succeeded by ‘Turks’ only after the
revolution and population exchanges. Muslims were clearly fishing long before the Greeks
left. Although Rum fishermen from Trabzon59 were among the Christian populations the first
sultans moved into Constantinople in order to resettle the Imperial city during the early
Ottoman era, there is also evidence of Muslim fishermen in Trabzon at an early date (Lowry
1981:84). A 1960 encyclopaedia entry (Koçu 1960: 2013) suggests that Muslim and non-
Muslim fishermen worked (according to a 1577 source) separately, and that it was made clear
in the fish hall from which fishermen (Muslim or not) the produce came. The reason for this
was that the Sultan’s household as well as many other conservative Muslims did not eat fish
caught by non-Muslims. Only a couple of generations later, in 1638, Evliya Çelebi (n.d.:158-
161) makes almost no mention of such a division. In his detailed description of the great
procession of the Guilds that the Sultan Murat IV had ordered, he enumerates eleven
categories of fishermen (including the Imperial household’s own fishermen, who may have all
been Muslim), but makes no note of any distinction along religio-ethnic lines, except to
mention that a few Greek fishermen were exempt from taxes, but “…are obliged to catch
dolphins which serve as medicine for the emperor” (n.d.:159-60). Although the fishery guilds
may have been composed of both Muslims and non-Muslims, the produce could still have
been separated according to who caught it.
All in all, it is difficult to get a clear picture of the Ottoman fishing population, even in
Constantinople. There may also have been considerable flux and change throughout the

59
In 1540 three Rum groups were moved from Trabzon to Istanbul: the community of fishermen
(cemaat-ı balıkçıyan) (138 families), the community of ığrıp fishermen (cemaat-ı ığrıpçıyan) (18
families), and the community of dalyan fishermen (cemaat-ı dalyancıyan) (26 families) (Lowry
1981:79-84).
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 77

centuries. Charles White (1845:52) notes that “the whole corps of boatmen [for passenger
transport] are Turks and Greek; the former preponderating in the city, the latter nearly
monopolizing the Bosphorus.” But, in his chapter on fishing and the fish market he writes that
“[t]he majority of the dalyan and boat fishermen are Bulgarians, from the vicinity of the
Black Sea.…Few Turks work at this trade, unless as overseers or agents of government
contractors” (ibid:90). The retail fishmongers, on the other hand, were mainly Greeks
(ibid.:98).
Undoubtedly, the Turks can be said to have learned fishing from the Greeks. The
terminology of fish and fishing contains to this day a fundament of Greek. But this applies to
the entire eastern Mediterranean, Northern Africa as well as the Black Sea region (Kahane,
Kahane and Tietze1958:ix) and can only be postulated as a very general claim. Although the
degree of separation on religious-ethnic background within the fishing sector appears to have
varied in degree over time, fisheries have probably been the business of a mixed population.
Fish, and especially fishing terminology - for example as presented in Devedjian’s (1926)
extensive and detailed work on fish and fisheries in Istanbul and the Sea of Marmara in the
beginning of the 20th century - was, and still is, a mixture of Greek and Turkish. Muslim
populations both in Istanbul and along the Black Sea have for centuries in all likelihood made
their living as fishermen. Moreover, it is important to note that the Greek presence in Istanbul
fishing continued for some decades after the revolution and population exchanges. The Greek
population of Istanbul was left out of the population exchange (mübadele) with Greece in the
1920s. In 1934 the total Greek population (both Turkish and Greek citizens) was still as high
as 100.000, making up approximately 1/10 of the population of Istanbul (Millas 1993/4:365).
This number remained stable until the middle of the 1950s (Mansel 1995:424).
In effect, this probably meant that Greek fishermen with large seine (gırgır) boats
living in the upper Bosporus had to leave, while Greek fishermen who were involved in
smaller scale fishing remained. In the well-known novelist Sait Faik’s Medarı Maişet Motoru
(1944) Greek and Turkish fishermen work together and mingle at the same kahve at the
Princes Islands outside of Istanbul during the latter part of the 1930s. Faik mentions that many
fishermen sing the latest hits from Greece, and his Turkish and Greek fisherman characters
share the same Istanbul style seafood consumption and the joy of drinking on returning with
full pockets from selling their catch. A 1952 description (Koçu 1960:2008-9) of the 20 shops,
kahves and meyhanes in one of the small streets in the fish market area at Eminönü by the
Golden Horn, shows that Turks were proprietors of only two establishments/shops (and no
meyhane). One was run by a Bulgarian, and the rest by Rum. The novel Deniz Gurbetçileri by
Halikarnas Balıkçısı (1969) gives some indication of continued contact between Turkish and
Greek (sponge) fishermen in the Aegean long after the population exchanges. A man from an
Istanbul fishing family told me that Turks learned the use of gırgır (purse seiners, see below)
from the Greeks only around 1960. This is probably not entirely correct, but it may attest to a
continued presence of Greeks in the fishery sector long after the establishment of the
Republic. In the Black Sea region, however, the Greek presence came to a more abrupt end
78 CHAPTER 3

with the population exchanges. But Muslims were probably already deeply involved in
fisheries and seafaring. The French scientist Theophile Deyrolle60, in discussing the various
ethnic groups in Trabzon in 1869, claimed that a large portion of the Trabzon Turks are
traders and fishermen (Şen 1998:235). The Black Sea Turks’ competence in fisheries is also
attested to by the fact that it was primarily Black Sea Muslims who fled from the Russian
occupying forces in 191661 and established themselves in Istanbul, taking over from the Greek
fishermen. People from the environs of Rize in particular settled in Rumelifener and Poyraz,
both close to the northern mouth of the Bosporus.
Thus, I cannot agree with Taner’s (1991) assertion that the fishing sector in Turkey
was swept away with the population exchanges after the War of Independence. Although the
republican revolution and the population exchanges temporarily reduced the population of
experienced fishermen and brought about a restructuring of the fisheries, there is inadequate
evidence to suggest that it amounted to a complete break with the past. Quite the contrary.
The purse-seine technique (gırgır) was first developed by fishermen in the Greek-Armenian
community in Kumkapı (in Istanbul) around 1885 (Devedjian 1926:333). Yet, the knowledge
of the gırgır clearly survived the War of Independence since it soon afterwards came to be the
preferred gear among fishermen in Istanbul and the Black Sea.
Some of the Rum fishing communities that were forced to leave in the years around
the military conflict with the Greek State and the establishment of the Republic resettled as
fishing communities in Greece. They brought with them the technique of the gırgır (grigri in
Greek), which was an unfamiliar technique among the locals. The Greeks coming from Asia
Minor brought with them a nautical and fishing tradition that was alien to those Greeks
already living in the region. Moreover, as Stephen Salamone (1987) relates in his ethnography
and historical reconstruction of a Greek fishing community that migrated from the Marmaras
Islands to Greece, the Asia Minor Greeks were highly educated and had had more contact
with ‘The City’ (Constantinople) than the locals. They brought ‘culture’ to where they settled
in Greece.
Instead of regarding fishing and seafaring as something inherent to the ‘Greek people’,
it may therefore be more wise to consider the Istanbul and Marmara region as the centre of
seafaring, fishing, and seafood cultures of the eastern Mediterranean region. The decline or
lack of development in the fisheries prior to 1950 might equally be ascribed to the general
stagnation in the population and economy of Istanbul as to the emigration of the Greek fishing
communities. The loss of its status as the centre of government to Ankara and a general
economic decline meant that people left. The size of the upper classes was reduced and
Istanbul was becoming ‘poor and provincial’ (Mansel 1995:424). There might simply not
have been a market for any substantial expansion in the fisheries during this period. In the
book Boğaziçi Konuşuyor (‘The Bosporus Talks’) Câbir Vada (1941, quoted in Koçu

60
Unfortunately, the Turkish text does not give sufficient information to provide a proper reference to
Deyrolle.
61
Russia invaded and occupied the Ottoman lands east of Tirebolu for two years during 1916-8.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 79

1960:Balıkçı…:1992) does not attribute the lack of development in the fisheries to the
emigration of the Greeks. Although he laments the stagnation (durgunluk) in the Istanbul
fisheries, he writes that it has been like that for at least 60 years, and probably for 150 years or
even more. A survey of fishing technology and the role of the state reveals that 1950 may be
regarded as a more important watershed in the history of the Turkish fisheries than the
population exchanges in the early 1920s.

Ottoman fishing: dalyans and volis

Here again, the documents that can shed light on the history of fishing are very uneven, with
fairly rich sources concerning pre-republican fishing in Istanbul, but almost nothing about the
situation in Trabzon in the same period. It is certain that fishing in Constantinople had a
special position in the empire, and was considered in Europe to be very advanced. The French
Minister of the Marine in 1723 even commissioned twelve paintings of the Istanbul
fishermen’s method of fishing as part of a programme to revive French fishing (Mansel
1995:118). Thus there seems to have been an especially rich fishing tradition in
Constantinople and a variety of different fishing technologies were known and used there and
elsewhere in the empire since ancient times. According to Çelebi (n.d.:158-161) in the 17th
century there were fishermen guilds specialising in fishing with dalyan, ığrıp, stake nets
(karatya nets), common nets, cast nets (saçma), line, harpoons, pots (çömlek), baskets (sepet),
as well as a guild specialising in oyster fishing.
Although Constantinople may have had a special position in Ottoman fisheries,
because of the existence of both a large urban market and very favourable natural conditions,
I believe that a survey of fishing in Constantinople would reveal some general information
regarding the fishery regime in the Ottoman Empire. Çelebi also visited Trabzon, and he
mentions fish and fishing there as well. Most of what he writes about fish is taken up by notes
on the ‘hapsi’ (hamsi) (İhsan 1972:14-15), and all we learn about the fishermen is that they
are ranked lowest among the seven kinds of people in Trabzon that he identifies (Çelebi
1991:173). Although fishing in Trabzon probably shared much of the fishing technology and
terminology of Istanbul, there is also reason to believe that fishing in these two places to some
extent developed into distinct traditions. Several factors combines to make it plausible to
regard these as partly independent traditions: there was a very special focus on hamsi (and the
need for special technology, such as the roşi – fish schoopnet) around Trabzon; there was a
tradition of catching dolphins in the Black Sea region (a speciality of Sürmene); there were
different ways of calculating the shares in the fisheries; and some region-specific fishery
terminology existed around the time of World War I62.
While hamsi fisheries supplied important food for people in the region, dolphin oil
was more important as an export commodity. Fish oil (i.e. dolphin oil) is mentioned already in
16th century sources (Gökbilgin 1962), as well as in many later sources (see Yıldırım

62
Around the turn of the century double or triple-walled nets were called molozma (in Trabzon) and
dıfana (in Istanbul) (Kazmaz 1994:273. Devedjıan 1926).
80 CHAPTER 3

1990:516). In 1940 twelve teams comprised of 40-50 persons each were engaged in this
fishery in Sürmene. Although some dolphin fishermen went to catch dolphins in Russian
waters before World War I (Yıldırım 1990:517), the fishing activities in Trabzon and other
Black Sea towns were for the most part very local and there was probably little direct contact
between Trabzon and Istanbul fishermen. There may have been more interaction with
fishermen across the Black Sea. Older fishermen in Trabzon city told me that “in the times of
oars our grandfathers went all the way to Navroşk (Noworossijsk), to the Sea of Azov, to
catch hamsi. They marketed the fish there, and also sold their nets to local fishermen”.
Moreover, there seems to have been little fishing outside of the urban centres in Ottoman
times and during the early Republic. The Trabzon market must have been considerably
smaller than the Istanbul market, except for the hamsi catches, which reached the general
populace, poor and rich, urban and rural. But fishing as a livelihood and an adaptation to a
monetary economy was probably limited to the city of Trabzon and a few other towns in the
region. Trabzon was not a great exporter of fish (rather the town at times imported fish).
During Ottoman times export of salt sturgeon and caviar from the northern shores of the
Black Sea to Constantinople was much more important (Bryer 1980:VII:382-3).
In Istanbul fishing with dalyans was both an important and widespread technique. The
dalyan is known as a special ‘Turkish’ variant of fishing weirs. It is usually constructed by
driving pieces of wood into the seabed to form a trap into which migratory fish in particular
swim. One or more men keep watch from a tower and signal to other crew to close the
opening of the dalyan as soon as a shoal has entered the weir. In Istanbul the dalyans were set
up every spring and autumn, with the opening directed southwards and northwards
respectively in order to capture the fish that migrated through the strait. According to a fish
technology expert, von Brandt (1984:161-2), this kind of weir is/was used in Turkey, Bulgaria
and Russia. Çelebi (1984:185-187, see also Kahane, Kahane and Tietze 1958:478-80) made
detailed descriptions of dalyans set up across the Danube in the 17th century, and I have
myself seen simple weirs in use in Balaklava63 in the Crimea. There were between eight and
15 dalyans (as they are still called locally) in the Bulgarian town of Sozopol in the inter-war
period, and in 1990 there was still one left (Marciniak & Jentoft 1992:55). Dalyans were
probably also widespread in other parts of the Ottoman empire (Kahane, Kahane and Tietze
1958:477-481), and 130 “strong fixed nets” were reported in wartime Greece (Naval
Intelligence Unit 1944:96). Along the coast of what constitutes present day Turkey, the use of
dalyans was especially important in Istanbul64, and in parts of the Sea of Marmara and the
Aegean Sea. However, there are few reports of Dalyans in the Black Sea. There were several
dalyans on the Black Sea coast near the mouth of the Bosporus, probably close enough to
supply the market of Istanbul with fresh fish. According to the Greek geographer Strabo, who
lived 2000 years ago, there were excellent palamut dalyans in Sinop (Oğuz 1976:592) - which

63
The Turkish word ‘balıklava’ means ‘good fishing ground’.
64
According to Devedjian (1926:396-403) 27 dalyans were in operation in the Bosporus in 1915, and
probably 38 in operation 40 years earlier.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 81

makes the dalyans a pre-Ottoman and even pre-Byzantine tradition. Devedjian (1926) lists
eight dalyans in Sinop, and according to fishermen in Sinop there were three or four dalyans
in operation there until the mid 1970s. There may have been small dalyans in operation other
places in the central and western Black Sea coast, but I have come across no reference to or
mention of such weirs in Trabzon. However, further east, there were, and possibly still are, a
few dalyans. One reason for the lack of dalyans in Trabzon may be that there are few suitable
places for erecting them. The construction and operation of dalyans probably required
shallow and fairly protected waters on a fish migratory route, conditions which are hard to
satisfy in Trabzon.
Today there are few dalyans left. It seems as if their use gradually decreased from
around the turn of the century until the mid-1970s. The big dalyan at Beykoz (in the
Bosporus) was put up for the last time towards the end of the 1980s. Several factors65 have
combined to relegate the dalyans to history. In a 1972 government fisheries survey there is
almost no mention of dalyans. For instance, it is not entered in the listing of the various catch
techniques currently employed (MFAS 1974:21). One source lists 25 dalyans along Turkey’s
Aegean and Mediterranean coasts in 1975 (Sarıkaya 1980:105). In 1989 twelve dalyans were
reported still in operation, all in the Aegean and Mediterranean seas and lakes. However, most
of them were small scale and rather dilapidated (Mert 1989). In addition, some small-scale
weirs (kuzuluk) are in use in lagoons and lakes in Turkey.
The right to use dalyans was granted by the Sultan (or, if far from Constantinople, by
local lords). In this way the Sultan both secured followers (those granted the leases) and
income from taxes. Most dalyans in the Bosporus were operated on the basis of privileged
usufruct, but with the obligation to pay an annual rent or commission (iltizam) (Devedjian
1926, Koçu 1960: ‘Balık Emaneti’:2013). However, some dalyan rights were given as reward
(ödül) to higher military officials (Paşa) and remained in effect private property through
inheritance (Pasiner 1993/4:545). Charles White gives an interesting description of one of the
larger dalyans in the vicinity of Istanbul:

[The dalyan] at the small…island of Cromyon (onion) [on the Black Sea coast east of the
mouth of the Bosphorus] is of considerable magnitude, and occupies one hundred and fifteen
men, with twelve or more large boats. A third of the latter, with proportionate crews, are
employed in carrying fish to the market; the remainder are constantly engaged in working the
nets. This fishery is rented by Achem Agha, a respectable Turk, from the grand marshal, Riza
Pacha, who himself farms the fisheries on this coast from government. ... The organization of
Achmet Agha’s dallyan differs only from those already described in its magnitude, and in the
peculiarities arising from situation. As many as twenty thousand palamoud and five hundred
sword-fish are frequently trapped in the course of twenty-four hours. … The expences of this
fishery are heavy. The agha stated that the profits barely sufficed to return him a fair interest
of five per cent., after deducing rent, wages, and outgoings (White 1845:88-90)66.

65
Competition from boat fishing; the disappearance of migratory fish such as swordfish and uskumru;
the fact that fish do not approach the shore any longer because of all the human activities (Pasiner
1993/4:545); the restrictions caused by the increased traffic in the strait (Sarıkaya 1980:93).
66
According to Devedjian (1926:403) this dalyan was abandoned about half a century later.
82 CHAPTER 3

The operation of the fixed dalyans implied clear and sanctioned rules of gear use and access
to a specified sea space. Seascapes that were suited for casting seines, primarily shallow
waters close to shore, were called voli places. Dalyans were usually erected on places suitable
for setting volis and the use of such mobile nets was likewise often restricted to a village or a
person. In 1955 The ‘folk poet’ Vasıf Hiç (quoted in Koçu 1960: 2000) wrote the following
about the volis:

Along the Anatolian and European coast of our city there are voli places, rented from the
Government office of Foundations [Vakıf] or in the past offered someone as a favour by
decree, where the renters or owners possess the right to execute the art [of fishing]; other boats
cannot come from the ‘open’ and turn a voli there… (appendix 2, item 7)

As in the case of dalyans, the right to cast seines at volis was granted by the state/Sultan,
generally on the basis of auction every three years (Koçu 1960: ‘Balık Emaneti’:2014).
Devedjian (1926:411-434) made an impressively extensive and detailed list of volis. He pays
special attention to those in the Bosporus and the Sea of Marmara, but also mentions some
outside of this region, for example in Elegu (present-day Beşikdüzü – Eynesil) on the eastern
Black Sea coast. He distinguished between volis with privileged access by village(s) and
private volis. Furthermore, there were three classes of privately operated volis: 1)
commissioned volis where 6-10% of the gross income was paid to the proprietor, 2) rented
volis where a set price was paid, and 3) private volis, where only the proprietor had access. A
wide variety of rules applied to the around 500 volis that he lists. The use of some is described
simply as “Libre pour tous le pêcheurs/monde”, “Réservé au proprietare”, or reserved for
inhabitants of a special village. However, for many others he notes more specific and detailed
customary rules (“Us et coutumes”). The customary rules for use of the Sténia voli in the
Bosporus are described this way:

The fishing is reserved for seine boats from Sténia and their co-proprietors who live in
Kanlidja and Indjir-keuy. It is exploited during winter and summer. Every boat from Sténia
pays an annual rent to the proprietors [of the voli]. If the fishermen from Sténia or the boats of
the proprietors are not present, the boats with seines or beach seines from other places may
fish without paying any rent. Fishing by seine boats is decided by drawing lots (1926:413).67

Devedjian’s material is also supported by other sources. According to Salamone (1987:77),

“[t]he Sea of Marmara was treated (…) as a landed territory within the Ottoman feudal
bureaucratic system. Each village received a franchise from the Turkish authorities
delineating which ‘fishing spots’ (…) could be exploited. (…) [O]nly companies from that
particular village could fish there.” He notes that only five out of ten ‘voles’ (i.e. volis)
allotted to the village of Galmi on the Marmaras Islands were really productive. The
fishermen were not allowed to fish in other villages’ volis. Indeed, Devedjian (1926:439) also
acknowledged the customary right of possessors of volis to destroy any fishing equipment set
on the voli. Thus, restrictions placed on access or use of gear were primarily intended to

67
It is not clear from Devedjian’s text whether these rules were inscribed (as text) or not.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 83

protect the rights of those entitled to exploit the resources. But there might also have been a
general understanding that one should avoid catching undersized fish. In the Sea of Marmara
the use of small meshed hamsi nets was officially permitted all year, but only as long as hamsi
were to be seen68 (Devedjian 1926:50) (this must have been almost impossible to police).
Thus it seems safe to conclude that a very large share of the fishing activity in Turkey
during the Ottoman era was highly regulated, with a wide variety of specific rules of access.
These rules were to a large degree sanctioned by the state. A combination of the limited
mobility of the fishing gear and the state’s interest in securing taxes, facilitated a high degree
of ‘closure’ (Pálsson 1991) in the fisheries, especially where the activity level and profits
were high. What happened to this system? One might envision it forming a basis for the
development of communal usefruct rights in modern coastal fishing, as in the ‘traditional’
fishing practices and codification in Japan (Ruddle 1987, 1991, Akimichi 1984) and the
Salomon Islands (Hviding 1990, 1996a) for example where it formed the basis for
contemporary systems of communal management systems. I discuss this issue in more detail
below (as well as in Chapters 4, 5 and 11), but I will first consider the change in the state’s
involvement and interest in the fisheries.

State policy: from tax to proteins

Tax, and tax again
The Ottoman state is generally described as a very centralised state with a large bureaucracy
under the Grand Vizier and the Sultan (of the Osman family). The state saw it as its duty to
rule according to laws and traditions, both the Islamic Sharia laws and a more secular code
(örf-i sultani). Law, tax, war, and the provision of the capital with food and other necessities
were the main concerns of the State. During most of the Ottoman era the state depended upon
various forms of tax farming in order to fund the bureaucracy and the military, as well as
supply the imperial family. Most of the land belonged to the Sultan and local lords usually did
not receive hereditary rights to land. Although the state tried several times to introduce direct
taxation (to be carried out by salaried bureaucrats), it depended upon tax farming through
financial consortiums and local notables for more than 95% of the revenues collected all until
the end of the empire (Quataert 1994:855).
The state designed policies to ensure supplies of sugar, wheat and sheep for the
general population of the capital. Such policies were not apparently aimed at fisheries (there
is no account of that in Devedjian and other sources). There is good reason to believe that the
primary interest of the Ottoman administration in fisheries was its potential for generating
taxes and, to a lesser extent, providing seafood for the palace (see Chapter 2). The tax farming
system of iltizam (commission) as applied to the dalyans in the 19th century, and possibly
before, closely resembles the kind of tax farming applied in the much more important
agricultural sector during (at least) the 19th century. In all his descriptions of dalyans, Çelebi

68
Use of the small meshed hamsi nets was not accepted for other species since it would catch undersize
and immature fish.
84 CHAPTER 3

has made careful notes of the manner and amount of tax levied on their operators (Çelebi
1984:185-187, Kahane, Kahane and Tietze 1958:478-80). Describing the Beykoz dalyan on
the Bosporus, he writes that “[t]he rent for the lease of the dalyan amounts to seventy yük of
aspers (i.e. seven million aspers)” (Pallis 1951:97) .
Soon after the Ottoman occupation of Istanbul the Balık Emaneti/Balık Eminliği (Fish
‘Trustee’ or Control) was established headed by the Balık Emin (Fish Chairman) who was
connected to the Başdefterdar (Ministry of Finances). This institution had the authority - in
accordance with the law on trade - to supervise taxation of all fish coming into
Constantinople. Illegal fishing (and marketing) was regarded as a problem because it implied
tax evasion and falling prices at the fish market, with negative effects for both the state (less
tax) and the clients of the state who had been granted the right to exploit the fishing spots
(Koçu: Balık Emaneti…:2011). The citation from Vasıf Hiç two pages ago indicates that
those granted dalyan and voli rights probably paid their tax/rent to the Evkaf (Government
office of Islamic Foundations). In addition to the regular rent or commission paid for the use
of volis and dalyans (except privately owned ones), a tax on sales was also imposed. For most
kinds of sea fishing a tax of 20%, of the gross first sales value, was to be paid by the
fishermen (Law of Fishery and Hunting, article IV, Devedjian 1926:441). Thus the tax and
share regime for one kind of dalyan, the şıra dalyans in Istanbul, was approximately as
follows (Devedjian 1926:389):

Gross sales
- sales tax (resmi-miri) 20-24%
- commission (6-10%) to the patron of the voli (area) where the dalyan was
erected (alternatively rent)
Net sales
- ¾ to proprietor of dalyan
- ¼ distributed as shares to the approximately 20 crew and woodworkers. However,
the patron had the right to 2 shares.

That the primary interest the Ottoman state had in the fisheries all up to the establishment of
the Republic was its potential for being taxed is evidenced by the following oral reminiscence
of a refugee Greek who talks about the Marmaras Island at the beginning of the 20th century:
“We were a village of three hundred families (Galimi), and we had only one Turk among us!
The only Turk we saw in our village were the ones that the government sent – ‘bureaucrats’,
they called them memoudes69 in Turkish, that is ‘government employees’ (…) Whoever went
fishing had to pay them the tax” (Salamone 1987:77).
The Ottoman Empire did not apply a universal tax regime, but instead designed special
rules for each province, so it is difficult to generalise. Nevertheless, it is known that during
the 16th century the regime for the Trabzon livası (province) included a tax (tithe) on the catch
of all kinds of fish as well as a transit tax on fish coming into the town of Trabzon to be
transported elsewhere (Gökbilgin 1962). During the 16th century taxes from dalyans were

69
In modern Turkish memur, see Chapters 8, 11 and 12.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 85

entered as a category in the official registers of Sinop (Ünal 1988:192). In addition, fishing in
lakes and rivers and so on all over the empire was similarly to a large degree regulated and
taxed (miri, tax on state property, of 10-21,5%) (Devedjian 1926: appendix E). It seems to
have been the ambition of the administration to tax all kinds of ‘commercial’ fishing within
the empire.

Prelude to reforms
Tanzimat reforms focused on education already in the 1840s, and agriculture and other sectors
soon afterward. During the latter half of the 19th century the state began to implement
measures intended to develop the agricultural sector in line with ideas of economic progress
(and not purely for taxation). The state started to supply the sector with substantial credit. In
1888 the Agricultural Bank (Ziraat Bankası) was established in order to handle this credit.
The modernisation project also included investments in transport and educational
infrastructure (even schools for agriculture (çıftlık) and milk production in Trabzon). A State
bureaucracy for agricultural development was established and well-paid Agricultural
‘Controllers’ (Müfettişler) were appointed to serve in the provincial (Vilayet) centres. Like
most other regions of the empire, the eastern Black Sea region was also affected by these
initiatives. Already in 1871 there were country credit unions (Memleket Sandıkları) in
Vakfıkebir and other rural areas in the region (Trabzon Vilayet Salnamesi No. 3:227). In 1908
almost 30,000 people in the eastern Black Sea region were using credit from the Agricultural
Bank (Duran 1988).
But did the state also take steps to develop the fishery sector? One of the official
Trabzon Yearbooks (Trabzon Vilayet Salnamesi No 17) from just before the turn of the
century notes that ‘we must do like the Europeans and try to profit from the hamsi by putting
four or five of them in cans’ (İhsan 1972:16). Devedjian (1926:VI) complained about the lack
of modern equipment in the fisheries, and of fish processing industry which could satisfy the
European taste (very expensive canned tuna was imported to Constantinople from Europe),
and comments that this deprives the country of important income. However, although the idea
of developing the fisheries clearly was not alien to the Ottoman bureaucrats, in general this
sector does not seem to have caught the attention of the reformers. After the middle of the 19th
century the Ottoman State became increasingly indebted, and by 1875 the empire was for all
intents and purposes bankrupt. In 1881 the Public Debt Administration (Düyûnu Umumiye
İdaresi) was set up in order to control many of the important sources of income in the empire,
for the benefit of the foreign creditors. The major European powers were in charge of this
institution (Zürcher 1993:88). Fisheries in Istanbul and the Marmara region was one of the
sectors that came under the control of this Administration. In order to check illegal (i.e. non-
taxed) fishing they set up their own office at the fish hall (Koçu 1960: Balık
Emaneti…:2011). But the interest of the Public Debt Administration in fisheries did not differ
markedly from that of the Ottoman administration, and there does not seem to have occurred
any significant change in the regime, although the first coherent legal arrangement for
86 CHAPTER 3

fisheries was codified in 1882 (or 1879)70. This law primarily concerned taxes and the
protection of rights and was thus an ‘inscribed’ collection and record of existing formal and
informal traditional practices. Here it is also interesting to note that Devedjian, who wrote the
first study of fish and fisheries in Istanbul and the Sea of Marmara, 71 was one of directors of
the Istanbul Fish Hall, and that his study was commissioned, ratified and published (1915) by
the Public Debt Administration (Koçu 1960: 2037).
After the war of independence and the Lausanne treaty (1923) with the European
powers, the fisheries administration set up in Istanbul by the Public Debt Administration was
taken over by the Ministry of Finance of the young Turkish Republic (Koçu 1960: Balık
Emaneti…:2011). The new Turkish leadership and administration showed an impressive
determination to intensify the reforms in wide sectors of the Turkish society. But was there
also a new policy towards the fisheries? An Austrian envoy to Turkey who seems to have
worked as some kind of adviser to the Turkish government during the early 1930s, surveyed
and evaluated the government’s efforts in many sectors of the Turkish society, among them
the fisheries:

A legal regulation of the Turkish fisheries is planned, which requires detailed preliminary
studies. In the meantime provisional measures have been taken to mitigate old evils; for
example, abolition of the fishing-tax which had long been felt as an imposition, reduction of
duties on tackle and accessories, promotion of sales by increasing the manufacture of canned
fish and the consumption in military barracks, public services, schools, etc. In the meantime a
decree was drafted to reorganize the entire fisheries law. It contains modern regulations as to
admission to the fishery trade, the manner of practising it, the close-season, the prohibition of
the use of explosives, working conditions, union questions, etc. The material conditions of the
fishermen are to be improved by the elimination of middlemen, by a revision of their relations
to the lessees and wholesale traders and by the foundation of a Fishery Bank [Italics omitted]
(Ritter von Kral 1938:81).

He goes on to note that discussions were held in Ankara between representatives of the
government and parties interested in fisheries, and concludes that:

[i]t will thus be seen that the Turkish fishery trade, which procures work and livelihood for
many thousands of men and is of the greatest significance for the nutrition of the people, is
well on the way to being modernized (Ritter von Kral 1938:81).

One can safely conclude that the new administration’s ambitions and plans for fisheries
implied a radical break with the existing fishery regime, and also a break with the perceived
scope of the state’s role. However, most of these lofty ideals, which were probably greatly
influenced by the radical ‘statism’ ideals of the nationalist-communist Kadro (‘cadre’)
movement that led the ideological-political debate during the early 1930s, were never

70
A law on export of mussels and oysters was in effect already in 1867 (Çelikkale et al 1999:289)
71
His very detailed work, which comprises more than 600 pages in the French edition and includes
many drawings, figures, maps and tables, as well as current laws, was the very first study of fisheries in
Istanbul/the Ottoman Empire. Since the study was published only in Ottoman Turkish (old script) and
French, it is unfortunately not easily accessible to today’s scientists. A translation into modern Turkish
would be most welcome!
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 87

implemented, partly because of the indecisive and inconsistent approach of the bureaucracy
(Karaömerlioğlu 1998). Some of the ideals only started to be realised little by little after 1950.
Economic stagnation coupled with the fact that the state in the early years of the Republic
strove to establish independence in industrial production, probably resulted in fisheries policy
being ignored. Not even the commercial potential of the dolphin fishery in Sürmene was
acknowledged by the state. A local industry in dolphin oil processing developed between the
wars (a cooperative venture involving local and German businessman) (Yıldırım 1990), and it
was mentioned as one of the main exports from Trabzon in 1930 (Odabaşıoğlu n.d.:127).
However, despite the economic importance and potential of dolphin fishing, it was not
affected by state initiatives before 1950. Then the use of shotguns in dolphin hunting was
encouraged in order to develop a passive defence force in face of the new powerful
communist enemy in the north (Karaer 1989).

Fisheries on the development agenda

After World War II important changes took place in the political and economic situation of
Turkey. There was increasing international and domestic pressure for democratisation and
multi-party politics, which meant that parties started to compete for votes. The main
contender for power, the Democrat Party (Demokrat Parti), argued for a more liberal
economic policy. At the same time, Turkey came within the scope of the Marshall Plan.
Between the wars the government, aiming at self-sufficiency and economic independence,
had given highest priority to the development of heavy industry and the construction of a
network of railways. In 1947 the government, still in the hands of the ‘Atatürkist’ Republican
People’s Party (CHP, Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi), drew up a new development plan which
emphasised free enterprise, the development of agriculture and agriculture-based industry,
and the construction of roads. With American aid important new roads were built - for
example the Samsun-Trabzon road - and large investments were made in the agricultural
sector – with tractors as the chief instrument and symbol (Zürcher 1993:226).
The new development priorities with their emphasis on agriculture also encompassed
fishing as the Ministry of the Economy in 1947 saw the potential in this sector. However, the
social policies did not change very much and unions and the like remained illegal. Contrary to
the Kadro ideals of eliminating the middleman, no serious attempt was made to check the
power of the fish kabzımal (wholesale trade commission agents, see below) over the
fishermen. But a lot of initiatives to develop the fisheries quickly followed each other72. In
1950 the Ministry of Trade organised a Congress on ‘water produce’. In the same year,
probably in an effort to win votes only a month before the parliamentary election, the state tax

72
If not specified otherwise, the ensuing discussion is based upon the following sources: Yurt
ansiklopedisi 1982/3: İstanbul: Su Ürünleri:3917-3919, Günlük 1983, DPT 1989, Ergüven 1983, Özbey
1989, and, the most comprehensive one, Çelikkale et al 1999. Note that there are often discrepancies
between the sources, especially with regard to years.
88 CHAPTER 3

on fish catches was removed73. The sources are somewhat unclear here, but what probably
happened was that the state transferred the right to tax fisheries to Municipalities (Koçu: Balık
Emaneti…:2011). This new tax was generally much lower (5-8%) than the state tax had been.
Also, the fee for using voli places was probably abolished. The responsibility for fisheries
changed hands many times, and was at times very dispersed. In 1950 the Ministry of Finance
handed over the responsibility to the Ministry of Agriculture (Toprak Mahsüleri Umum
Müdürlüğü) which in 1952 transferred it on to the newly founded autonomous Meat and Fish
Foundation (Et ve Balık Kurumu, EBK). A few years later EBK commanded a fleet of no less
than 21 boats for various purposes (fishing, research and so on) as well as cold storage
facilities in approximately 20 urban centres. They also established several fish processing
plants, among which was a fish oil and meal factory in Trabzon (1952) which initially
processed primarily dolphin oil (Yıldırım 1990:518). Boats and factories were partly financed
by foreign aid. The EBK also started their own research activities in 1955 and the publication
series Balık ve Balıkçılık (‘Fish and Fisheries’), partly in collaboration with the Hydrobiology
Research Institute (Hidrobioloji Araştırma Enstitüsü) at Istanbul University, which the EBK
also helped to finance.
One author holds that the first fishery cooperatives were established in 1942 as part of
an effort to increase food production during the wartime years (State Planning Organisation
1989:77), while others maintain that the first fishery cooperative was established in Istanbul
in 1949 (TKK 1997:33). Anyway, this development was intensified around 1950 when the
Marshall Plan promised fishermen monetary and technical aid if they organised into
cooperatives. Fishery cooperatives were immediately established and fishermen acquired
some credit through them. Credit for investments in fishing technology was made available
from 1953-4 onward from the ‘General Directorate for Agricultural Credit’ along the same
basic lines as for agriculture. In 1955 the first fisheries statistics were collected. The state also
started to build several new large protected harbours along the exposed Black Sea coast.
However, this glut of initiatives soon lost its impetus. After 1952, when responsibility for
fisheries development, including the cooperatives, was turned over to the General Directorate
of Meat and Fish (EBK), where the primary emphasis was on technical developments, the
young cooperatives received less attention and most of them disbanded or fell into the hands
of the kabzımals (Çakıroğlu 1969:99-100). Towards the end of the 1960s the EBK initiative
dissolved, and the Hydrobiology Institute was incapacitated when the EBK withdrew their
support. Moreover, the fish catches did not increase.
Some years later, fisheries were included in the five year plans, which were drawn up
from 1963 onwards (with a whole volume being devoted to ‘Water Produce’ in the VI plan
(State Planning Organisation 1989)). In 1968 bureaucrats in Ankara took new initiatives to
stimulate the formation of ‘water produce cooperatives’ (Çakıroğlu 1969), and, finally, in
1972 the old fisheries law (Zabıta-i Saydiye Nizamnamesi) from 1879/82 was replaced by

73
The tax was probably not abolished in the 1930s, as suggested by Ritter von Kral, but more likely
only reduced.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 89

new ‘water produce’ legislation (No. 1380, amended in 1986 as No. 3288). At the same time
the responsibility for ‘water produce’ (as fisheries were hereafter called) was transferred from
the Ministry of Trade (Ticaret Bakanlığı) to a newly established General Directorate for
Water Produce (Su Ürünleri Genel Müdürlüğü) within the Ministry for Agriculture (See
figure 9 for organisational structure of the Turkish bureaucracy). This General Directorate
even established branches in all provinces. The Ministry started to draw up and distribute
annually a set of regulations for the ‘harvesting (‘hunt’) of water produce in the sea and
internal waters for commercial purposes’ (Denizlerde ve İçsularda Ticari Amaçlı Su Ürünleri
Avcılığını…Sirküler). Since 1976 credit and grants have been distributed from a ‘water
produce’ branch (Su ürünleri Kredilendirme Müdürlüğü) within the Agricultural Bank.
Finally, from the mid-70s the statistics started to show the desired figures, with consistently
rising catches until 1988. While the total catch of ‘water produce’ had fluctuated between
50,000 and 150,000 tonnes during the period 1955 – 1975, catches rose to almost 700,000
tonnes in 1988.

MINISTRY/Bakanlık
Minister/Bakan

Müsteşar

GENERAL DIRECTORATE
Genel Müdürlük

DEPARTMENT
Daire
Figure 9 Simplified model of
hierarchical structure within a
Ministry
SECTION
Şube

New concerns: production and proteins

In the Republican era the state’s approach to fisheries have become framed within a new
discourse. This discourse was, and is, constructed of topics and concerns such as ‘proteins’,
‘food’ (gıda), (human) ‘population’, ‘production’ (üretim), ‘water produce’, ‘progress’
(kalkınma), technological development and the exemplar of Europe/Japan, aquaculture, and so
forth. This emphasis recurs again and again in the various texts and presentations of the state.
90 CHAPTER 3

There seems almost to be a template for the introduction to texts on fisheries in Turkey:
‘protein, consumption in Turkey compared to Europe/Japan, statistics on changes in catches
and consumption, long coast and potential for increase in production’. This template is
adhered to by state personnel within various units in the bureaucracy as well as by many
scientists. Various permutations of this basic model can be found in the introductions to many
different texts, including textbooks (for example Sarıkaya 1980), reports from the State
Research Institutes (for example TWPRI 1992), symposiums on ‘water produce’ (for example
Agricultural Bank 1982), planning documents (for example State Planning Organisation
1989), and to some extent even in scientific papers (for example Düzgüneş & Karacam 1991).
I cannot stress enough how important and pervasive this discourse has been, but I will limit
myself to a few examples, the first being the table of contents of the first substantive chapter
in Sarıkaya’s (1980) textbook on ‘Fishing and Catch Technology’:

II. THE STATE OF WATER PRODUCE IN THE WORLD AND IN TURKEY

1. The general state of water produce in the world
2. The state of water produce in Turkey
3. A comparison between our country and countries which are
developed with regard to water produce
4. The importance of water produce from a nutritional perspective
5. The water produce policies in Turkey
6. The catch modes (şekilleri) for water produce

The second example is an extract from the opening speech made by the leader of the
Foundation for Economic Research (İktisadi Araştırmalar Vakfı) at a panel discussion
organised in 1988 on the topic of hamsi fisheries in the Black Sea, at a point when these
fisheries had seen the longest sustained increases in catches:

Actually, fishing is one of the undeveloped (gelişmemiş) activity sectors of the Turkish
economy. Its share of the GNP does not even reach half a percent. The annual catch of fish
does not even amount to 600.000 tonnes. Per capita production is 10-11 kilos whereas
consumption [only] totals 8-9 kilos. In countries like Norway and Japan where fisheries are
developed, the per capita production and consumption amount to 6-7 times these figures
(İktisadi Araştırmalar Vakfı 1988:7).

The concepts ‘produce’ (ürün) and ‘production’ (üretim) are central to gaining an
understanding of the bureaucratic approach to the fisheries. First, it frames fisheries within a
general ‘agriculturist’ approach. This is reflected in the disproportionate stress on aquaculture
and ‘internal waters’ (rivers, lakes, etc.). Most bureaucrats working on fishery issues are
trained as agricultural engineers, and most of the first generation ‘water produce’ (or marine)
scientists also received their degrees in agriculture, or possibly aquaculture. The agriculturist
approach is also reflected in the term ‘water produce’ (su ürünleri) which the bureaucracy
almost uniformly prefers to use instead of ‘fish’ (balık), ‘catch’ (av) and similar terms. In
place of writing about ‘catches’, the fishery statistics list ‘production’ (üretim) of the different
kinds of marine and fresh water animals (but this is rendered as ‘catch’ in the English
translation). This also applies to the State Water Produce Research Institute in Trabzon
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 91

(Trabzon Su Ürünleri Araştırma Enstitüsü, hereafter ‘Trabzon WPRI’), where most junior or
young scientists are trained as agricultural engineers. By 1998 the Trabzon WPRI had been
responsible for a total of 21 research projects (completed, in progress or new). Despite the
overwhelming importance of sea fisheries in this region, only eight of these projects were
related to fish stocks and fishing, while eight focused on aquaculture, and the remaining five
addressed sea pollution. The general agriculturist focus of the bureaucracy is also illustrated
by the fact that, while there are three (small) ‘water produce’ Research Institutes, there are
almost 60 state Research Institutes conducting research on agriculture or husbandry. The Tea
Research Institute in Rize opened already in 1924 (Özdemir 1983:266, 272-3), long before tea
had become an important cash-crop.
Secondly, the attention to ‘produce’ and ‘production’ in state policy is bound up with a
concern about the subjects’ diet. Many policy documents74 and the like refer explicitly to
protein deficiency in the diet when arguing for the development of the Turkish fisheries. The
Republican bureaucracy gradually became concerned about the nutritional composition of
people’s diet, and in the fourth Five Year Development Plan it is stated that in Turkey 17,5%
of the population consume too few calories, 10% consume too little protein, and 22,5% have
an unbalanced intake of protein (Fourth Five Years Development Plan:462, cited in Tezcan
1982:129). The state developed a nutrition policy. This was evident already in the days of
Atatürk when, for example, he emphasised the importance of sugar production, so that
‘healthy children will not be a utopian ideal’ (Alexander 1997:51-52)75. This was a new way
to ‘treat’ food, framed by a new discourse of scientific rationalisation, once more modelled on
the basis of Western templates. Tezcan (1982:130-1) notes that ‘most of our people are not
knowledgeable about nutrition’, and it is seen as a duty of the state to provide nutritional
education for the citizens through established channels of state-citizen interaction, especially
directed towards children (schools, mother-child health-care stations, and so forth). Many
reports and the like also stress the need to create a fish-eating habit among new groups of the
population.
This ‘protein focus’ falls squarely within a general shift in state-people relations: in
contrast to the classical Ottoman state, the new Republican elite envisioned their task as a
radical restructuring of society in order to arrive at some ideal Turkish-Western nation-state.
It had become the responsibility and task of the state not only to show concern about people’s
‘way of living’, but also to authoritatively guide this. The state became increasingly
concerned about its subjects’ lifestyles and tastes. In order to implement such a policy, the
people, especially the villagers, had to be guided and educated in line with rational scientific
knowledge (see Chapter 11 for a further elaboration of this theme). It was not just that science

74
One example is the VI Five Year Development Plan special issue on ‘water produce and water
produce industry’, which in the very beginning of the introduction and onward bases its discussion on
the concern about nutrition and proteins (State Planning Organisation 1989:1).
75
Stimulation of agricultural as well as industrial production was also motivated by an import
substitution policy, which was the main economic policy until 1980. This was not an important
consideration in the fisheries policy since Turkey imported almost no seafood (or meat, for that matter).
92 CHAPTER 3

was seen as the best guide in improving technology; policy itself was being ‘scienticised’. In
his historical study of the transformation from a rule of ‘sovereignty’ to ‘governmentality’ in
Europe during the 16th to 18th centuries, Foucault (1991:95) writes that, “…what characterises
the end of sovereignty,…, is in sum nothing other than submission to sovereignty.” On the
other hand, what characterises governmentality is that “…the finality of government resides
in the thing it manages…[T]he instruments of government, instead of being laws, now come
to be a range of multiform tactics”. In employing these tactics on the level of economy, the
family becomes an instrument rather than a model, and statistics the tool to address the
population at large.

…[P]opulation comes to appear above all else as the ultimate end of government. …[It] has as
its purpose not the act of government itself, but the welfare of the population, the
improvement of its condition, the increase of its wealth, longevity, health, etc. (…) The new
science called political economy…is accompanied by the formation of a type of intervention
characteristic of government, namely intervention in the field of economy and population
(Foucault 1991:101).

The Ottoman/Turkish State also seems to have developed along these lines. In an article on
modernity, religion and the Ottoman/Republican state, Nalbatanoğlu (1994:353) notes that,
contrary to the classical Ottoman ‘art of statecraft’ regime, ‘population’ was a calculable
‘standing reserve’ within a new ‘science of politics’ in the young Turkish Republic. But, there
was no sudden change from sovereignty to governmentality with the establishment of the
Republic. A change towards governmentality had been taking place since the early 19th
century. The first effort to quantify population came with the 1830 census, and in the era of
the Tanzimat reforms (1839-1871) the central government assumed responsibility for
education, health, and sanitation, which had previously been in the hands of the religious
institutions (foundations) and local communities. Thus, inspired by European models as well
by the success of Mehmet Ali’s reforms in Egypt, the Ottoman state started to change its
focus from territory to human resources and developed new powers to affect the day-to-day
life of people. In this process the Sultans and the governments paid a great deal of attention to
the ‘power’ of statistics as a means to obtain information about the population (Karpat 1992).
The meticulous work by Devedjian on ‘Fish and Fishing’ (first published in 1915) is one
example of this program of trying to map, register, and quantify ‘what there is’, not only for
taxation purposes, but in order to be able to stimulate economic development. However, in
Devedjian’s work there is still no explicit concern about fisheries as an important provider of
nutrition/proteins.
The ‘governmentality’ started earlier here than in many other ‘non-European’ areas of
the world. But it is important to note that this change towards governmentality in the Ottoman
Empire took place well before the development of Turkish nationalism and the idea of ‘one
(Turkish) people’. The idea of ‘governing a population’ came before the idea of ‘legitimacy
based upon representing a people’ (i.e. nationalism). Indeed, as Mardin (1997a:68) has noted,
the ideal of a science of the state that was adopted by the Ottoman elite during the 19th century
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 93

was that of an ‘enlightened despotism’, as articulated for instance in the model of cameralism
- a theory of government developed in western Europe in the 18th century. But the instruments
that the late Ottoman State developed to influence the population, especially education and
statistics, became important tools in the nationalist project of the Young Turks and Kemalists.
When these instruments were combined with the development of indigenous social sciences
from the end of the 19th century (Karpat 1992), a far more penetrating process of social
engineering became possible. Social science played a prominent role in the reform process,
and legitimated a macro perspective on society and ideas of social change that focused on
plans and projects, not on any ‘inherent’ dynamism of development (Mardin 1997a). Mardin
(1997a:68) writes, “[i]ndeed, the flow of Ottoman reform from Mustafa Reşid to Mustafa
Kemal followed the convolutions of the western European concept of society from Auguste
Comte’s positivism to the late nineteenth-century European disillusionment with
parliamentary government, and from there to Emile Durkheim’s solidarism”.
Thus, on one level there were continuities between the Ottoman and Republican states,
in that the initiative and control remained with the state in a rigid centre-periphery situation,
and that the primary objective of the state was the perpetuation of the state itself. But on
another level there were marked discontinuities, in that the new Republican state elite went
much further in envisioning a ‘new’ society and new kinds of men and women to populate it,
and even designed policies in order to achieve that, policies that were directed at reshaping
the subjects’ selves. In one sense it is possible to say that the new regime was more populist;
on the other hand, it was also very paternalistic (or Jacobin, see Chapter 11). That the state’s
approach to the fisheries was now framed within a larger picture - a vision of societal
(economic, technological as well as cultural/social) development - is reflected in the fact that
rather than securing income through taxes, the new fisheries policies (especially from the
1950s onwards) became a drain on the state’s economy through subsidised credit and
investments in infrastructure, research and bureaucracy.
In this new fishery regime, what position was given to the pre-republican system of
privileged access (and even possession of) volis and dalyans? Clearly, technological
development as well as the destruction of good voli and dalyan sites along the Bosporus made
this a less sensitive question than it could have been. But there is evidence to suggest that the
state viewed the inherited private dalyans, and even limited access to volis as unacceptable
privileges. The new Fishery Produce Law stimulated the nationalisation (kamulaştırılma) of
dalyans (see ‘Water Produce Law’ 1380/3288, paragraph 12). Although it is still an option
under the Law (paragraph 4), rental of production rights of dalyan, voli sites, and the like
seems to be contingent upon the initiative of the state and has probably only been applied to
the few remaining dalyans and to some lagoons and lakes. Fishing has increasingly come to
be seen as ‘free’ (serbest). A character in one of Faik’s novels (1944:77) states that ‘The sea
belongs to Allah and the state’, implying that it is free and open to all. There is no indication
that the state has made any effort to preserve the system of privileged access, individual or
communal, to fishing spots. The Western ideal model was not perceived as supporting such
94 CHAPTER 3

privileged rights. Nalbatanoğlu (1994:355) notes that in the Ottoman regime, “[t]he localized
customary laws were also often favoured in so far as they could be articulated into the
existing practices of the state…It was only the scientized mode of governing and the new
techniques of rule which first gradually developed in Europe that finally surpassed the
Ottomans’ high level of administrative sophistication”.

Scientists as modernising agents

As in many other sectors of Turkish society, fisheries was targeted by the national
modernising project, albeit at a later date than agriculture and many other sectors. The pattern
is well known: focus on increased production, economic development, and technological
innovation - all stimulated by state guidance in accordance with Western technological and
organisational ideals. In this rational, modernist set up, science was ascribed an instrumental
position. The Western scientific-technological approach came to be seen as the guiding star,
at the expense of an appreciation of ‘traditional’ technology and organisation as it currently
manifested itself. Fisheries was seen as an undeveloped (gelişmemiş) and primitive (ilkel)
sector to be transformed– technology, organisation, profile of consumption - in the image of a
modern, Western prototype. This modernising project was, and to a certain extent still is,
considered by many within the state bureaucracy, to be part of a national mission or duty:

In conclusion one may say that – as one may also understand from the historic development to
the present– it is a national task and necessity to put into operation as rational, scientific and
economic a management as possible in the administration of this issue and in finding solutions
to the problems that the fisherman, the producer and the industrialist face in their use of the
products of our seas and ‘internal waters’ – these waters that shall become our future food
depot (Özbey 1989:5).76 (appendix 2, item 8)

It is important to note that in the fields of sea, fish, and fisheries Turkish sciences started to
develop and grow only when the state launched its initiative for developing fisheries. The
sciences were part and parcel of this mission, and there seems to have been little independent
academic drive towards the development of marine sciences. Prior to 1950 there were a few
initiatives towards a scientific ‘treatment’ of the sea, fish and fisheries, but these were either
stimulated by external powers77, or soon faltered, like the small institute of marine biology at
Baltalimanı (Istanbul). This institute was established as part of the old Darülfünün (to be
reorganised as Istanbul University in 1933) during the early years of the Republic, but closed
towards the end of the 1940s due to lack of resources (State Planning Organisation 1989:172,
Ergüven 1983). In addition, there was also the interesting initiative of the Village Institutes

76
I had problems making head and tail of this quotation, and therefore asked for the advice of Bernt
Brendemoen, Professor in Turkish Language. I was reassured when he could tell me that the sentence
‘is full of nonsense; it almost sounds like an election campaign speech with a lots of air and little
concrete content. It is impossible to turn it into proper Norwegian (or English)’. Partly guided by his
comments (in Norwegian), I produced the present translation that hopefully conveys some of the
convolutedness of the language.
77
For example Devedjian’s study which was sponsored by the Public Dept Administration (Koçu 1960:
‘Balık ve Balıkçılık’: 2037).
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 95

(Köy Enstitüsü) which in one case included training in fisheries. The 21 Institutes were
established from 1940 onwards with the intention of improving contact between the village
people and the banner-bearers of the new republic – the future teachers. The programme at the
institute in Beşikdüzü, close to Çarşıbaşı, included theoretical and especially practical training
in fisheries and brought teachers, students and fishermen together (Özer 1990). However, this
institute, like others of its kind was closed down towards the end of the 1940s due to
allegations by the Democrat Party that they were centres of communist propaganda (Zürcher
1993:224, see also Chapter 11).
Although there were a few pre-1950 initiatives, the trajectory of Turkish marine, or
rather ‘water produce’, research can more accurately be said to originate with the
Hydrobiology Institute at Istanbul University. The institute was established in 1951 under the
leadership of the German Prof. Kosswig who (in all probability) fled the Nazi regime in 1937.
EBK partly financed this institution and also set up their own research centre. Various smaller
‘water produce’ research units also came into being within the Ministries. These activities
were pooled and strengthened in 1984 with the establishment of three78 State Water Produce
Research Centres (Devlet Su Ürnleri Araştırma Enstitü), one of which was situated at
Trabzon (the Trabzon WPRI). At Ankara University and the Aegean University there were
small ‘water produce’ research units from the 1960s onwards. With the reorganisations in the
higher education after the coup in 1980, the Hydrobiology Institute in Istanbul was closed
down, and its resources transferred to the ‘Water Produce College’ which was established as a
branch of the Ministry of Education in 1973, but affiliated to Istanbul University in 1983.
During the 1980s many more Water Produce Colleges (Su Ürünleri Yüksek Okulu)
were established within the folds of major universities. Most of these have since been
transformed into faculties (Fakülte) or departments (Bölüm) which provide degrees at both
MSc and PhD levels (Ergüven 1983, State Planning Organisation 1989:172-3, Özbey 1989).
In 1975 The Middle East Technical University (METU) in Ankara established an Institute of
Marine Sciences at Erdemli on the Mediterranean coast. It has become the best equipped
Marine Research unit in Turkey and has the most qualified staff. In the Black Sea region a
Water Produce College was established in 1982 at the Karadeniz Technical University in
Trabzon, which is a fairly highly esteemed university and one of the oldest universities in
Turkey (1955). The unit was transformed into a Marine Science Faculty (Deniz Bilimleri
Fakültesi, hereafter Sürmene MSF) in 1992 and moved to a new rather isolated campus near
Sürmene some 45 kilometres east of Trabzon. This department also has a branch in Rize. The
19 Mayıs University in Samsun also has a small ‘Water Produce Department’ located in
Sinop.
During the 1950s the institutional linkages between the semi-autonomous EBK and
the scientific communities were evidence of and speak for the role of science as a
development agent. However, although the ‘water produce’ research and education sector has

78
One more institute has recently been added to this list. In 1998 an Institute responsible for fresh water
research was established in Elazig.
96 CHAPTER 3

since become fairly large and the university sector is formally independent of the executive
branches of the bureaucracy, it can be argued that the position of ‘scientist’ (bilim
adamı/insanı) is seldom considered as an independent and purely academic position. For most
scientists and certainly for the ‘man on the street’ (or at sea), a scientist is first and foremost a
state employee, a görevli, working on tasks assigned to her by the state. Of course there is
some individual variation in how scientists themselves perceive their role and their relation to
the state, but the idea of the scientist as a state representative, a spearhead in the national
civilising project, is indeed very widespread. Thus, there is often little difference between
scientists and state bureaucrats, the former are simply seen as one kind of state bureaucrat
(devlet memuru). This is also attested to by the frequent movement of persons between
positions in the Ministries, the State Research Institutes and the University Departments.

Ministry for Agriculture and Rural Affairs

Müsteşar

(5)

General Directorate for General Directorate for

Protection and Control Agricultural Production
And Development

(11 departments) (6 departments)

Fisheries, Environment Water Produce department

and Disasters Department

(3 sections) (3 sections)

Section for
Water Produce

Figure 10 Water produce bureaucracy in the Ministry for Agriculture and Rural Affairs
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 97

Although the state has evidently been instrumental in giving direction to the development of
the Turkish fisheries, its ability to initiate concerted, integrated and planned action has been
hampered by an increasing degree of institutional branching, both of the bureaucratic units
within the Ministries and of the research sector. The General Directorate for Water Produce
was dissolved in 1984 and its tasks distributed to several other units within the Ministry of
Agriculture. That means, for instance, that the unit responsible for ‘Water Produce Control
and Protection’ is a ‘Water Produce Section’ (Şube) which reports to ‘Fisheries, Environment
and Disasters Department’ (Daire) under the ‘General Directorate (Genel Müdürlüğü) for
Protection and Control’, while statistics are handled by a ‘Water Produce Department’ in the
‘General Directorate for Agricultural Production and Development’, and research is
administered by a ‘Water Produce Section’ within the ‘General Directorate for Agricultural
Research’ (see figure 10)79. As has been observed for other sections of the central bureaucracy
in Turkey, for example the institutions responsible for sugar production (Alexander 1997), the
activities and policies of these sections can at times be disparate and even competitive. Nor do
they share a common perspective or policy on fisheries. In addition, still other units are
responsible for tasks such as: planning and grants (State Planning Organisation), licenses
(Under Secretary for Maritime Affairs), registration of boats (Harbour Chiefs), and credit
(The State Agricultural Bank). It may also be that lack of good personal relations hinders
coordinated policy, as Alexander (1997:232) has observed regarding the lack of cooperation
in the Treasury, where different units tend to compete and thus withhold data and information
that could be useful for other sections – unless one has got a good friend in that other unit.
Paralleling this fragmentation, the research sector is also very dispersed, consisting of
three State Institutes and, depending on how one counts them, between 15 and 20 departments
or sections at universities (17 according to Çelikkale et al 1999:316). In addition, several
Biology departments are involved in marine research. This dispersal of the ‘water produce’
research and teaching sector is part of a general trend in higher education and research in
Turkey. After the reorganisation of the sector following the 1980 military take-over, many
institutions of higher education (yüksek okul) without university status have been transformed
into universities, and many new universities – both public and private – have been
established. This has resulted in far-reaching branching of the sector of higher education and
research in Turkey, with increasing quality differences between the institutions (Öncü 1993,
Szyliowicz 1994).
Before closing this survey of the state’s approach to the fisheries, I must add a note of
caution about viewing the Turkish state as the only ‘macro player’ of relevance for the
development of the fisheries in Turkey. First, many foreign scientists were and are involved in

79
Since I finished fieldwork there have been some changes in the relevant administrative structure.
Within the ‘General Directorate for Protection and Control’ a Department (Daire) for ‘Water Produce
Services’ has been set up which administers two sections, the already existing ‘Section for Control of
Water Produce’ as well as the new ‘Section for Water Produce Hygiene and Struggle Against Diseases’
(http://www.ahis.gov.tr/html/dept/kkgm-org.htm). This new section was probably set up as a response
98 CHAPTER 3

research in Turkey: Kosswig headed the Hydrobiology Institute, the EBK research centre was
aided by the Norwegian marine scientist Olav Aasen, and several foreigners are today
working at the METU Department in Erdemli. During the 1950s the Turkish State
commissioned foreign experts to undertake several studies on fisheries technology and on the
potential for developing the fisheries sector80. There are also many other examples of
interaction between foreign institutions and Turkish marine scientists: Turkish scientists have
been involved in FAO projects and training courses; the World Bank has sponsored extensive
studies on aquaculture and marketing; the METU Marine Sciences has run a NATO project
on Black Sea ecology and fish stocks; Japan offers training courses in Japan as well as
substantial aid for the development of turbot aquaculture; foreign companies have been
involved in aquaculture; and an increasing number of Turkish scientists have received their
degrees from universities in Europe, the US or even Japan. Finally, the resource crisis that the
Black Sea saw from 1989 until 1992, with hamsi catches dwindling to 10% of former catch
levels, stimulated the establishment of the Black Sea Environmental Programme (BSEP). It
was set up by the Global Environmental Facility (GEF) and received its funds primarily from
the UN, but also from the World Bank and national governments in Europe. The BSEP’s
agenda has been to coordinate and stimulate research, public awareness, the signing of a
fisheries convention, and in general work for sustainable development in the Black Sea region
(see GEF-BSEP 1996a, 1996b).
More recently the establishment of various Turkish environmental organisations and
other ‘NGOs’ has also created more ‘knowledge actors’ who play a role in the discourse
about fish and fishing in Turkey. These organisations typically have their base in Istanbul or
Ankara and are seldom ‘pure’ examples of civil society. Like many other organisational
initiatives in Turkey that have been acclaimed as civil society during the last decade (see for
example Navaro-Yasin 1998), many organisations in the fisheries represent the interests of
concerned citizens, professional and business classes, and state personnel. For instance, the
TURMEPA (‘Turkish Marine Environment Protection Association’, yes their name is
English!) is sponsored by the Koç family that runs one of the largest business empires in
Turkey. The ‘Turkish Water Produce Solidarity, Education, Research and Development
Foundation’ (Türkiye Su Ürünleri Dayanişma, Eğitim, Araştırma ve Geliştirme Vakfı) which
primarily works to develop the aquaculture sector, is composed of businessmen and scientists
as well as bureaucrats within the ‘water produce’ units in the Ministry (Knudsen 1998, 2000).
Despite the opaqueness of many of the organisations directing their activities to fishing and
aquaculture, it seems evident that ‘non-state’ actors have taken on more important roles since
1980, and direct more of the agenda, also in research. For instance, one of the most, if not the
most, comprehensive review of the ‘water produce’ sector (already referred to as Çelikkale et
al 1999) was commissioned by the Istanbul Chamber of Commerce (İstanbul Ticaret Odası),

to the critique by the EU (1998) of the poor hygienic standards of exported water produce.
80
Çelikkale et al 1999:291 list 13 from 1949-1962, mainly various European consultants, but also one
Japanese.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 99

and written by three of the senior researchers at the Sürmene MSF. There are also a few
smaller and more independent environmental organisations as well as organisations within the
fisheries, primarily cooperatives. The cooperatives will be discussed in more detail in later
chapters.

From custom to ‘knowledge’

In the pre-Republican era knowledge of fish and fisheries was not an explicit issue (except for
Devedjian’s study). Fisheries was not addressed as something to be ‘known’ at a distance -
that was not the way to ‘treat’ fisheries. Knowledge was embedded in practice and fishing
traditions, in communities, and combined with seafaring81, this was the sole way of knowing
the fish and the sea. While seafaring knowledge (for example navigation and geography) was
to a certain extent thematised, objectified and inscribed, this was not so for the knowledge of
fishing. The Ottoman State limited its concern to inscribing and implementing rules of
taxation, and by implication, rules of access. The scientific study of fish and the sea was only
stimulated by the state from the 1950s onward, together with a more general drive to develop
the fisheries. Science became a new domain and approach, the instrument of a new kind of
state, the governmental state. The state’s approach had developed from a concern about taxes
and securing support of powerful clients (by giving privileged access or tax farming grants) in
the Ottoman era, to a concern about socio-economic development, welfare and quality of the
population, and (after 1950) securing support of voters/the halk (people, the masses). The
increasing attention paid to the Black Sea by national and international organisations has
brought about a further multiplication of knowledge producers.
To the extent that there has been discontinuity in the traditions of fishing in Turkey,
this is probably not primarily a result of the ‘Greek fishermen’ leaving, but rather of the
general economic and technological changes (for example increased boat traffic as well as
pollution in the Bosporus that have made dalyans illegal or unprofitable), and to the way the
Republican State approached the fisheries. In Japan the state has incorporated some of the
traditional local culture of fishery management and privileged community-level access into
the national framework of fishery management (Ruddle 1987, 1991). Ruddle (1987:13-24)
describes how the territorial rights of ‘fishing villages’ were codified and formalised during
the early Tokugawa (or Edo) Period (1603-1867) with the umi-ho-giri law (‘Sea Division
Law’) in 1719. Although the Japanese and Ottoman regimes here differ in that the Japanese
enacted a law for sea territories much earlier, the two states seem to have had basically the
same interest in fisheries. As in the Ottoman State, the aim of the Edo policy was to satisfy
followers (corvee labour and tribute from fishing to feudal chiefs) and secure monetary
income for the government through tax or rent collected from villages or individuals. Thus,
from the government perspective, both Ottoman and Edo, the main motive for regulating
territorial rights in fishing was to secure political stability and monetary income. However,

81
Ottoman seafaring did spur some state initiatives to develop relevant knowledge, for example the
exploration and mapping of the coasts, even outside of the Ottoman Empire (Piri Reis).
100 CHAPTER 3

when it comes to the era of modernisation (in Japan from the Meiji restoration 1868-1948) the
states’ approaches to the traditions of fishing diverge. Ruddle (1987:85-86) writes:

According to the Fisheries Law (1949) fisheries right in the sea area under the jurisdiction of a
Fisheries Cooperative Association (FCA) are the bona fide personal property of the individual
members of that Association, to whom they are distributed by the Association. Each FCA
establishes regulations for the control and operation of various types of fishery in an equitable,
efficient and sustainable manner, as local conditions dictate. This situation has its origins in
the Japanese feudal era, (…) The beneficial aspects of traditional village institutions were not
abandoned during the modernization of Japan. (…) Thus the organization and administration
of modern Japanese coastal fisheries owes much to the continuance of an entity developed
during feudal times. (…) Present day regulations pertaining to entry rights and fishing grounds
remain essentially the same as those of the Edo Period.

In contrast to this, the Turkish Republic has chosen to try to completely reframe or recreate
the fisheries. The Turkish scientists’ and bureaucrats’ discourse of development has implied a
denial of local culture, for example by not using the notion of imece (collective, communal
work) as an ideological foundation for cooperatives. The relevance of ‘traditional’ practices,
even of practice per se has been ignored. Practices of local regulation and privileged access,
which were not only acknowledged by the Ottoman State but also an integral part of the tax
system, have been increasingly muted or suppressed. It is interesting to note that when
bureaucrats and scientists recently started to consider devolving managerial fisheries rights to
local-level fisherman’s villages or organisations, they used the concept oto kontrol (auto
control) (for example Mert 1996), thus framing this topic within a ‘Western’ scientised
discourse of fishery management, instead of elaborating the pre-republican tradition and/or
incorporating local practices. The reference to oto kontrol has been adopted by bureaucrats,
scientists, and even some fishermen. When I met with the leader of a ‘water-produce’ section
within the central administration, he repeatedly asserted that the cooperatives ought to
conduct auto-control. Similarly, a scientists at Sürmene MSF claimed that auto-control, ‘as in
Japan’, was the solution to over-fishing in the Black Sea. This reference to Japan is fairly
common among scientists and bureaucrats. As I will elaborate further in Chapter 11, science
has become an instrument in a moral ideological discourse of development, a stronghold
against tradition and Islam. On a general level this hegemonic discourse of development has
been increasingly challenged by new elite groups. However, there is nothing as yet of an
explicit, coherent ideological challenge to the Western modernist discourse of fisheries
development.
It is also interesting to observe that while there seems to have been a high degree of
continuity in the culinary culture of seafood since pre-republican times, the state’s approach
to the fisheries has shown a marked discontinuity, moving from tax farming to scientific and
rational development planning. In the official approach to ‘water produce’, the culinary aspect
is completely missing. Interestingly, Devedjian (1926) was more explicitly interested in this,
and for each species or kind (more than 160) that he describes he also notes their culinary
value and primary mode of cooking, and often also supplies detailed descriptions of various
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 101

modes of conservation. In contrast, the culinary value of seafood is completely absent from
post-1950 state approaches to fisheries. The only way it enters the picture, as in textbooks on
‘water produce marketing’ is in the technical and formalised language of economic science, as
‘demand’ (arz, talep) and ‘consumption’ (tüketim) (for example Şener 1987).
The bureaucrats and scientists alike are state agents who aspire to the upper-class
Istanbul culture, including the culture of seafood, but are simultaneously entrusted with the
implemention of a program of fisheries development, which in its emphasis on proteins and
universal/national consumption goes against their own subjective experiences with seafood,
namely the culinary pleasure (not the proteins) and the exclusiveness. It is not uncommon to
hear bureaucrats expressing a greater interest in how fish tastes than in fisheries policies. The
scientists are the agents, the engineers, of the modernising efforts in the fisheries, but they
continue to express their class position, or their status - their refinedness and so forth - by,
among other things, associating with the Istanbul way of eating fish and demonstrating elite
manners. While being, or aspiring to be, among the privileged seafood ‘eaters’, they
simultaneously try to develop Turkey into a country of common ‘fish eaters’. This puts ‘water
produce’ scientists and bureaucrats in a peculiar position at the intersection of two seemingly
incompatible discourses that I identified in Chapter 2: the one is a discourse of development
and egalitarianism, its aim being the ideal of a culturally uniform Turkish people; in the other
is a discourse of sophisticated social praxis and hierarchy, the civilised, Istanbul style, the
gentlemanly (efendi) manners, which has been partly excluded from ideological formulations
of ‘Turkishness’82. How do these two discourses interpenetrate/interact; how do the scientists
and bureaucrats handle this; and how does this affect their involvement in society? The gap
is, I believe, partly bridged by the civilising or educating mission the state elite accords itself,
but it also makes the elite vulnerable to critique (see Chapter 12).

Outline of the contemporary Turkish ‘water produce’ sector

Thus far I have charted the ‘social life’ of the fish in the spheres of consumption and state
policies. In this chapter I have begun by outlining the general and specific societal
developments that have made possible a Turkish science of ‘water produce’. In the present
section I chart the development and character of the ‘activity field’ that makes possible the
fishermen’s knowledges. The aim of the scientific-bureaucratic ‘water-produce’ sector to
‘develop’ the fisheries has in certain respects been fulfilled, especially with regard to applied
technology in purse-seine fishing. But the old challenges remain, particularly in the fields of
processing and marketing, and technological success has raised new ones, especially the
protection of fish stocks. The increase in capitalisation and catch capacity of the Turkish fleet
parallels similar developments in sea fisheries in many other parts of the world. However, the
fisheries in Turkey do have their special characteristics and dynamics, which will be

82
This is an ambivalence that is inherent in Gökalp’s theory. The Turks were to look to Anatolia for
their culture (hars), but to Europe for civilisation (medeniyet). It is interesting to note that the Turkish
102 CHAPTER 3

discussed in detail in subsequent chapters. Here I briefly survey some general characteristics
of the fisheries in order to make it easier to understand the ethnographic particulars. I continue
to trace the ‘social life’ of fish first passing through the sectors of fish trade and processing
before finally surveying developments in fishing proper.

Fish trade and markets

In most large towns along the Turkish coast, and also in smaller ones in the Black Sea region,
there is a fish hall (Balık Halı or Balık Hane) or ‘water produce hall’ under the direction and
control of the municipalities. These institutions, which frame the wholesale marketing of fish,
are not to be confused with the fish markets (balıkpazarı) where individual customers come to
buy seafood for personal consumption. The kabzımal, who rent offices in the fish halls from
the municipalities, are primarily middlemen who organise the sales (by auction) for the
fishermen. They act as a kind of marketing agent for the fishermen, often hardly keeping the
fish at all. With its 50-100 kabzımal the fish hall in Kumkapı, Istanbul, is by far the largest
hall in Turkey. In the Trabzon hall only 5-6 kabzımals are active. Every morning fish is
unloaded directly from fishing boats or brought in by lorries to be sold by auction middlemen
(madrabaz). There are said to be around 60 madrabaz, mostly from eastern Anatolia
(especially Erzincan), in operation in Kumkapı (Akman 1997). These madrabazes are
generally considered rather wealthy and are themselves seldom fishmongers. They operate as
middlemen between the fishermen/kabzımal and the fishmongers or restaurants. In smaller
cities such as Trabzon fishmongers may themselves participate directly in the auctions. A few
kabzımal have international connections and sell tuna to Japan, for example, or import
mackerel from Norway. Most owners of fishing boats receive an advance (avans) from ‘their’
kabzımal before the start of the season (about first of September) - in order to purchase
provisions, undertake repairs, and so forth - and thereby remain bonded to the kabzımal
throughout the season. Some of the larger family fishing companies not only own and operate
several purse seiners, but have also established themselves as kabzımal and thus market their
catch themselves.
The kabzımals report the catches to the representative of the State Governor in the
hall. These reports provide the basis for the fisheries statistics. From the sales price the
kabzımals deduct 8-10% as their own share and pay 5-8% in taxes to the local authorities.
That means, in theory at least, that the fishermen are left with 84% of the sales price. After
changing hands the first time, fish may pass through one or two more middlemen before it
ends up on some restaurant table. Some kabzımals have offices in several cities and may
choose not to sell the fish immediately to some madrabaz, but trade it within their wider
network. Although there are big differences between the kabzımals, they are generally
regarded as very rich, and a popular saying goes “The fishermen have goods, the kabzımals
have money (Balıkçıların malı var, kabzımalların parası var)”. This is an outlook shared by
the population at large, including scientists and bureaucrats. And indeed, some of them are

concept kültürlü has come to be used primarily for traits stemming from ‘civilisation’.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 103

clearly wealthy. Through credit and social bonds of mutual trust many fishermen, even the
owners of large purse seiners, remain ‘bonded’ (bağlı) to such kabzımal for years (see also
Erginsoy 1998:141).
Not all fish pass through the fish halls. Much of the catch of small-boat fishermen is
marketed locally and never registered or taxed. Large catches of small pelagic fish,
particularly hamsi and istavrit, are delivered to the around 20 fish flour and meal factories
along the eastern Black Sea coast. Most of these were set up during the 1980s with generous
state grants (40% of investment costs) from the State Planning Organization (DPT). The EBK
established the first factories (in Trabzon and Fatsa), but most are today owned by various
private entrepreneurs. Catches of some non-fish species are primarily processed in factories
along the west coast, but there are several seasnail factories along the Black Sea coast with no
state ownership/initiative, but with heavy west-coast ownership interests. Istanbul is still the
centre of fresh-fish trade. However, it is important to note that partly due to greatly improved
transport facilities (notably road transport), Turkey is increasingly developing into one single
seafood market. The record catches of palamut during the autumn of 1998 for the first time
brought fresh palamut to south-eastern Turkey. Fresh hamsi, caught in Trabzon, is marketed
in working-class suburbs in Istanbul, and exotic species caught in the Marmara or Aegean
may be served – fresh, of course - at an upper-class restaurant in Trabzon. The decrease in
salting is probably partly due to the fact it has become the easier and swifter to transport fresh
fish, and partly due to the establishment of cold storage facilities in connection with most fish
halls.
The demolition, by the Democrat Party Menderes government, in 1957/8, of the
balıkpazarı area at Eminönü in Istanbul, with its fish hall and fish market as well as its wide
choice of meyhanes (Koçu 1960), together with the later establishment of the fish hall at
Kumkapı in the early 1980s, removed the direct (geographical) link between alcohol and
seafood. As mentioned in the previous chapter the kabzımals today try to distance themselves
from the association between fish and alcohol. In general the fish hall facilities have improved
and fish trade has developed in scale and volume. However, there seems to have been no
basic change in structure of the fish trade in recent times. Unlike many important agricultural
produce - such as sugar (Alexander 1997), tea (Hann 1990), cotton, tobacco, hazelnuts, and so
on - for which trade, processing and sometimes production are (or have been until recently)
under state monopolies, there is no kind of price control or price regulation of ‘water
produce’. As far as I can see, there is no tendency toward monopolisation of the fish trade,
state or other. The basic outlines of the auction system in the fish halls with madrabaz and
kabzımal actually display a great deal of continuity from the Ottoman times.
The state has not intervened in the social organisation of the fishing sector (except for
the attempt to establish cooperatives (discussed in Chapter 11). Despite early aims to dispense
with the ‘capitalist class of middlemen’ (see Ritter von Kral 1938 above) and establish a
direct collaboration between the producers and the state, as well as similar ideas proposed by
the political elite in the 1960s (see for example citation from Orhon 1969, Chapter 11), the
104 CHAPTER 3

state seems to have made only half-hearted attempts to gain control of the trade. The
establishment of the EBK was probably intended as a step in this direction. However, state
initiatives vis-a-vis fisheries came much later than comparable schemes in the agricultural
sector, and the political climate during the Democrat Party era in the 1950s, as well as the
post-1980 neo-liberal climate, probably did not favour any ‘communistic’ development. It
may have been of some importance that the fisheries, unlike for example sugar, tobacco and
wheat, were not perceived to be of central national importance, especially since it did not
generate significant export revenue or substitute for imports. Moreover, the perishability of
the fish, and the consumer’s dislike of frozen fish, have restricted the state’s possibility to
store and control the produce. The trade required competence, knowledges and networks that
the state bureaucracy simply did not possess and was hard put to gain control of.

Technological development in the fisheries

The fishing fleet has seen more dramatic changes than the fish trade, especially as pertains to
technology. But as will be detailed in Chapters 5, 6 and 10, there has been less change in the
social organisation of the fisheries. Although there has been development in both scale and
technology in the fisheries along all of Turkey’s coasts, the most dramatic expansion has
taken place in Istanbul and in the eastern Black Sea region. It is convenient to distinguish
between three different sectors in the Istanbul and Black Sea fisheries: the big purse seiners,
the heterogeneous trawlers, and the small-boats. The most important of these is the purse-
seine sector, which from the beginning of the 20th century has developed through
technological innovations as well as state-sponsored infrastructure and credit. I do not want to
bore the readers with an excess of technological detail, but a general outline of the technical
development is required since these technical aspects are of great importance to the fishermen
and influence the practice and knowledge of fishing to such an extent that every new
innovation is inscribed as an important milestone in the memories of the fishermen. In this
exposition I both rely upon my own conversations with fishermen and on the literature
(primarily Çelikkale 1988a).
The purse seines catch pelagic fish: hamsi, istavrit and palamut in the Black Sea; lüfer,
bluefin tuna, sardalya, palamut and a range of other kinds in the Marmara and Aegean seas.
Most of these fisheries take place during the autumn (large pelagic fish) and winter (small
pelagic fish). Before World War I hamsi were caught in the Trabzon region using fairly small,
locally made nets (saçma, sürgülü serpme – relatively large cast or cover nets). The nets
could only catch 1-200 kg of fish and had to be taken ashore and dried regularly since they
were made of cotton. In Sinop hamsi were also caught in dalyans (Devedjian 1926:51).
Between the wars circular seines (encircling nets, çevirme ağları, more commonly called
gırgır, or - in Trabzon - ığrıp) came into use. Several boats were used to set the seine, and
fishing was local and dependent upon visual observation of fish, either as yakamoz
(phosphorescence) on clear, dark nights, or as red fields on the water during daytime (see
Chapter 6). During this period seines grew larger, reaching up to 30-40 fathoms depth and
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 105

300-400 fathoms length. Fishing mainly remained local and developments were primarily by
enlargement, not by technological innovations.
From the 1950s onwards state initiatives such as credit, EBK’s establishment of cold
storage facilities, improvements in transport infrastructure, together with the adoption of new
technology quickly transformed the fisheries. Engine powered boats made it possible for
Trabzon fishermen to go further west to catch hamsi outside Fatsa where the fish often gather
for longer periods during the winter. Boat size increased to 18-20 m. The introduction of
nylon nets made the cumbersome drying process, which had been necessary to prevent the
cotton nets from rotting, superfluous. Around 1960 the first echo sounders were imported and
the fishermen became less dependent upon weather and light conditions. All these innovations
facilitated more continual fishing. The teams started to use special carrier vessels (taşıcı,
yedek motoru) that would take the catch ashore while the main vessel (ana motoru, ağ
motoru) continued fishing operations. When the fishermen were allowed to use
radiotelephones and coast radio during the latter part of the 1970s, communication between
the mother vessel and the carriers, between the teams, and between the teams and their
contacts ashore was made much easier. In the 1970s the introduction of the powerblock (for
mechanical lifting of the seine), the fish pump (for mechanical transfer of fish from the net to
the carrier vessel) as well as radar (enabling the fishermen to see other boats and shore)
further increased catch capacity. The need for an extra net boat disappeared and it was
replaced by a small-boat (bot) with a powerful engine to assist in the setting of the seine and
helping stabilise the mother vessel when the seine is in the sea. Of special importance was the
adoption around 1980 of the fish finder sonar, which is now universally used by almost all
larger purse seiners. At the beginning of the 1990s it also became common to use ‘satellite’
which shows the boats’ position on a map displayed on a screen.
This dynamic of economic expansion and technological development became
embedded and reflected in individual careers.

A poor small-boat fisherman in Çarşıbaşı had four sons. In the middle of the 1970s the young
brothers took up beach seining (barabat), followed soon by casting large uzatma nets (wide
meshed nets to catch large pelagic fish, especially palamut). Then, rising one step, they turned
to purse seining on a modest scale: a ten to twelve metre long boat, small seine, no electronic
equipment and few men. In between they also operated some small businesses; for a time they
had a clothing shop and traded foreign currencies. The turning point may have come with the
eldest brother Yakup's six months stay in Germany. Earnings he brought home covered half
the cost of the (150,000 lira) investment in their first big boat (15 m), which they used for very
profitable trawling off Eğreli in the western part of the Black Sea. Before replacing this boat
with a bigger one, they also did some mid-water trawling for hamsi. In 1983 they bought
larger purse-seine nets and rented a big (steel) boat. Catches were bountiful, they made huge
profits and paid generous shares (pay) to their crew - and for the first time bought a boat
appropriate for purse seining. Only a couple of years later they bought another and supplied
both vessels with the best and most expensive sonars in Çarşıbaşı.
By 1990, Can Kardeşler, as they now named their family company, had become the
largest firm in the fishing business in Çarşıbaşı. During the 1990s they elongated the sterns of
their boats, constructed new boats, bought several new seines and new, expensive sonars. By
1997 they possessed three purse seiners and four carriers (see appendix 4) and had become
106 CHAPTER 3

one of the largest fishing companies in Turkey. This rapid progress to a very large degree
depended upon loans and subsidies. In 1991, their total debt stood at approximately two-thirds
of their estimated total assets (4.5 billion lira). When they had a fishmeal factory built in the
Gerze area near Sinop in 1987, the central authorities covered 40% of the costs. The business
is owned as a corporation. Two of the brothers are skippers on one each of their two purse
seiners, another is manager of the factory and the eldest. Yakup is general manager while his
eldest son is in charge of operations on the third purse seiner. They have also hired an
accountant. Thus, in the course of only fifteen years Can Kardeşler had undergone a
spectacular change from poor villagers to the level of regional elite.

In Chapter 6 I will elaborate further on local developments in Çarşıbaşı, and Can Kardeşler
will be one of the central cases in that discussion. To return to the larger picture of this
chapter, it may also be noted that, as indicated in the case above, the net size and the engine
power had continually increased so that in 1998 a typical purse-seine vessel had two 700 Hp
(or more) engines and carried two different nets each 1000 fathoms long. Three different
kinds of purse-seine nets are in common use: the hamsi net, the general purpose (canavar)
net, and the bluefin tuna net. One of these hamsi seines may enclose as much as 300 tonnes of
hamsi! Typical boat size is now around 40-45 metres, but the largest are between 60 and 70
metres. The boats are constructed and equipment installed in shipyards along the Black Sea
coast (Sürmene, Sinop, Eğreli and others) and in Istanbul. Previously, all boats were built of
wood, but the yards increasingly turned to steel as the primary construction material from the
1970s onwards and now all large vessels are of steel. However, the construction is still based
on traditional designs and workmanship. In 1998 there were probably a total of some 100
large purse seiners in the Black Sea and Istanbul/Marmara region83. Boat construction,
engines, sonars and nets constitute the main investment expenses. The total cost of such large
and well-equipped purse seiners is considerable. The value is difficult to assess, but according
to fishermen’s own estimates one purse seiner may be worth between US$ 1 and 1.5 Million.
In Sinop and Istanbul there are still quite a few middle-sized purse seiners in use. These are
technologically very similar to those in operation during the 1950s and 1960s, but today they
are only used in seasonal fisheries for large pelagic fish, especially palamut.
The technological developments outlined above apply primarily to the Black Sea
fisheries. Although some hamsi used to be caught in dalyans, seines (ığrıp) and beach seines
(manyat) in Istanbul (Devedjian 1926:50), the really intensive hamsi fishery had long been
centred on the shores of Trabzon and its surroundings. While the Black Sea purse seiners
primarily caught large quantities of low-value fish, Istanbul fishermen generally caught
relatively small quantities of high-value fish. Thus, even though developments in Istanbul
followed the same general pattern as above, there never arose a need for carrier vessels. Also,
the sonars were initially most effective in search for small pelagic species and of less use in

83
The 1996 statistics set the number of purse seiners (gırgır) in these regions to a total of 390. This,
however, also includes smaller purse seiners. As I have discussed in detail elsewhere (Knudsen
1997:11-12), the categories currently employed in the fishery statistics are not well-suited to identify the
different kinds of fishing vessels. Moreover, the statistics also include improbable year-to-year changes.
See Chapter 6 and Appendix 4 for a more detailed study of developments in the fishing fleet in the
district (İlçe) of Çarşıbaşı.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 107

the hunt for palamut, lüfer and bluefin tuna. All in all, Black Sea fishermen were in many
respects in the lead of the technological developments. However, this assertion should be
tempered with the observation that fishermen in large parts of Turkey originate from the
Black Sea region. Fishermen have continued to disperse from Trabzon and Ordu/Perşembe
and today many fishermen living in Samsun, Istanbul, Izmir and places as far away as Mersin
in the south-east come from the eastern Black Sea region.
Along the Aegean coast as well things started to change during the 1950s. Sponge
fisheries had been important in this region for several decades, with Greek sponge fishermen
and traders heavily involved despite the ‘Kabotaj’ law that stipulated that all economic
activity in connection with fishing in Turkish waters was to be conducted by Turks. In her
ethnography of Bodrum, Fatma Mansur (1972:48) attributes instrumental roles to the
extension of credit by the Agricultural Bank as well as the construction of a cold storage plant
in the rapid increase in the number of boats in Bodrum from five to six small boats in the
beginning of the 1950s to six trawlers, 35 smaller boats (piyade) and 90 small boats at the end
of the 1960s. Diving and fishing for sponges used to be the most important income for
fishermen in this region. These fisheries have collapsed due to the depletion of resources,
competition from synthetic ‘sponges’ (Balıkçısı 1969, Mansur 1972), and a sponge disease
which has prevailed since 1986 (Topaloğlu 1998). Fishing also receives brief mention in
Starr’s monography (1992) that is also based on fieldwork (1960s and 1980s) in Bodrum. By
the 1980s it seemed that most of the former fishermen had turned their attention to the
growing tourist business. Other studies of fisheries or fishing communities in Turkey (Taner
1991, Erginsoy 1998, Güngör 1998) do not supply much ethnographic detail, and there are no
studies of actual fishing practices apart from Berkes’ (1992) interesting study of management
forms in several fishing communities along the Turkish Aegean and Mediterranean coasts. I
will return to that study in Chapter 5.
Economically aquaculture is now the most important ‘water produce’ activity along
the Aegean. Of greatest importance is the raising of sea bass (levrek) and çipura for both a
domestic and international markets. Large-scale operators and foreigners are involved in this
business which now comprises around 400 units, a fourth of them allegedly operating
illegally. In the beginning of the 1990s the Trabzon WPRI tried to stimulate marine
aquaculture of salmon and trout in the Black Sea. This failed, but in its shadow a large
number of small-scale fresh-water trout farms have developed along the many small streams
and rivers in the eastern Black Sea region.
There are few suitable places for large scale trawling along the Turkish coast.
However, stimulated by EBK experiments and initiatives, a fairly large trawl sector has
developed since the 1960s. The primary trawl areas are found in Saros Bay (north Aegean)
and on the alluvial fans offshore from the deltas around Samsun. Developments in this sector
have been more a question of scale than of technological innovations, although equipment
such as tele-radio, echo sounder and radar are important instruments in today’s trawl fishery
operations. Boats are generally smaller than the purse-seine boats (around 30 meters, but also
108 CHAPTER 3

smaller). Approximately 100 trawlers work the waters off Samsun for eight months during the
winter. In the Istanbul-Marmara area there has developed a large illegal trawling sector
involving perhaps several hundred small boats (12-16 m.). These are generally poor
fishermen, who often market their catch locally. During the 1990s illegal small-boat trawling
(by twelve metres long seasnail boats) has become widespread also in the eastern Black Sea
region.
Almost all fishing boats are family owned and operated. As is evident in Erginsoy’s
study of a small fishing community on the Bosporus, this also seems to be the case in
Istanbul. A few families own two or three purse seiners, but there is no development towards
the establishment of large industrial firms which control larger fleets. The family companies
are seldom involved in other businesses, except fishery related ones such as fish trading or
processing. A purse-seine team consists of 30 persons altogether (fewer when fishing for large
pelagic fish), including the crew(s) on the carrier vessel(s). In addition a team of workers
(boşaltma işçiler) is hired during the most intensive hamsi season to land and load the fish
into cases. These workers receive a negotiated salary, while the crews on the boats are paid
according to a share system. In the Black Sea region shares are calculated and paid at the end
of the season. After deduction of all expenses, the owner takes half the profit (50 shares, pay)
while the remaining 50 shares are divided among the crew and captains. An individual may
receive more or less than the standard share depending on skills, position, and so forth. The
boat itself may have one or two shares, and the owners also have their shares as captains or
crew (typically younger sons). Advances and pocket money received during the season are
subtracted from the shares when the owner high-handedly decides on the individual shares. In
practice the owners retain considerable control over the finances and can manipulate the size
of the shares. However, a company paying low shares one year may have problems
mobilising a competent workforce the next season. The same share system is employed in the
big-boat all-season trawl fisheries, but the operation of a boat only requires five or six pair of
hands. On a trawler approximately half the crew, including the captain, will usually come
from the owner’s family. Crew for the trawlers and purse seiners are partly recruited locally,
among relatives and neighbours. However, in places like Sinop and especially in Istanbul,
most of the crew is recruited from the poor region between Fatsa and Ordu. A middleman
(koca reis) is usually responsible for organising the crew in such situations. No formal
(written) contracts apply to the hiring of crew.
Like most fisheries in the world (McGoodwin 1990), in Turkey small-boat fishing is
omitted from general descriptions and policies. I have elsewhere argued that the true
importance of small-scale fisheries in the eastern Black Sea region is far greater than is
usually supposed (Knudsen 1997:16-17). Parallel with the developments in the purse-seine
and trawl fisheries, there has been a tremendous growth in the small-boat fishing sector. The
general monetisation of the economy, with the emergence of local demand; improved
transport facilities (for bringing catch to urban markets); and international demand for
especially seasnails have contributed to making small-boat fishing a viable option for
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 109

sustained livelihood for families with few other resources, such as land, capital, or education.
This sector is indeed very heterogeneous, but it is safe to claim that thousands of families
along the Black Sea coast as well as in Istanbul/Marmara depend primarily upon small-boat
fishing for their livelihood. Many small-boat fishermen also work part of the season as crew
on big fishing boats, which seems to be less common in Istanbul. It has been common for
poor fishermen to invest good shares earned in the purse-seine fisheries in their first small
boat. Generally speaking, due to the continued capitalisation of the big boat sector, the
difference in capital investment, style, and catches between big-boat fishing and small-boat
fishing is now very marked.
By 1998 most small fishing boats for ‘professional’ use were equipped with engines,
some with more than 100 Hp. Most boats are locally built wooden craft ranging from six to
twelve metres, sometimes equipped with simple echo sounders and radiotelephones. Thus,
also the small-boat fisheries have developed by adopting new technology and it should not be
seen as technologically stagnant, as a remnant of what the capitalistic sector has developed
away from. Small-boat and big-boat fishing have simultaneously expanded and developed.
There has traditionally been little competition between purse seiners and small-boats in the
Black Sea since the small-boats do not catch hamsi. However, certain kinds of small-boat
fishing compete more directly with trawling for fishing grounds and resources. A wide variety
of nets and other gear are in use in the small-boat fishing sector, the most common being:
various kinds of uzatma (anchored drift gillnet) for large pelagic fish; fanyalı (trammelnet84,
double or triple walled) for kefal and other species; molozma (small meshed ‘catch all’ bottom
trammelnet); bottom nets (dip ağı, single walled entangling nets) primarily for whiting; and
specialised nets for turbot, zargana and other species. All these are standard stationary nets.
In addition it has become more and more common to use dredges (algarna/kaska) for the
harvesting of seasnails. Traditionally fishing with handlines, set lines, and cast nets (saçma)
used to be an important, or even primary, strategy in many small-boat fishermen’s
adaptations. Although still practised, these methods are of less importance today. The
strategies of the fishermen vary considerably, but in some districts or villages one or several
kinds of gear may dominate. In Eynesil, for instance, bottom fishing for whiting is by far the
most important fishery. In rural communities it is common to combine small-boat fishing with
income (and produce) from agricultural production, while in urban communities small-boat
fishing may be combined with income from small-scale trading, crafts, lower level teaching
positions or pensions. It is difficult to draw a sharp line between ‘hobby’ fishermen and
‘professional’ fishermen.
Fishing is a man’s job, but not exclusively so. Poor small-boat fishermen in need of a
deckhand may bring a daughter now and then, and in some communities though not in
Çarşıbaşı, some women work regularly with their husbands on their small boats. Some
women also assist their husbands/fathers or other relatives with cleaning and mending nets.
To my knowledge, no women are involved in the fish trade as kabzımal or fishmongers.

84
Nets with both large and small meshed walls. Fish are trapped in ‘bags’ of the small meshed net.
110 CHAPTER 3

Neither are there any women on the trawlers or purse seiners. Fishermen explain this by
referring to the fact that in the intimate atmosphere that 30 men together in one boat for
several months make for, the presence of women could be very disruptive. Also, it would be
very difficult to ‘guard a woman’s honour’ in such a situation. On the family-operated small
boats this is not a problem. I have also heard of small boats on the Aegean coast worked only
by women, dressed in black cloaks (personal communication, Belkıs Kümbetoğlu). Ideas that
women bring misfortune or ‘pollution’ to the fisheries, as is common in for example the North
Atlantic, seem to be poorly developed.
Most of the fishing is coastal. The Black Sea countries operate with 200-mile
exclusive economic zones, and no formal agreement has been entered into by the Black Sea
countries regarding the management of marine resources85. A draft to a fisheries convention,
drawn up at the initiative of the Black Sea Environmental Programme, remains unsigned.
Generally, there is very little contact between fishermen from Turkey and the other Black Sea
countries, although purse seiners in Istanbul have signed on crew from Rumania and Bulgaria
during the 1990s. Erginsoy (1998:114) writes that the Istanbul fishermen during the 1990s
have increasingly entered into “…thriving commercial networks in the Black Sea
region…through foreign partnerships…” Regrettably she provides no details as to the content
of these networks and partnerships. Some fishermen from Sinop have apparently established
businesses (in other sectors as well as fish/fishing) with partners on the northern shores of the
Black Sea.
The state has been instrumental in developing fisheries first and foremost by extending
credit (and grants) to those engaged in fishing and processing, by exempting equipment such
as engines from import tax, by building harbours and, indirectly, by constructing a national
road network. Formally, the state also tries to direct and restrict the fishing sector. All
fishermen, including crew, must have a personal licence and all boats must be licensed in
order to legally have the right to fish. These licenses (ruhsat) are granted by the Province
office of the Ministry for Agriculture for a small fee and are valid for two consecutive years.
Men employed by the state, such as teachers, are not allowed to have such licenses. However,
control is slack so this is of relatively little practical importance. With regard to the regulation
of fishing activities, there is no quota system in operation as yet. The main rules restrict the
fishing season, the mesh size and the fish size, and prohibit trawling in certain regions, for
example east of Ünye.

The ecological crisis and continued capitalisation and expansion

My first brief visit to fishing communities in the eastern Black Sea region took place during
the winter of 1990 when I visited harbours in the fishing communities of Yakakent west of
Samsun as well as Yalıköy and Bolaman near Fatsa. It should have been the peak of the hamsi
season, but most boats were anchored in the harbours. On the waterfront waterfowl that had

85
There used to be an agreement (The Varna Convention, Reynolds 1987) between all the Black Sea
states except for Turkey before the disintegration of the Soviet Union.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 111

perished due to hunger washed back and forth with the waves. The fishermen complained: ‘no
fish’, ‘no hamsi’, ‘the Black Sea died’. The ecological crisis had hit the sea and those living
off it. Catches of hamsi fell to only one tenth of the 1987/8 level. The crisis continued for
three years before the situation gradually started to improve. Both fishermen and state
representatives were confronted with a new situation. This crisis resulted in changes both in
the general structure of the fisheries as well as in the perception some of the state
representatives had of the challenges confronting the fisheries (see Chapter 7). The scientists
generally cited over-fishing, pollution and the introduction of a new species, mneniopsis leidi,
as reasons for the crisis, while fishermen, in addition to the two first above, gave many more
reasons (see figure 22).
One notable effect of the crisis was that Black Sea fishermen started to fish much
more in the waters of the Marmara, Aegean and even Mediterranean seas. The purse seiners
and also trawlers in part have increasingly freed themselves from their ‘home’ areas and
merged into one ‘national fleet’. Purse seiners along the eastern Black Sea coast are still more
dependent upon anchovy than fishermen in Istanbul who concentrate more on catches of large
pelagic fish. But, generally speaking, it is not wise to think about Turkish fisheries any longer
as being separated into isolated regions. Family firms owning more than one purse seiner
commonly put their boats into operation in different regions or seas in order to minimise risk.
Nevertheless, the mutual stereotypic perception of the different styles and interests of ‘the
other’ regions persists. For instance, Black Sea fishermen still generally believe that Istanbul
fishermen drink much more alcohol then they do themselves.
In the purse-seine sector the resource crisis led to stiffer competition, and contributed
to a concentration in the sector into fewer, but larger companies. The small-boat sector has
been less affected by the resource crisis than the purse-seine sector, partly because they could
increase their exploitation of alternative resources, particularly seasnails. Rather than signing
on as crew on purse seiners, many fishermen now prefer to work on their own small-boats.
They consider it better to be independent and not under orders, to come home every day
instead of touring the seas for seven continuous months, and to have control over one’s own
economy. Owners of purse seiners complain that it is difficult to recruit competent crew. They
have to manage with unskilled young men from outside of their own villages. This is a new
problem for the owners of purse seiners in Çarşıbaşı who increasingly recruit their men from
the region between Fatsa and Ordu86.

86
This resembles the development in the organisation of the purse-seining teams in Istanbul during the
1980s. I was told by fishermen in Istanbul that when dredging for prawns started in the Marmara in the
beginning of the 1980s, many Istanbul fishermen invested the shares they had earned as crew on purse
seiners in new small-boats. These boats were engaged in the prawn fisheries, which were very profitable
for a while, and when it was eventually prohibited in the beginning of the 1990s the small-boat
fishermen turned to other kinds of fishing. Because of the resulting lack of crew, the purse seiners in
Istanbul started to sign on crew from the Fatsa-Ordu region and today approximately 70% of the crew
working on the Istanbul purse seiners are said to come from this region. If the seasnail fisheries do not
collapse a similar development may occur in the eastern Black Sea region in the future.
112 CHAPTER 3

For various reasons the Turkish fishermen were much more resilient during the
resource crisis than the fishermen of the former SIS countries. In the 1990s Turkey became
the dominant fisheries nation in the Black Sea as the fisheries in the other countries struggled
with general economic decline (decreased demand) and evaporation of state support, as well
as the siphoning off of assets by the Mafia (see Knudsen 1997). When the resource situation
improved again after 1994, the Turkish fishermen were in a much better position to take
advantage of the opportunities. The crisis actually effected a shift in the relative importance
and technological standard of the Turkish and Russian/Ukrainian fishing fleets in the Black
Sea. In 1969 a Turkish fisherman from the province of Ordu was greatly impressed by the
Russian fishing boats he encountered when he entered open waters in order to catch dolphins.
“…the Russian fisheries’ have become so rich that we were left in flabbergasted admiration…
(…Rus balıkçılığının çok zengin oluşu bizleri hayret edecek kadar şaşırtıyordu…)” (Yeşiltaş
1969). In 1997 and 1998 Turkish fishermen again encountered ‘Russian’87 fishing boats as
they (the Turks) legally and illegally entered the territorial waters of the other Black Sea
countries. Fisherman friends told me that ‘they only use the black and white paper print
sonars’ and ‘they operate very primitively with small boats and nets’. Many concluded that
Turkish fisheries were now among the most developed and efficient in the world.
It should be evident by now that some sectors of the Turkish fisheries are
technologically very advanced, highly capital intensive, expansive, dynamic and mobile. An
ethnography of fishing and knowledges of the sea and fish in Turkey therefore must be an
ethnography on the move and multi-sited (the moving fishing boat being one site). But
fishermen still live in a specified place, a local community that they regard as ‘their’ place.
Çarşıbaşı is one such place. It is one of the 10-15 small towns on the Black Sea coast where
fishing is very important. In addition, there are many villages, towns and cities with a smaller
fishing population. In many rural and small-town coastal communities along the Black Sea
coast owners of purse seiners have made a place for themselves among the local elite. Fishing
has generally been considered a low status occupation in Turkey. However, during the last
two decades of the 20th century fishing has offered a possible career path, and some families
have had tremendous success in developing their fishing businesses. This development is part
of the general growth of a new kind of economic elite outside of the state sector, an elite
which bases its position more on wealth and political networks than on education and state
protection (Göle 1997). However, to claim that this new local elite operates outside of the
state sector would be an exaggeration. They interact with and influence the state in various
ways, but do not themselves occupy positions within the state apparatus.

Fishing and fishermen in context:

overview of the Black Sea Region and Çarşıbaşı

87
‘Russia’ is used as a generic term for most of the other Black Sea countries, including Russia,
Ukraina and to some degree Georgia.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 113

Green, and not black, is the colour of the Black Sea region of Turkey. The humidity, the
lushness, the weather changes, the rugged landscape is what impresses the senses in Trabzon
and most of the eastern Black Sea region. The coastal zone, the narrow band of land where the
mountains meet the sea, that widens here and there to encompass small river deltas, seems to
be the place where things are happening. The busy and fairly good road from Samsun to the
Turkish-Georgian border, which is in the process of being improved to a four lane highway,
forms the lifeline of the region. Brick-concrete buildings, never quite completed and always
ready to have one more storey added, shoulder each other along the road, the many small
cities gradually growing together into one long string of concrete coastal settlements.
Landscape, demography, economy – are all now undergoing rapid change in this region.
Things did not use to be so centred on the coastal zone. The high rainfall (750-2600
mm. annually) and fertile soils facilitated intensive agriculture and horticulture on the deltas,
valley floors and steep mountainsides. Subsistence agricultural production typically consisted
of corn, cabbage, a variety of garden produce, and milk from a couple of cows. The local
ecology and agricultural practices, especially the almost universal tending of cows, stimulated
a dispersed, non-nucleated settlement pattern in the rural area. And, indeed, most of the
inhabitants used to be rural small farmers, who tended their own small plots and lived more or
less evenly dispersed on the northern side of the high Kaçar mountains. The intensive
agriculture in this region meant that it was the most densely populated rural area in Turkey.
To the subsistence economy was gradually added cash crops. Centred on Giresun and Ordu in
the 19th century, the cultivation of hazelnuts gradually spread westward to the Çarşamba delta
and eastwards to Trabzon and has almost become a mono-crop in much of the region. In
Çarşıbaşı cultivation of hazelnuts only got underway after 1960. Around Samsun tobacco is
the main cash crop while tea has developed into an important money earner around Rize since
1950. Unlike tobacco and tea, hazelnuts require little labour except for a brief period during
harvesting in late summer. Except for the city of Trabzon and the township Sürmene, fishing
was of little importance in the regional economy before 1950.
The rapid transformation of the regional economy, in line with the general
development in Turkey, started around 1950. The monetarisation of the economy, the
construction – with Marshall Plan money – of a coastal road, the establishment of state
institutions and services in coastal towns, and the increased importance of cash crops all
contributed to an urbanisation centred on the coast. The cash crops primarily thrive at low
altitudes (hazelnuts crops are best under 250 m, and are impossible to grow above 500 m),
which meant that a sharper difference between the interior and the coast emerged. People
from the higher altitudes either moved to the coast or migrated to the larger cities in the west.
While the fertility rate has until recently remained high in the Black Sea region88, out
migration has ensured that there is only a moderate population growth in the region (much
lower than the national average), and a decrease in the rural population. The urban population

88
Total Fertility Rate 2.59 (1990), which is also the national average, but higher than in the Marmara
and Aegean regions.
114 CHAPTER 3

in the Black Sea region grew from 5% of the total population in 1950 to 25% in 1985 and
almost 50% in 1997.
There didn’t use to be many cities in this region. Trabzon has for centuries been the
centre of the region and before the Ottoman conquest in 1461 (eight years after the conquest
of Constantinople) was the seat of a Greek kingdom. Other, smaller, towns of some
importance were Rize, Sürmene, Tirebolu, Giresun, Ordu and Ünye, and Samsun and Sinop
further west. In addition there were many small market places (hafta, ‘week’) where small
farmers would come once a week. As indicated in the previous chapter, Trabzon experienced
a boom in the mid-19th century, but became a backwater in the Republican era and was
surpassed by Samsun in importance and population. Only after 1990, with the trade
opportunities created by the renewed contact with the former SIS countries, has Trabzon
emerged from the eddy and started to grow again.

The district of Çarşıbaşı

The district of Çarşıbaşı is one of the more dramatic examples of these developments. The
entire district used to be rural. İskefiye89, the old name (probably Greek), is occasionally
mentioned during the 19th century as a weekly marketplace in travellers’ accounts and in the
Province Yearbooks, but this small community on the river delta hardly counted as a
nucleated settlement. The 1876 yearbook sets the population of İskefiye to only 121 (Trabzon
Vilayet Salnamesi 1876). In 1950, while still administered from Vakfıkebir, the registered
population of the marketplace İskefiye was only 334. No other nucleated settlement existed in
the district90. It acquired Municipality (Belediye) status in 1954 and has since grown steadily.
The urban settlement was approximately 4500 in 1990 and had increased to 8000 or more by
1998 as construction continued and coastal villages were swallowed by its growth. In 1997
the township itself accounted for almost 50% of the total population of the district. The
increased proportion of urban population is due not only to the absolute growth in the
township, but also to the dramatic decline (50%) in rural population from 1985 to 1997. The
total population in the district doubled from 10.000 in 1950 to 20.000 in 1985 and 1990 but
then decreased to a little over 16.000 in 1997. These numbers disguise other important
demographic developments, such as the fact that almost all youths that receive university
education leave to find work in larger cities elsewhere in Turkey.
For most people there has been a rapid change in their way of life during the latter part
of the 20th century. These new ways of living have been brought about by a range of

89
Although the old name İskefiye was replaced by the modern Turkish Çarşıbaşı (‘Marketplace’) in
1963, many continue to use the old name for the township. In order to easily distinguish between the
township and the district, which officially carry the same name, I will use the name İskefie for the
township and reserve Çarşıbaşı for the district.
90
Before Çarşıbaşı became an independent district (İlçe) in 1989 it was an administrative sub-district
(Bucak) within the Vakfıkebir district. The administrative structure of province and district
administration is today basically as follows: A Province (İl, e.g. Trabzon) is subdivided into districts
(İlçe, e.g. Çarşıbaşı). Townships within a district have the status of municipality (Belediye, e.g. the
township of Çarşıbaşı/İskefiye). The municipalities are subdivided into quarters (Mahalle), while the
rural areas are divided into villages (Köy).
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 115

developments, such as: expansion of the school system, the closer involvement in their lives
of the state bureaucracy, the diversification of businesses and employment opportunities, the
availability of a wide range of consumer goods including cheap agricultural goods from
southern and western Turkey, the improvements in road communication (half an hour by road
to Trabzon, twelve hours to Ankara and 16 hours to Istanbul by bus), the ubiquitousness of
telephones and television, and the spacious new single-family (nucleated family) flats. The
tending of the vegetable gardens and the cows is increasingly a purely female task, disliked by
the younger women. Most rural families still keep a cow or two, grow some cabbages and
other vegetables; but almost nobody grows corn as a staple any longer. In the face of people’s
desire to participate in the developing money economy, the interior has little to offer in the
way of resources. The possibility of living off one’s land is also further diminished by the
inheritance rules that result in fields generally being split between brothers (and sometimes
sisters, if the state-sanctioned inheritance laws are adhered to). There is a long tradition of
work migration in this region, but the process has been intensified with the transformation of
the economy. Many, both in the interior and along the coast, keep their houses and fields even
though they move out. In the large village settlement of Yavuz in the interior south of
İskefiye, most men seem to engage in seasonal migration to Ankara and elsewhere where they
participate fully in the national economy as construction workers and building contractors.
Some of these men have a house or flat in Yavuz, İskefiye and Ankara.
Today the highway passes through İskefiye, separating the settlements from the
seaside. Except for some fields in the centre that a ‘stubborn’ old small-boat fisherman
declines to sell, almost all the delta is now densely built-up. During the 1990s high rises (up
to ten floors) have also been constructed. There is still a weekly market to which people come
from the interior. But the permanent stores, workshops, banks and so on far surpass the
market in importance. During my last fieldwork visits I obtained money with a VISA card at a
cash-point in İskefiye, and most of the common consumer goods could be bought in the town.
The state is heavily represented, in the form of village primary schools, junior high schools
and high school (lise) as well as a girl’s technical college (meslek lisesi), Municipal and
District administration, court (Adliye), police, Gendarmes, a health station, a teacher’s club
(from about 1997), and so forth. There is little industry and few large employers in the town.
Some make a living in small workshops - carpenters, boat builders, marble cutters, and so on
– and in the construction industry. However, part or all of many people’s income come from
outside of the district, either from employment in Trabzon city, from labour migration to
western Turkey or Europe, or from economic assistance from relatives living elsewhere.
The regional economy is now very complex and it is beyond the scope of this work to
discuss this in detail. But the hazelnut economy – together with fishing - still constitutes a
primary dynamic in the economy. Unlike the neighbouring district, Vakfıkebir, in Çarşıbaşı
there is not much level land suitable for more intensive agriculture. Roughly speaking it is
possible to say that households that produce more than 1.5 - 2 tonnes of hazelnuts (with a
value of US$ 2200-3050 in 1990) each year can manage on that income alone (Knudsen
116 CHAPTER 3

1992). Some do have this much, a few have more and can use the profit to invest in other
businesses. However, while most households do have income from hazelnuts, the majority
need other sources of income – their own small business, work migration, fishing, or position
in the public sector. The hazelnut trade is organised by the state monopoly Fiskobirlik, which
operates locally as a state administered cooperative. However, their delayed payment for the
hazelnuts opens the way for middlemen (tüccar) who buy the nuts at a lower price at an early
date. Some of these men are among the more influential in the district.

Overview of fisheries in Çarşıbaşı

Çarşıbaşı can now be said to be one of the most important fishery centres on the Black Sea
coast. However, commercial fishing does not have a very long tradition here as it was too far
from the market in the Trabzon. There probably used to be some beach seining (barabat,
manyat) and other small-scale fishing for subsistence and limited local trade. Active
involvement in dolphin fisheries (1950s-70s), the construction of a large harbour just outside
of İskefiye, and the availability of credit through the cooperative, together with the general
economic changes, resulted in a rapid growth in this sector so that today it is one of the most
important, if not the most important, economic activity in Çarşıbaşı.

Figure 11 Map of district of Çarşıbaşı

 MODERNISATION PROCESS 117

The basis for this map is the 1985 official map of the (then) subdistrict of Çarşıbaşı. I have added the names
İskefiye, Yalıköy and Yoroz. The district extends inland for approximately seven more kilometres. The village
Kerem has since been incorporated into the municipality as a mahalle.

A household survey from the Kerem quarter (mahalle) - the most important fisherman
community in Çarşıbaşı - gives an indication of the scale of the fisheries in the local economy
(see Appendix 3). There are many semi-rural91 communities along the coast that, like
Keremköy, depend heavily on fisheries for income and employment. Almost all the fishermen
in Çarşıbaşı live close to the sea. A few men from the interior have taken up fishing, but they
generally subsequently move closer to the sea. However, there are also differences between
the coastal villages in the district of Çarşıbaşı. The highest concentration of fishermen and
owners of large fishing boats is found along the stretch from Kerem to Yoroz. On the other
side of İskefiye fishing is also important as a way of living, but the villages have not produced
as many large-boat owners, although a few of the more prominent owner-captains came from
this area. In 1997 there were approximately five ‘large’ trawlers, ten purse seiners and 15-20
carrier vessels in the district. In addition to the fishing proper, there is also a seasnail
processing factory, owned by a large Izmir company but operated and partly owned by a local
entrepreneur; this provides continuous as well as seasonal employment for approximately 100
persons, primarily poor women from the interior. The cooperative also built a fish oil and
meal processing plant in the valley behind İskefiye in the 1980s. This has since been sold to
some local entrepreneurs. As we have seen, one of the richer family fishing companies, Can
Kardeşler, owns a fish oil and meal plant in Sinop and is involved in fish trade.
It is also interesting to note the differences between Çarşıbaşı and the districts west of
it: in both Vakfıkebir, where industrial farming and milk and butter production is important,
and Beşikdüzü, which has become an important educational centre, fishing is of almost no
importance. In Vakfıkebir one may be hard put to find any fishermen at all. However, despite
the significance of fishing in Çarşıbaşı, there is no one employed in the local (district)
bureaucracy who is responsible for the fisheries sector. The only fisheries bureaucrats are the
few employees of the cooperative. This contrasts with the agricultural sector for which there
are several positions in the local administration, such as agricultural extension workers.
Fishermen have to go to either Vakfıkebir (registration of boats) or Trabzon (licenses) in
order to complete their business with the bureaucracy. Credit, however, can now be handled
by the local branch of the Agricultural Bank in İskefiye.
The small-boat sector in Çarşıbaşı is not homogenous. In 1990-91 the main sources of
income were catches of barbunya, palamut and seasnails, but also kefal and whiting were
important target species for many. Some, especially older men, obtained an important part of
their income by simple hook-and-line fishing of small istavrits. In 1990 the typical boat was
in the range of 5-7 metres and had a ‘Pancar’ 9Hp engine. From 1990 to 1997 the number of
small-boats in Çarşıbaşı increased slightly from just under 100 to approximately 130.

91
There is now almost continuous settlement along the coastal road. This makes it difficult to speak of
‘rural’ areas along the coast.
118 CHAPTER 3

However, there was a dramatic change in the use of the boats. For small-boat fishermen in
this region seasnail fishery has become by far the most important source of income. The
seasnails are mostly caught by dredges (one to three from each boat). To facilitate more
effective operation and bigger catches many have built bigger boats (7,5-12 m.), which are
locally conceptualised as alametre, and installed more powerful engines (25-135 Hp). In
Keremköy there was a total of about 30 small-boats in 1990, but only a couple of them were
of the alametre design. In 1998 the number of alametres had increased to 30! Almost all of
these boats were fairly new. For the 26 of them on which I have detailed information, only
two were built or bought before 1990. In 1997 the boats had on average been constructed or
purchased only 3.92 years earlier (Knudsen 1997). New boats were still under construction. In
addition there were also about 15 smaller boats (çırnak) in the village. Most small-boat
fishermen now choose not to work as crew on purse seiners and the number of full time
fishermen in Keremköy who have small-boat fishing as their main source of income exceeds
the number of full-time fishermen working in the big-boat sector (See table 2 in appendix 3.
Small-boat fishermen are probably underrepresented in this survey).
Thus, a noticeable development in Çarşıbaşı is the relative increase in the importance
of small-boat fishing. On each seasnail boat there will now usually be two or three persons
working (2.5 on average) while the smaller boats on average employ 1.5 persons (one person
using handline, one or two persons when setting nets). Thus I estimate that the number of
small-boat fishermen very likely doubled from1990 to 1997! If one calculates the number of
fishermen in the district of Çarşıbaşı based on the numbers of boats, there are almost as many
small-boat fishermen (300) as fishermen working on larger vessels (330).92 If we add on-
shore activities, probably around 700 persons, or perhaps 500 households, in Çarşıbaşı receive
their main income from fishing. Most of these would most likely leave and try to make a
living elsewhere if it were not for the opportunities the sea provides.

Political culture, culture of politics

People in Çarşıbaşı are 100% Turkish both by their own and others’ standards. Now and then
some strangers come by; a group of Kurdish workers, a band of Gypsies, a few foreign
experts who come to visit the seasnail factory, or a few untidy young European travellers in
search of the authentic. During the summer there is an influx of people who have left the
district and settled in western Turkey (especially İzmit) or Europe. Many come to pick their
hazelnuts and show off their relative wealth. After the hazelnuts have been harvested and the
money pocketed, the bustling and joyous summer will be rounded off with a series of
weddings in the public reception/party hall (Düğün Salonu) in İskefiye. Soon after the
migrants have departed, winter comes and many fishermen put out to sea with the big boats to
spend the next six to eight months at sea. Winter is a dull time in Çarşıbaşı. It is the time to

92
10 purse-seining teams (x30) and 5 trawlers (x6) makes a total of 330 men (including most owners) in
big-boat fisheries. 100 seasnail boats and 30 smaller boats make for almost 300 fishermen. It should
also be taken into consideration that the purse seiners do not recruit all their crew in the district.
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 119

talk with the elderly people. Occasionally they talk about the Russian occupation, about how
the Armenians in the service of the Russian army dumped Turks into the sea, and how the
Turks later did the same to the Armenians. During the occupation many fled westwards or
into the mountains. Many never returned, and settlers came down from the valleys and
mountains and took land along the coast. It is difficult to say whether any Rum lived in the
region which today constitutes Çarşıbaşı when the ‘ethnic’ conflicts started around the turn of
the century. Surveys in the 19th century of the population in Vakfıkebir (including Çarşıbaşı)
sometimes include Greeks and Armenians (Rum, Ermeni), sometimes not. Anyway, when
compared with other parts of the region, there seems to have been relatively few Greeks in
this district during the 19th century.
Today the Kurds have become a new category of ‘others’. During the war with the
PKK many young men from the Black Sea region died in battle in the south-east. It seems that
this has strengthened people’s identification with the Turkish nation. In addition to being
Turks, people in Çarşıbaşı and the eastern Black Sea region generally accept the label ‘Laz’93
which in Turkey is used as a generic label for people from the eastern Black Sea region
(Meeker 1971). To this label is connected a range of stereotypes associated with Black Sea
Turks’ appearance and behaviour, especially their quick movements and industriousness, their
naivety and humour as well as their hot temper and stress on manliness and
individualism/egoism. Hamsi also have an important place in the imagery about the Laz.
Their famous regional folk dance Horon is seen as an expression of this.
By Turkish standards Çarşıbaşı is regarded as a fairly Islamic conservative place.
Mosque attendance at the Friday prayers is high, many make the pilgrimage to Mecca, and
during Ramadan no lokanta or kahve serves anything during daytime, although kahves remain
open and function as a meeting-places for the regulars. Also, as mentioned in the previous
chapter, alcohol consumption is a sensitive issue and the sale of alcohol very restricted.
Furthermore, many new mosques have been constructed recently. Some take pride in this,
others regard it as a step backwards. The concern about a morally-correct life is also reflected
in the gender separation that is very pronounced. As man on my own it was difficult for me to
get into direct contact with women. Women primarily stay at home or tend the surrounding
gardens. Strangers simply do not walk into the ‘village’ areas and gardens. That would be
regarded as an intrusion. The kahve, the men’s place, is where a stranger or government
representative would normally go to present and carry out their business (seek out an
individual, fill in a survey form) and where visitors would initially be entertained. Whenever
some outsider wants to walk the village streets, a local man accompanies him. But generally
there is no need for foreign men to walk into the village and garden areas. It often frustrated
me that my young male friends preferred to hang around the noisy kahve just by the highway
instead of spending more time at home or in the gardens.
Women generally cover themselves when walking outside of the immediate
surroundings of the house and garden. In İskefiye they prefer to rush along the narrow back

93
This is not to be confused with Lazi, a small, distinct linguistic group around Rize.
120 CHAPTER 3

streets and avoid the more ‘public’ main streets. Some of my women acquaintances who have
married into Çarşıbaşı from more ‘liberal’ places further west complain that people in
Çarşıbaşı are very conservative in this respect. For instance no women visit any lokanta in
İskefiye, and although there is a public ‘family’ (aile) beach just behind the harbour, few
women would dare to expose their bodies and swim. Here as elsewhere in Turkey, female
conduct and dress is a contested issue and many ‘modern’ women adopt more ‘Western style’
roles and appearance. Uncovered women work as teachers and nurses, in the post office and
in a few stores. Many go to Trabzon on a daily basis to work or study there.
During my initial fieldwork I lived in a room above the seasnail factory, in the
building of the fishery cooperative, right by the harbour. Consequently I associated mostly
with fishermen from the west side (Burunbaşı and Kaleköy). During my subsequent visits and
stays I have spent most of my time in Keremköy, part of the time staying in the guest-room in
the new seasnail factory which was built there in the meantime. The antagonism between
these two areas is very pronounced. During my stay in 1990/1 Keremköy had a very
privileged position because a man from their village was an MP (1983-91) for the ruling
Motherland Party (ANAP). People on the western side of İskefiye complained about
favouritism and claimed that many of the rich men in Keremköy had built their businesses by
illegal means. They were especially critical of one ‘big man’ from Keremköy who was a close
associate of the MP and who became increasingly powerful and rich.
Although the discord between these two parts of the district may be old, the heated
political climate of the 1970s seems to have exacerbated it and moulded the content and
rhetoric of the conflict. Thus, Keremköy people may say that those ‘on the other side’ are lazy
(tembel), thieves, communists or leftists, that they drink and are not good Muslims. The other
side characterises those from Keremköy as ‘false’ (or pretenders) (sahte), swindlers
(üçkağıtçı), fascists, traditionalists (tutucu), and religious fanatics (yobaz). Although
Keremköy and the villages just east of it are regarded by many locals as relatively
conservative, this must be understood within a wider framework where the ‘villagers’ (köylü)
from the interior are generally perceived to be much more ‘backward’ and ‘traditionalistic’
than the coastal people who supposedly take a much more active part in the modern Turkey.
Locally there are different histories of the trajectory of development in the spheres of
Islam, gender and politics in Çarşıbaşı. Those to the left of the political centre - in Çarşıbaşı
that primarily means some in the quarters and villages west of the İskefiye centre - relate a
story of cultural development and female liberation during the 1960s and 1970s. They
emphasise the ‘theatre activities’, the liberal female dress and mixed swimming, the
availability of alcohol and the integrity of the local administration, which was in the hands of
the left-wing parties. They usually blame the 12 September 1980 coup and the following
political changes with the Motherland Party-Özal regime for what they see as the present
dominance of reactionary forces in Çarşıbaşı. For the other side – politically as well as
geographically - the coup and the Özal period do not mark that much of a break. ‘Things
continue to improve’, they say, ‘we are becoming more developed by the day, and it is much
 MODERNISATION PROCESS 121

easier for women to dress ‘modern’ or swim now than before’. However, what this view of
history will usually stress is the economic development and the liberty introduced by the Özal
regime. Many make a connection to the Democrat Party Menderes period and stress the
continuity from the 1950s until today.
One notable aspect of the discourse that both parts share, is that more and more of the
rhetoric, forms, styles and cultural expressions are couched in national standardised terms. It
has been observed that while in the 1950s people in two villages in inner Anatolia mainly
used stereotypes of a local origin (Stirling 1965), symbols which are common in national
discourses now seem to be more widely used in local interaction in Turkey (Leder 1976,
Delaney 1991, Orr 1991, Sirman 1990). The wedding ritual is another cultural form that
seems to be becoming increasingly standardised throughout Turkey (Tapper 1991-2). As with
foodways (see Chapter 1), there is also a tendency in music and dance preferences to pick and
choose from a national repetoire. For instance, fewer and fewer youth today seem to master
the complicated Horon dance or listen to the local music. Young people increasingly prefer
national music styles and associate with national stars, especially those of the arabesk and
pop cultures (Stokes 1993). Regional identity is increasingly played out on a common Turkish
field – everyone in Trabzon and most people in the eastern Black Sea region are ardent
followers of the football team Trabzonspor. Similarly, the discourse of local politics and ways
of categorising people’s positions almost exclusively draws on standardised national
vocabulary and models, especially along the axis secular/leftist versus Islamic/conservative.
Much of the recent political development in Çarşıbaşı seems to be typical for the wider
eastern Black Sea region. As in the provinces of Trabzon and Rize in general, the Motherland
Party has been the dominant political force in Çarşıbaşı throughout the 1980s and 1990s. The
Municipal Mayor and other local Motherland Party politicians have had good connections in
the state bureaucracy. The Islamist Welfare Party has strengthened its position during the
1990s, especially in the interior. Recently, the fascist-nationalist MHP (Milliyetçi Hareket
Partisi, Nationalistic Action Party) has resurfaced and is increasingly popular among younger
men. The communities centred upon the kahves serve as multi-purpose ad hoc organisations
to meet the needs of changing contexts. Each village or city quarter has a locally elected
headman, but he generally plays a minor role in the village affairs – or rather this depends
upon his personal networks, wealth, and so forth.

Closing

Although a latecomer to the modernisation efforts, fisheries have been one of the fields
through which the state has tried to influence population and economy. Thus the state driven
modernisation of the Turkish society has stimulated the development of a technologically
advanced fishing sector and a parallel field of marine sciences since the 1950s. Science was
adopted as an instrument of the state to be used in achieving the aim of developing the
fisheries. However, it is interesting to note that the state has been less effective in influencing
122 CHAPTER 3

the culinary cultures of seafood. Lifestyles have been more impervious to state influences,
and seafood cultures display a greater degree of continuity, likely because they are more
closely connected to daily practices of identity negotiations and morality management. Also,
the main characteristics of the fishing sector are not predicated on only state modernising
efforts, but are also a result of the sector’s adaptation to the culinary cultures of seafood.
Thus, in certain respects, the post-1950 developments in the fisheries sector can be said to
unfold at the interface of two different influences, namely the culinary cultures of seafood,
and the state modernising project. These divergent developments account for, and are
exemplified by the paradoxical non-existence of fish lokanta in Çarşıbaşı, a place where
fishing has come to be one of the primary economic activities. Perhaps occupational patterns,
contents, and styles have changed more that lifestyle expressions? How knowledges and
lifestyles articulate with each other is something I will return to in later chapters, especially
the last two. Having sketched some of the main contours of the emergence of the
preconditions and limitations for the different knowledge practices – of the fishermen and the
marine scientists – the scene is now set for an exploration of the knowledge practices per se
and the way they are socially embedded.
4 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES

A regular fishing trip to the whiting ‘island’

26 April 1998. Around 5 a.m. dark shadows appear out from the groves, paths and houses
along the busy main road that passes through the village of Keremköy. The day is just about
to dawn. Young men, and a few middle aged ones, still dizzy with sleep, converge on the
open space between the main road and the local kahve. Not many words are exchanged; there
are only a few comments about who's coming and who's not. When we have waited for five or
ten minutes we look down the road and see the red minibus starting up. Göksal, the local-
minibus driver stops his van by us and the men get in, ten or twelve of us. After driving two
kilometres along the coast, we get out at the harbour. Each man pays 50,000 TL to Göksal
who returns to the village to pick up the rest of the men, the latecomers. The men head for
their boats. Most fishermen from this village tie their boats to the longer of the two
breakwaters that enclose the harbour. They jump onto their boats, mostly nine to twelve metre
long wooden alametres, and immediately set quietly about their tasks. Some leave at once;
others wait for a brother, son or friend among the latecomers. This morning I join the young
men Aydın and Birol who are good mates. They also have with them Birol's younger brother
Ali who usually goes to school, but could come today because it is Sunday. Birol's elder
brother, Yaşar, usually comes with them, but this morning he has a headache, allegedly
because he had been drinking. They all know me well and are eager to have me along. They
expect me to take plenty of photos.
Aydın enters the cabin (kamara) and starts the engine while the other two cast off and
help manoeuvre the boat out between the row of boats. It is overcast but fairly good weather,
with insignificant waves. It's rather cold though. We have hardly rounded the breakwater
before Birol and Ali change to some worn-out clothes that they keep on board. They also put
on rain clothes and rubber boots. Thus prepared, they remain standing on the aft deck while
the boat proceeds to the fishing ground. As usual, and like all the other boats from this village,
we head northwest from the harbour in the direction of Vakfıkebir. After approximately 15
minutes we reach our destination, the ‘whiting island’ (mezgit adası, i.e. the whiting bank) off
Yalıköy where they keep their bottom net almost continuously during the winter. Once at the
ada (‘island’) Aydın has a quick look at the buoys marking others' nets as we pass them in

123
124 CHAPTER 4

order to determine the direction of the current. I had become familiar with this technique by
now and felt I was almost able to figure it out for myself by looking at both the tilt of the
buoy and direction in which the line stretches out underneath it. However, no one had ever
told me that; they say simply “we can understand the direction of the currents from the
buoys". Aydın, in answer to my question, told me that today the sular (the ‘waters’, i.e. the
sea currents) were poyraza, towards poyraz (northeast, here in effect east). The sular, he
continued, are almost always either karayel (west) or poyraz here, almost never on/offshore.
They cast their nets parallel to the shore therefore in order not to damage them. I know, from
previous conversations and trips with the fishermen, that one type of damage is that the net
may become filled with rubbish and rubble such as leaves, sticks and even branches of trees.
Moreover, the net may be swept away by the current and lost if cast too near deep waters, a
kuyu (‘well’).
They have an approximate idea of where they cast their net the previous morning and
head in that direction. The ada is fairly wide, but the fishermen use no ‘sign’ (işaret, or more
uncommon here, kerteriz, bearing) in order to relocate their net. They soon spot one of the
two home-made buoys (şamandıra, which have no personal markers) and Birol catches it with
a bargepole and starts pulling in the line. As soon as the line is taut he throws it over the
hydraulic winch, starts it with a switch of the handle on its stem and continues to pull in the
line, now with the aid of the winch. Ali arranges the line in a neat spiral on the cabin side of
the deck. They have made sure that they lift the net on the leeward side of the current, i.e.
from poyraz. That way there is no risk of the boat drifting over the net and making a mess of
it or of the net becoming entangled in the propeller. A small anchor is brought out and placed
side-by-side with the coiled line and the buoy. Aydın keeps the boat engine running to keep
the boat in position until the net enters the winch. Now he, also wearing his sea outfit, appears
from the cabin to help his friends clear the net. Without any discussion each man finds his
place for the clearing of the net. Aydın takes charge of the winch, over which he now drags
the net. Occasionally, when the net accumulates at his feet, he stops the winch and
disentangles some fish from the net. The brothers each handle one end of the fathom deep net,
removing fish and sorting the net neatly into sinker line (kurşun) and cork line (mantar) piles
on the deck. The catch consists entirely of small (approx. 15 cm.) whiting that are thrown into
a corner of the deck. I had asked to borrow a raincoat and rubber boots and was able to give
them a hand cleaning the net. By now I am familiar with the technique for disentangling the
fish from the single meshed net, the first step being to stretch the net around the fish so that
any pockets (torba) which may have formed around it open up. Often the fish is then left
dangling by its teeth entrapped in the net. A mixture of rough pulling and manipulation of the
filament between the fish' teeth is enough to set it free. If the fish is more badly entangled in
the net, it is necessary to first pull any filaments out from between its teeth and then find a
‘hole’ (net opening, mesh) in the net to slide the fish through. It’s all done in a matter of
seconds. I had learned this partly by watching my fishermen friends at work, partly by
experimenting.
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 125

We continue pulling in and cleaning the net for almost an hour without any discussion.
The noise from the winch makes conversation difficult anyway. I take some photos. Their net,
not untypically, consists of four parts, each 75 fathoms long. Some parts are torn. But the
work proceeds without difficulties today. Moreover, the catch is good. When net, second
anchor and buoy are safely on deck, one of the brothers puts the fish into a bucket. Meanwhile
one of the others cleans the debris from the deck that might become entangled in the net.
Aydın re-enters the cabin and starts the engine. Without any discussion he steers the boat back
to approximately where they started lifting the net, and turns the boat; without measuring the
depth, one of the others throws the anchor into the water. The line starts running out as the
boat makes headway at good speed; the buoy and then the net follow suit. It runs out
smoothly on its own since it has been well cleaned, but one of the men watches attentively
and now and then stretches the outgoing net to loosen tangles. After a few minutes they finish
setting the net by throwing the second anchor and buoy into the sea. They will come back to
lift the net the next morning. Or perhaps the morning after, depending on the weather.
Birol now uses a hose to clean the deck thoroughly. They also use it to clean their rain
clothes. The fish are emptied onto the deck again and thoroughly rinsed with seawater.
Damaged specimens are thrown into a corner for private consumption, and - since the catch is
good - the rest are sorted into two cases, one with big and one with small fish. There is
enough fish to sell large and small fish separately. That way the larger fish will fetch a higher
price. They take care to arrange some bigger specimens on top. Aydın is already guiding the
boat for the harbour and we are soon approaching one of the boats tied up in the inner
harbour. Ali, who has already changed clothes, leaps onto the other boat. I join him. The cases
of fish are handed over to him. Aydın and Birol take the boat back to its place by the
breakwater. There they change clothes and make sure the boat is properly secured: ropes tidily
arranged, the engine cover securely in place, and the door to the cabin locked. Ali carries the
plastic cases of fish across the main road. There we meet Fuat who is also going to take his
catch of whiting by dolmuş (minibus carrying passengers) to Trabzon. This is common
procedure and they each take their own fish. Soon they stop a mini-bus and place the fish in
the small rear luggage compartment, then we find ourselves seats inside. For a slight extra
charge the mini-bus driver takes the fishermen all the way to the fish hall after the last stop in
Trabzon. There is no time to lose if they are not going to be late for the morning fish auctions.
We arrive at the fish hall around 8 a.m. They put their cases on a large scales in front
of the office of their ‘commissioner’ (komisyoncu, also kabzımal) friend. Seven or eight
inconspicuous men, arriving from similar auctions along the row of yazıhanes (offices) soon
cluster around the fish. A man appears from the yazıhane and announces over a megaphone
“whiting sellers, whiting sellers" (mezgitçiler, mezgitçiler). In a book he writes the first names
of the fishermen, weights the fish and starts the auction. The buyers, mostly small-scale
fishmongers or peddlers, wink, nod or command “write! (yaz!)”. The cases of large and small
whiting are sold separately. Fish are auctioned by kilo price; small ones go for US$ 1, ‘large’
ones for US$ 2.4. The fishermen are passive spectators. After the auction the buyers
126 CHAPTER 4

immediately take possession of the fish while the fishermen drift around awhile watching
other auctions. Then they enter the yazıhane of their komisyoncu friend and help themselves
to some tea. At his desk one of the komisyoncus counts out their money, and gives it to them,
together with a piece of paper where he has written the name of the fishermen, the amount of
fish, price/kg as well as totals. From the total 10 % has been deduced, the komisyoncu's share.
Today they don’t stop to chat with the komisyoncu. However, here at the fish hall they often
learn of the first catches of migrating species that only appear seasonally. I return to
Keremköy together with Fuat, while Ali attends to some business in town. Halfway on our
ride back to the village Fuat checks on his pocket calculator the calculations on the piece of
paper that he got from the komisyoncu. It's correct.

This was an almost ‘unusually ordinary’ fishing trip with no disruptions such as accidents,
problems, uncertainties as to where to cast the net, unexpected observations etc. - situations in
which knowledges are often made more explicit. Even so, some of the skills and knowledges
of the fishermen are highlighted in this detailed account. Yet, most remain implicit. Some of
the knowledges here are clear only because I have focused attention on them, such as the way
to disentangle fish. Other competencies are also fairly evident in the text, for instance the
knowledge of sea currents, net handling, and bottom topography. However, this simple
fishing trip and subsequent market expedition involves a very wide range of knowledges.
Allow me to make a preliminary ‘inventory’ of some of the knowledges (including practical
skills) involved in this case. This is not intended to be an exhaustive list, but serves to convey
some of the range of knowledges the fishermen applied in this case:

• handling the boat and its engine

• knowing the way to dress to avoid accidents and ‘pollution’
• the skill of standing upright in a moving boat
• navigating, knowing the sea-space
• identifying their own buoy
• familiarity with the bottom topography of this place
• knowing that whiting is abundant on certain banks (ada)
• knowing that whiting is moving towards the shore as the water turns warmer
• knowing the appropriate mesh size to catch the fish (18, 20, or 22 mm.?)
• knowing how live and dead fish look and feel
• skill in evaluating what the market may regard as large and small whiting
• knowing the prevalent sea currents at that location
• knowing how to position the net relative to currents in order to avoid problems
• knowing how to use anchors to prevent the net drifting off
• knowing how to assemble a net, with floats, lines, buoy and anchors.
- calculating the dimensions etc.
- knowing the skill of net mending (merhamet)

This is a little of what a fisherman must know, or master, in order to be able to catch fish. But
the scope of the discussion goes beyond listing all the various substantive domains of which
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 127

they possess knowledge, to address some more general issues that will facilitate comparison
of fishermen's and scientists' knowledge. This is not meant to be a comparison only of what
they know, but of how they learn and keep knowledge. In the following discussion I consider
the typical concerns of fishermen, the ways they approach knowledge and how it may be
supported by a local theory of knowledge and meaning. I describe in detail practical skills,
classifications, and fishermen’s stories and discuss how they externalise and articulate their
knowledge. This chapter also introduces questions that will be further elaborated in later
chapters; for example to what degree fishermen inscribe their knowledge and how knowledge
is socially embedded and distributed. Fishermen operate in a very complex world where the
skills employed at sea and their knowledge about sea and fish are difficult to separate from
other abilities and knowledges, such as familiarity with market, regulations, procedures for
applying for grants and credit, and so forth. In Chapters 5 and 6 I cast the net wide and
include the economic, organisational and political aspects of fishing. In the present chapter,
however, I concentrate on fishermen's activities at sea. Clearly, fishermen themselves
emphasise that their knowledge is based on being at sea, and this is certainly the primary
experiential field with regard to fishermen’s knowledge. What are the implications of this for
fishermen’s knowledges? What kind of knowledge, or knowledges, is it? In what ways does it
differ from scientific knowledge(s)? Some epistemological and theoretical clarifications are
necessary before I proceed with the ethnography of knowledges. What should we understand
by knowledge? How should we approach a study of it?

Towards an anthropology of knowledge

The previous chapters have focused primarily on the shared discursive formations that both
fishing and marine science are embedded in: they are historically connected, are part of the
same social system, and relate to the same discourse of identities. I make a point of situating
the various knowledges in the same world and not treating them as homogenous, monolithic
and separate ‘systems’. Knowledge is carried by individuals, and individuals meet and may
also be meeting points of knowledges. Following the radical critiques in anthropology during
the last 15 years, the ‘native’, the scientist and the anthropologist have come to be situated in
the same world. If I am to take heed of these new insights, it becomes a central challenge for
me to approach fishermen’s and scientists’ knowledges in a symmetrical manner. It is
necessary to explain my epistemological base line in order to clarify my scepticism of other
approaches that: address knowledges head on as separate ‘systems’ or ‘traditions’; often
assume a-priori that different characteristics distinguish the various ‘systems’; and are
insensitive to how knowledges are co-constructed or constructed in opposition to other
knowledges. I strongly support the claim that anthropology is a universal science with an
ambition to describe, understand and give informed explanations of various ways of living.
This universalism should also imply that no pre-conceived distinctions between peoples,
places or times are made. A program that critically examines the instruments of border
128 CHAPTER 4

construction between ‘Us’ and ‘Them’ has been widely endorsed and articulated since the
1980s (to name but a few: Fabian 1983, Herzfeld 1987, Said 1978, Marcus & Fisher 1986).
Radical and critical approaches deconstruct the earlier boundaries of enquiry and open up new
social fields to cultural critique. This has stimulated studies of scientific knowledge among
other things, also by the anthropological camp, which has worked to undermine the objectivist
claims of science.
This is all very welcome, but not entirely satisfactory. Phrased simply, I would ask
how one can make symmetrical anthropological studies of traditions of knowledge, including
science, without falling into the excesses of an extreme relativist/constructivist position that I
feel contradicts my intuition that some kind of reality exists and that good or relevant
knowledge of the world, if not accurate and objective knowledge, is possible. Thus, I take a
basic realist (or ‘internal realist’, Putnam 1981) position in which I assume that the world
exists, that it has certain structures, and that it has an impact upon our actions and
knowledges, but in which claims about the existence of an absolute yardstick or a God’s eye
view are unfounded. Thus, my approach may, in the vocabulary of Biersack (1999:11), be
termed ‘new materialism’: “[s]ynthetically attending to the textual and the semiotic, on the
one hand, history, politics, economy, and biology, on the other..” She locates some of the
foundation of this ‘new materialism’ “…in a resurgent phenomenology focused on the body
as a physical/existential cum semiotic reality…” (op.cit.). I also mobilise phenomenology,
especially the insights of Merleau-Ponty (1962), in order to resituate language in material
reality. Moreover, I consider that the phenomenological approach has a greater potential for a
symmetrical approach to scientists and fishermen (see especially Chapters 9 and 10).
What is meant or implied by the call for ‘symmetrical anthropology’ will be discussed
in course of later chapters. For a start I find Latour’s (1993) symmetry postulate intriguing
and, to a certain extent, useful. He criticises the symmetry postulate of the Strong Programme
(Bloor 1976, Barnes and Bloor 1982), the ‘foundational’ program for sociological studies of
scientific knowledge (SSK), maintaining that this lets society bear all the burden of
explanation. In this framing, nature is only present as a social construct. The equivalence
postulate of the Strong Programme is based on the premise that concepts and categories are
by nature contingent and non-referential, on the presupposition that language is detached from
reality. The Strong Programme borrowed its theory of meaning (finitistic theory of meaning)
from linguistic inspired theory, most notably ‘late’ Wittgenstein (Grimen 1997). Meaning
construction, not to mention the construction of scientific theories, is therefore presented as a
highly social or cultural process. In their quest to place truth and falsehood within all
traditions of knowledge on the same footing, they erase the possibility of humans having
access to 'external reality'. Latour claims that this position, and in effect most critical studies
of science, is locked into the nature-society dualism of what he labels the ‘Modern
Constitution’ in we have never been modern (1993). Central to this constitution is the double
separation, first between nature and culture, the ‘work of purification’, and secondly between
this work of purification and the ‘work of translation’ (or mediation). On the one hand, we try
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 129

to sort all phenomena into the domains of ‘humans’ and ‘non-humans’ (purification, the
creation of the Cartesian division). On the other hand we continuously, in practice, engage in
the work of translation and create ‘hybrids’94 on a larger scale than ever before. We practice
both, but we only see and acknowledge the work of purification. That is why we continually
switch between nature and society as sources of explanations, between realism and idealism.
Thus, in addition to the equivalence postulate of the Strong Program (1), Latour
includes two other requirements (Latour 1993:103):

1) truth and falsehood must both be explained,

2) generalised symmetry, and
3) no a priory Great Divide between Us and Them.

Requirement number (2), which he has adapted from Callon (1986), maintains that we should
study and compare natures-cultures, without trying to stipulate the relative weight of nature
and culture. Descriptions should start from the centre, with the phenomenon. “All natures-
cultures are similar in that they simultaneously construct humans, divinities and nonhumans.
None of them inhabits a world of signs or symbols arbitrarily imposed on an external Nature
known to us alone” (Latour 1993:106). Furthermore, the nature-culture dichotomy has also
sustained a sharp distinction between Us and Them since it has been assumed that We (who
have science) are the only ones who are able to make the ‘correct’ separation between Nature
and Society and therefore know nature ‘as it is’. Our idea of a pure, transcendent nature
which only science can represent without bias has propped up our distinction between Us and
Them. In Their world the social and natural were blended while We had pure access to nature.
And when We finally addressed science we used the same coin, just turning it around and
declaring that science has no access to nature, that it is solely a social construct.
To avoid this mutual reinforcement of these two dichotomies, it must therefore also be
an important requirement for symmetrical anthropology to avoid such a priory 'Great Divide'
distinctions between the West and the rest. But the genealogies of anthropological approaches
to knowledge and science can be said to have embodied such a bias in the very framework.
One line of thought runs from Malinowski through ethnoscience, with a detour via
Structuralism, to ‘indigenous knowledge systems’ and has mainly focused on the cognitive
content of ‘Their’ knowledge, relying primarily on linguistically derived models of cognition
and classification. A second line leads from Ludwig Fleck’s (1979[1935]) early studies of
scientific communities, through Kuhn to social constructivist approaches and has primarily
focused on the social construction of scientific knowledge. As others have acknowledged, it is
time to let these traditions talk to each other (Gonzalez, Nader & Ou 1995; Nader 1996), to
focus on the cognitive content of ‘Our’ knowledge, and the social construction of ‘Their’

94
As will become clear below, Latour is not happy with this concept (hybrid). However, it is used here
to indicate how phenomena are perceived from within the modern constitution, as mixtures of different
pure forms. In its place, Latour introduces the concept ‘collective’.
130 CHAPTER 4

knowledge. There are a few very important contributions that move in this direction, of which
I would specifically mention Atran’s (1990) study of the cognitive foundations of natural
history, and Barth’s (1989, 1990, 1993) and Lambek’s (1993) very nuanced and ambitious
studies of the social dynamics of ‘Other’s’ knowledges (New Guinea, Bali and Mayotte).
However, there are still few studies that explicitly posit and study scientific and other
knowledges in the same world, as ethnographic encounters with the actual and ongoing
interactions, confrontations and convergence.
What the two major anthropological approaches to knowledge/science have in
common, however, is their neglect of the embodied character of knowledge. This is gradually
being redressed. It is now widely accepted that it is insufficient to analyse people’s
knowledge of the world only in terms of their concepts and classifications (ethnoscience,
structuralism etc.) (Csordas 1999). We have come to acknowledge that especially people who
are clearly involved in practical, manual tasks - such as dancers, craftsmen and fishermen to
name but a few examples – mobilise skills that defy being cast (solely) in a structural and
linguistic idiom. It has become fashionable to let ‘embodiment’ bear the burden of
explanation when knowledge is displaced from language and theory to practice. However, I
would claim, that this embodiment (or habitus) remains largely a black box in many studies. It
will need a lot more specification in order to be able to capture the complex workings and
articulation of knowledges. Moreover, this approach may share some of the shortcomings of
earlier non-symmetrical approaches to knowledge by often too simplistically assuming that
‘scientific knowledge is based upon language and theory, while fishermen’s practical
knowledge is embodied’. While this opens some interesting lines of inquiry, it also hinders
others. For instance, Escobar in his recent article ‘After Nature’ (Escobar 1999) acknowledges
the important rethinking of ‘local knowledge’ as practical, embodied knowledge (in the vein
of Ingold), but he reserves this approach for only one of three ‘regimes of nature’, namely
‘organic nature’ (i.e. rural/folk/indigenous etc. knowledge); ‘capitalist nature’ and
‘technonature’ are to be studied employing other theoretical frameworks. A truly symmetrical
anthropology must use the same framework for studying both scientific and other traditions of
knowledge, and must not at the outset assume that science is less situated or embodied than
other knowledges. This may be so, but that will have to be ascertained through careful
ethnography.
Latour’s solution is to create a whole new vocabulary and model for analysis that
focuses on how ‘objects’ or ‘facts’ are constructed. He prefers to “...use the word collective to
describe the associations of humans and non-humans...” (1993.:4) instead of ‘hybrid’ which
carries connotations of being 'put together' (from essences or pure forms from nature and
society, respectively). All that exists, therefore, are collectives. All phenomena, all
collectives, are alike in the view of comparative anthropology (1993:107). These collectives
are associations of ‘actants’, which are the forces or actors which are represented by
‘spokespersons’ (Latour 1987:89). Science, or as I would prefer to say, knowledge
disciplines, construct and stabilise new collectives by bringing in, mobilising, as many and
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 131

strong actants as possible and by extending the ‘networks’. These collectives are, furthermore,
nodes in networks, the lines along which resources are mobilised. The ‘universalism’ of
science is no more than one kind of local knowledge supported by particularly rigid and ever-
increasing networks. Networks are enlarged as more actants are added to harden the facts.
‘Relative size’ (or scale), and not local-global, Us-Them, true-false, is therefore a pivotal
criterion in comparing knowledges. For Latour (1987:220), gaining knowledge means
becoming “…familiar with things, people and events, which are distant.” Thus, he maintains,
studies of the process of gaining knowledge should focus on how one is enabled to ‘act at a
distance’ through the ‘mobilisation, stabilisation and combination of inscriptions’. A hallmark
of technoscience, he claims, is that it mobilises everything that can possibly be inscribed and
moved back and forth and piled up in collections. In studies of knowledges we should
therefore be sensitive to the different emphases they put on inscription (Latour 1987:218-
228).
Latour (and studies inspired by his perspective) has primarily operationalised this
framework in the study of science and technology (but see Lien 1997). Interestingly, there are
no ‘Latourian’ ethnographies of meetings between scientific and other knowledges. In the
name of symmetry, I would argue for the relevance of this approach in the search for an
understanding of and comparison with other knowledges. I have more to say about this
approach later. Here I would simply note that, since he focuses on the knowledges (the
socially existing knowledges) and not the knowing, Latour is better equipped to describe how
knowledge is organised outside of or in between humans - ‘what they know’ - than to study
‘the way humans know’. I consider Latour’s tool kit extremely useful in charting the ‘social
life of knowledge’, but I have to turn to others for insights into ‘ways of knowing’. The
reason that Latour shies away from such approaches is his unwillingness to look for
‘cognitive reasons (abilities)’ for differences between knowledges.
Yet I would claim that while approaches to cognition that are inspired by Levy Bruhl
may often imply a non-symmetrical tack (according ‘Them’ pre-logical mentality, and ‘Us’
logical mentality), this need not necessarily be so. I have already indicated one way to
differentiate between various aspects of knowledge: embodiment vs. objectification. This and
similar distinctions that are based upon Merleau-Ponty’s (1962) distinction between the pre-
objective and objectification will be important orientational concepts in later chapters. At the
present stage I will not elaborate further on this other than to refer to Lambek’s now fairly
conventional presentation of this issue. By objectification he refers “…to features that have
been externalised or that exist externally and at some degree of independence from particular
bodies as signs, rules, effects, or constraints of personhood. … Embodiment refers to features
that have been internalized, or that exist internally or by reason of the fact that they are
located within or as bodies” (Lambek 1993:428n.1). These may be difficult to use as strict
analytical concepts. I see them rather as indicative of processes in human cognition and
communication, with embodiment providing the experiential grounding of objective
knowledge, and objectification making embodied knowledge graspable by others.
132 CHAPTER 4

“Embodiment and objectification are interdependent, each partial and unrealized without the
other” (Lambek 1993:307). It is the dynamics between the two that is interesting. However, in
order to specify the dynamics more clearly, I need an additional set of concepts. Latour’s
concepts, such as inscription, may prove to be relevant additions. I also consider the new
theories of ‘embodied cognition’ to be promising.
The linguistic approach to cognition has been increasingly challenged as the
embedded or embodied (or even ecological) character of cognition has been emphasised
(D'Andrade 1995, Lakoff and Johnson 1980, Lakoff 1987, Bloch 1994, Borofsky 1994, Shore
1996). I will draw on the insights of and explore the utility of the theories of some prominent
scholars, such as Bradd Shore and the cognitive linguist George Lakoff. Lakoff (1987) argues
against the ‘Mind as Machine’ model and what he calls ‘the correspondence theory of
meaning’ (and the associated ‘scientific realism with objectivist metaphysics’). He maintains
that language finds its meaning in Idealised Cognitive Models (ICM) that are organised on the
basis of bodily experiences. Basic level concepts and kinaesthetic image schemes (the latter
are pre-conceptual) constitute the roots of imagination, and therefore language. Shore concurs
with the overall outlines of this theory, but seeks to expand the theory to include the social (or
cultural) dimensions by focusing on the dynamics between instituted and mental cultural
models (not all mental models are cultural though). “Instituted models are the public life of
culture, empirically observable social institutions that are available as resources for a
community. Mental models, by contrast, are cognitive representations of these instituted
models but are not direct mental mappings of social institutions” (Shore 1996:68).
Furthermore, in addition to differentiating between linguistic and non-linguistic models, he
makes a series of other distinctions, for example, between two main modes of cognition:
‘analytical’ (‘propositional model’ in Lakoff’s scheme), based upon digital codes, and ‘non-
analytical’, based upon analogic codes (Shore 1996:325). ‘Instituted cultural models’ may
also be encoded as non-analytical concepts (ibid.:337). Meaning construction primarily
employs analogic processes (non-analytic models), while analytical models are associated
with information processing (ibid.:339). He also stresses that there is a difference between
‘observers’ models’ and ‘actors’ models’.
I find that these distinctions, for a start, are more useful than a mapping along practice
versus language/theory, and may also bring greater specificity to analyses of embodiment and
objectification. Shore sees cognition as an embedded process involved in all kinds of human
activities, and his examples are drawn not only from classification or language, but a whole
range of human (social) activities. However, I consider it imperative to look more attentively
at how, and to what degree, mental models come to exist in public life as instituted models:
what is the ‘materiality’ and context of these models, and in what ways are they inscribed?
This has implications for what we perceive as being tacit knowledge, among other things, and
will be discussed in detail in Chapter 10. In this chapter I make some initial explorations into
‘the ways’ fishermen know, and only towards the end tentatively discuss the degree of
inscription and incorporation into wider social contexts. In order to address as many
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 133

dimensions as possible of fishermen's knowledge I approach their knowledge from different

angles, with regard to both the focus of the knowledge and the materiality and ‘style’ of its
expression. I survey small-boat fishermen's involvement with and understanding of bottom
topography, analyse a narrative about hamsi behaviour, discuss sea animal classifications, and
examine the imperfect fit between fishermen’s operational models and inscribed models for
directions at sea.

Situated knowledge of bottom topography

Most of the Turkish Black Sea coast is fairly straight, with few bays and almost no islands.
This gives the general impression of a very abrupt and sharp divide between land (kara) and
sea (deniz), and most people think of the seascape as an undifferentiated entity. It is not at all
surprising, however, that the seascape is not at all homogenous to the fishermen. Qualities
such as local winds and sea currents, river mouths, and bottom topography and quality are of
paramount importance for them. Some of this was evident in the above case. On another
occasion when I was at sea with a fisherman friend, he drew my attention to the rugged, V-
shaped mountainous landscape onshore and told me that the bottom landscape was like that,
only somewhat more rounded or levelled. However, fishermen do not generally use the same
vocabulary as is commonly used for landscape traits onshore to describe features of the
bottom topography. I was usually only able talk with the fishermen about bottom topography
while on shore, most commonly in the kahve. At sea it was generally too noisy or the
fishermen were too busy. When prompted to explain what an ada is, fishermen sometimes say
that it is a fairly wide sığ (shallow waters), separated from the shore by deeper waters. Adas
are generally perceived as being relatively flat and can therefore best be translated as fishing
banks. I discuss in greater detail in later chapters to what extent knowledge of bottom
topography is verbalised/externalised/inscribed. Here I am primarily concerned with the
knowledge as it is engaged in practice while fishing.
To the fishermen in Çarşıbaşı it is common-sense knowledge that whiting, and to a
lesser extent turbot, are more abundant on adas (islands) than elsewhere. Whiting is not
among the most highly esteemed fish, but it can be caught almost year-round in a fairly
simple operation. It's the fish small-boat fishermen turn to between, and often in addition to,
the more seasonal fisheries for palamut, ‘Russian’ kefal, barbunya or seasnails. It will usually
provide a stable income, but there is little possibility of huge catches. It's the business for the
poor. In some places fishermen depend almost solely on whiting fisheries on adas. To almost
all the fishermen in Eynesil, some 20-30 km. west of Çarşıbaşı, the daily 60 minutes journey
out to a wide ada forms the backbone of their economy. Up to 50 boats from Eynesil go
regularly to this ada.
134 CHAPTER 4

Ada ?

AA Ada

Kuyu

Keremköy Yoroz
Harbour

İSKEFİYE

Yalıköy

VAKFIKEBİR

Figure 12 Some elements of bottom topography along the coast of the District of
Çarşıbaşı

A group of approximately ten boats from Keremköy set their nets continually on the smaller
ada off Vakfıkebir during most of the winter season. That was as true in 1990-91 as in 1998
(but there was change in technology and the manpower need). Fishermen from other köy or
mahalle in Çarşıbaşı do not engage in this fishery on a regular basis. Many men in Keremköy
have the basic skills necessary to participate in this activity. They can be said to constitute a
‘community of practitioners’ (Palsson 1998) with shared embodied knowledge of the basic
operations. Thus, it is easy for Aydın and Yaşar to find relatives and friends to work with in
flexible constellations within the village networks. This makes it possible for the fishermen to
go regularly to the ada and work smoothly together - as in the case above - even though a son
may be away for military service or a father very tired and unable to get out of bed one
morning.
For Birol and Aydın relating to the ada has become a routine practice. They know
where it is, and they do not experiment very much. There is a whole procedural routine
associated with the fishing trip which is a kind of embodied practice for the fishermen that is
seldom objectified, except as small glimpses when short verbal corrections are uttered if
someone makes a mistake. Even though it is not objectified, fishermen may very well share a
fairly general model for the routine operation of setting whiting nets which is instituted in
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 135

practice and not simply organised as concepts. But even a very ordinary fishing trip like the
one described above requires that some decisions be made: what is the direction of the
currents, where was net left the previous time, where should the net be cast this time? The
bottom topography is seldom objectified, or even attended to, as an isolated issue. It is always
related to in the context of other factors such as sea currents, water temperature, net
positioning, mesh width and so forth. The following case also illustrate this complexity:
One day in May 1998 I joined Nailon, a middle-aged small-boat fisherman from
Keremköy. Together with two other men from the village we put out to sea with Nailon's
çırnak (small open boat) to set a turbot net. They had taken one up the day before and one the
same morning without catching very much. He steered the boat away from the small
breakwater in front of the village towards the poyraz. After a while he looked around
attentively in all directions before stopping the engine. I asked him how he was able to find
the right spot. He pointed towards the poyraz and said that there it is 70 fathoms and towards
karayel saying that there it is 40 fathoms. “You see, the bottom is steep and uneven” (dip
engebeli yaa). He measured the depth, counting the knots on the anchor line tied to the net.
They started casting the net, from karayel towards poyraz. They had seen on a buoy that the
current was karayel (i.e. from the west). One of the other men untangled and opened the net
while Nailon cast it. Nailon asked the man at the oars to row somewhat outwards (yükarıya,
lit. ‘upwards’, see figure 15). With approximately half the net out he told me that we were
along a kuyu. He commanded the rower to turn further ‘upwards’ before finally turning
abruptly ‘downwards’ (aşağı) and setting the last part of the 800 fathom-long net. Also at this
end he measured the depth with the anchor line: 35 fathoms.
Knowledge of bottom topography is one of the main assets in several kinds of fishing,
and is for the most part non-inscribed knowledge. Familiarity with the general topography of
adas (and other features of the bottom topography) is primarily accumulated through the use
of a sounding line (in the case above integrated with the anchor line) and net positioning. To
this have recently been added measurements by small echo sounders, which quite a few
small-boat fishermen have invested in (primarily for the purpose of seasnail dredging and
illegal trawling). The sea charts, which the small-boat fishermen seldom employ anyway, do
not give sufficiently detailed information about the sea bottom to be of any use for this
purpose. Knowledge of bottom topography may be the well-kept secret of a single fisherman
who has found a big stone from which he regularly brings home good catches of mavruşkil, or
it may be the well-known and shared knowledge of a community of practitioners (e.g. the
whiting adas) and thereby constitute an institutionalised cultural model.
It is also important for the trawlers which sweep the alluvial fans around Samsun to
fish as much as possible on adas since whiting and other fish are more abundant there, and to
avoid the kuyus since the trawl will simply pass over them catching no fish. However, skilled
skippers may try to trawl around the perimeters of the kuyus. In order to find good ‘tracks’
less experienced boat owners either engage a skipper who knows the terrain, or work in
tandem with a ‘friend’ (another boat) who has the necessary experience. All the men involved
136 CHAPTER 4

in purse seining for hamsi know that the fish will usually descend into the wide and deep kuyu
off Fatsa during the winter and that the purse seines should be set on the edges of the kuyu. In
addition, interpretation of the sonar display is contingent upon familiarity with the local
bottom topography: “Is that (red field on the display) fish or a ‘hill’ (tepe)?” “Hill, hill! I
know this place.” It is also important to avoid places with many sticks and stones that the net
can get entangled in. Here small-boat fishermen who work as crew on the purse seiners may
form an important reservoir of knowledge; they may be called up to the bridge to advise the
skipper whether a potential spot for casting the net is 'clean' or not. Smaller purse seiners
sometimes endeavour to catch pelagic species such as lüfer around shipwrecks. This is highly
specialised knowledge and may to a certain extent be secret.
Kuyu attracts Nailon's interest because he knows from experience, bolstered by
popular theories, that turbot can be caught along the edges using a certain kind of net under
certain current conditions during the winter and spring (to be discussed below). It is the
cumulative familiarity with various elements - the bottom topography, the fish, the net, the
sea currents, navigation, the weather, even other fishermen’s activities and market prices -
which is typical of small-boat fishermen’s skills95. Thus, Nailon is not an expert on turbot, or
weather, or market dynamics for that matter. He is an expert on how to catch turbot. And that
entails a great number of factors. Thus, the fishermen do not cultivate knowledge of, or pay
attention to, the ada and kuyu per se. They are almost always engaged in the process of
fishing. For the fishermen the seascape and their practice within it is made up of a range of
different dimensions which are all combined to enable them to set their nets in the right
position. For instance, fishermen know that on the lee side of sea currents passing over an
ada, the bottom will often be sandy and the fish will congregate there. Here knowledge of
ada/kuyu as well as other aspects of the bottom, sea currents, fish behaviour and so on merges
into a single model. In order to successfully set a net at such a spot a fisherman will have to
muster other knowledges as well, for instance the knowledge of how to find the spot and
position the net. Fishermen do not use their knowledge to produce a ‘total’ picture of one or
all of these dimensions. They do not have a ‘file’ for knowledge of adas and kuyus.
The knowledges that I have briefly discussed here are primarily ‘hands on’
knowledge, largely tacit, situated, complex, embodied and egocentric. Since these models are
only implicated in situated, bodily practice and to a very limited degree externalised, it is
difficult to say anything certain about how they are organised, and even the degree to which
such models are shared. Once I went fishing for large (ca. 300-500g) whiting with Neşat. In
an otherwise undifferentiated seascape, except for the position relative to the straight shore, he
was attempting to set his net at a very specific place, on the shoulder of a kuyu. To master that
is quite a feat. First, he has to know where the kuyu is, take into account of the length of the
net, consider how the currents will affect the net on its way down the 30-40 fathoms and so
on. On top of it all he had to carry out the whole operation, which usually involves two or

95
This is different on the purse seiners where the crew often have very specialised tasks and skills
(while captains retain the overall perspective and are familiar with most skills).
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 137

three persons, all by himself: steering the boat, adjusting the engine speed and casting the net
simultaneously. What model does he have of that unseen world below the surface of the sea? I
cannot know for sure, but I became aware that I could draw upon my own experience as a
hobby fisherman using hook and line from a small boat along the Norwegian coast. It is, not
unsurprisingly, 3D vision created by a kind of extension from visual observations of the
landscape on shore. But how does he ‘perceive’ the sea currents within this 3D model?
The ‘way that the fishermen know’ seems difficult to capture, and while theories of
embodied cognition may be of some assistance, a lot remains speculation. From a very
different perspective (at the crossroad between phenomenology and ecological psychology)
Tim Ingold has directly addressed the issue of how to understand such practical skills. He
makes a range of different distinctions, for example, between ‘dwelling’ and ‘building’
(Ingold 1995), between ‘umwelt’ and ‘discourse/symbolic thought’ (Ingold 1992), and
between ‘technique’ and ‘technology’ (Ingold 1993a). I see all of these distinctions as
representing basically the same theoretical agenda and will primarily be discussing the latter
pair. Ingold defines technique as tacit, subjective, context dependent and practical ‘knowledge
how’; in contrast, technological knowledge is defined as explicit, objective, context
independent and discursive ‘knowledge that’ (1993a:434-5). He maintains that one can
acquire technique directly in practice (‘direct perception’) without the knowledge being
inscribed as symbols (1992:53-54), while technology is “...encoded in words or artificial
symbols...” (1993a:434-5). He claims that direct, (culturally) unmediated perception of the
environment is not only common but also central to being (Ingold 1992). This reminds one of
the division in praxis theories between 'embodied knowledge' and theoretical/linguistic
knowledge (Bourdieu 1977, Giddens 1979), whereby it is supposed that the practical,
embodied skills cannot be ‘translated’ into symbols or language. In Ingold's model there is,
however, a gradual shift or transition between these two ideal-typical oppositions. There may,
for instance, by style and context, be clear technique aspects to talk (Ingold 1993b, see also
Borofsky 1994 and Shore 1996). The existence of technological knowledge is only made
possible by the imagination, or construction, of ‘language’ as a closed linguistic system with
its written manifestation as a template (Ingold 1993b, Palsson 1991:15).
Ingold's assertion that ‘technique’ is ‘pre-symbolic’ and that norms and rules are
linked to reflection and not to practice, can, though, be dubious, especially so because it
becomes difficult to perceive how routine daily activities can be both structured by and give
structure to underlying models, norms and rules. In his eagerness to do away with the
Cartesian split, Ingold purges culture from the pre-objective (Merleau-Ponty 1962), from
technique, umwelt and dwelling. In other words he regards the everyday un-reflected action,
the ‘being in the world’, as unmediated by symbols and language. To him symbolisation and
categorisation are only post-hoc processes of meaning construction. “Systems of cultural
classification are not … a precondition for practical action in the world, but are invoked to
recover the meaning that is lost when action turns reflexively inwards on the self” (Ingold
1992:53). However, he only manages to eliminate culture from the pre-objective kinds of
138 CHAPTER 4

action (and it becomes plausible to do so) because the culture concept that he employs and
criticises is precisely the linguistically based notion of culture that Shore and Lakoff, for
example, argue against. Others have argued that non-verbaliseable, implicit knowledge can
also contain abstract principles and patterns (e.g. Borofsky 1994). That is certainly also one of
the main insights of Bourdieu (1977) when he outlines how the habitus may be the materially
and socially (and thus culturally) constituted and structured basis for practical knowledge.
There is indeed convergence between Ingold’s ideas of technique and theories of
embodied cognition. I will continue to be inspired by Ingold’s (and Merleau-Ponty’s) ideas,
but identify the differences between different kinds of knowledges not in a simplistic
distinction between direct perception and culture, technique and technology, but by attending
to the multiplicity of models, articulations and inscriptions that operate. For instance,
fishermen’s knowledge of the bottom conditions is not only given by and in their direct
engagement during fishing. That is not all fishermen know about adas and kuyus. Fishermen
talk about them, have theories about fish, bottom conditions and water bodies, and reflect
upon them at a distance. I strongly believe that there is no sharp distinction between these
models and the models employed during fishing operations. I will discuss this further in the
next section.

Fish behaviour: narratives and cultural models

Some days before I joined Nailon on the fishing trip described above, I discussed turbot
fishing with him as I helped him and his brother Mustafa sort out and mend a turbot net96.
Nailon is regarded as an expert at turbot fishing. He told me that the fish crowd (yığınıyor) in
the warmer water of the kuyu when the surface water is cold97 “just like we wear thick clothes
when winter comes (aynen biz kışın geliyor kalın gıyınıyoruz)”. But the turbot leaves the kuyu
to hunt for food. The turbot, he explained, is different from other fish. It buries itself in sand
so that only the head is visible and just lies waiting for the prey. I asked him how he knows
this. “From my elders (büyüklerimden)” he answered promptly. Furthermore, when he was
trawling outside Samsun (as crew), a diver there had told them. “When you haven't seen it
yourself, you will of ‘necessity’ (mecburen) have to believe him.” Turbot net, they said,
should preferably be set when the sea is very calm (limanlık, ‘harbourlike’) since they set it
by rowing and it should be positioned very precisely.
When the fishermen are at sea, or when their attention is focused on fishing while on
shore, they are guided by an ensemble of models. This often comes out in brief expressions
such as “I should start preparing my kefal nets since it seems that the poyraz (northeast) is
now blowing continuously” (in springtime). This is based on a very general model which
seems to be widely shared by fishermen; ‘when the poyraz is blowing, the sun shines
continuously, and weather tends to become warmer. The water heats up as well, and the fish,

96
Single walled net with wide (150-250 mm) meshes.
97
Surface seawater is very cold during the spring because of melt water from snow (kar su) that pours
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 139

which prefer warm water, moves towards the shore to spawn.’ The case above also indicates
that it is important to the fishermen to learn and share such models, not only as ‘post hoc’
reflections, as Ingold would have it, but also as ‘production technology’. But in the case
above, it is also interesting to examine what kind of models are engaged. Note, for instance,
the use of the analogy between human behaviour (‘thick clothes in winter’) and fish’
behaviour (seeking warm water in winter). The ‘fish behaviour-temperature-seasonal weather
changes’ model as well as the human body metaphors are very widely shared by fishermen in
all kinds of fishing and are routinely employed as both guiding models in the actual fisheries
and when ‘talking at a distance’.
There also seems to be a very powerful and widely shared model for the behaviour of
hamsi. When the fishermen during late autumn wait restlessly for the season to begin, they
continually wander around muttering “let there be some windy weather” (hava bir essin),
“there should be a snowfall (kar yağmalı),” “the weather should make one [storm] (hava bir
yapsın)”, and so on. The fishermen seldom explicitly outline any model. However, during a
longer conversation with one of the senior boat owners (Yılmaz Terzi) in Keremköy in the
spring of 1998, the model of hamsi behaviour was more clearly expressed. I had known
Yılmaz for a long time and he talked about the fisheries often and willingly. He is considered
by many to be one of the best reis (skipper). If there are any experts among the fishermen, he
is certainly one of them. On this occasion I met him outside the kahve and we had a somewhat
more formal conversation since I taped it. This encouraged him to be more elaborate than
usual. But others were, as usual, hovering around us often adding something or asking Yılmaz
a question. We covered a lot of issues, and the following material on the hamsi has been
extracted from different passages.

Ståle: What is the life pattern of the hamsi?

Yılmaz: ...look,...Allah (Cenap Allah) has created such a law, the natural law - yes nature is
such, look now: towards those months everything, the birds in the sky as well as all things
below, flow from Africa, those warm, very warm places, and from the ice. Towards where?
Towards the Middle East, towards the east, towards the south it flows. They come from the
air, come out from under the weather, or, in other words, they move with the weather. It sets
off the movements, the fish also set off from below. ....Yes, nature is such a great thing. Now,
let’s admit that whenever autumn comes, towards the tenth month, when it is coming towards
the eleventh month, when the weather has started to turn cold, hamsi flow out through the
Kerch strait; right from the Crimea they stream eastwards. The palamut, the lüfer - the
migratory fish - in the east [of the Black Sea] start to flow straight in that direction
[westwards]. The units intersect. When the hamsi come out of there, palamut and lüfer pass
the strait [Bosporus] and enter [the sea of Marmara]. Of those remaining the dying ones die,
the ones that can live stay alive, because they, the palamut and lüfer, are animals without
scales, no scales...What is it necessary to do to live in the winter? One needs to wear thick
clothes, isn't that so? There must be resistance against the cold.
.........
Now, hamsi is an animal with scales. 90% of hamsi and other scaled animals cannot live in
warm places; it gets difficult, they cannot take in oxygen; life becomes difficult. The hamsi
has plenty of scales, so it can live in cold water. OK, let’s admit that as the temperature of the

down the many rivers from the mountains into the sea.
140 CHAPTER 4

water falls to six or seven degrees, not even the hamsi can survive. But the bells ring for
palamut, lüfer, non-scaled fish, as it falls towards ten degrees, nine degrees, they are doomed
to die....90% die.
..............
Now, from the kuyus the hamsi part by part (parça parça) come out, from here and there in the
deep waters. From the places where it has gathered it goes part by part, package (koli) party by
party, party by party, party by party oouuuut towards the sea. The weather will blow up and
the hamsi spread out, becoming a grid. In other words, it thins out wide like this [shows by
spreading the fingers on one slowly horizontally moving hand]. But as soon as the cold
weather [starts]..., when it is partly cold, it seeks, seeks, seeks and gathers, becoming like a
clenched fist. It gets into a really crowded state, becomes congested.
..............
Now, this year there was a lot of hamsi in the Black Sea, crowds of hamsi coming in towards
the shore. However, the weather conditions were very unusual. For instance, when it was time
for snow, when we should have had bad weather, there was summer, warm weather, and the
hamsi couldn't gather... It went continuously in 'grill' formation, diffused.....In snowy and cold
icy weather, when it is very, very cold, are you able to move much? No, you cannot; come
what may you will be stiff with cold, become numb. But the hamsi moves quite fast in warm
weather.
S: It can easily be caught in cold weather?
Y: Of course, of course

[Discussion of weather conditions and the occasional occurrence of 'freezing' water off Sinop]
............
Water currents are very important,....., yes, the natural conditions have a very great importance
in the ‘fishing sector’.........For example, for it being possible to catch hamsi, for the season to
be long, there must be strong weather [windy, cold, heavy precipitation] towards the eleventh,
twelfth month or tenth month. There must fall snow because the temperature of the seawater
must fall to seven degrees, to eight degrees, in order for the hamsi not to move, so that it
moves down into the kuyus. There are a variety of wells (kuyu), or deep waters, in the Black
Sea....and the hamsi will not enter these when it is scattered. The weather shall influence it;
when it becomes cold activity falls, and what can it do then? It is forced to seek shelter (zemin)
in deep waters. In this period it moves slowly, activity decreases. Let’s say that the hamsi
makes 60 miles a day. When there is a weather occurrence, what will it do? The deep water
should be warm, but the water temperature falls and the hamsi must find a warm environment
[implicitly: in the kuyu].

This narrative harbours a very large potential for analysis that I am unable to exhaust here.
But a few important things may be noted. On the one hand, this story can be seen as a
fisherman's objectification - seeing at a distance - of a reality partly beyond experience. As
such it can be regarded as a theory and is comparable to the scientists' models. On the other
hand, the model(s) is also based upon personal experiences accumulated as a member of a
community of practitioners. It is not completely distanced from fishing activities. Yılmaz has
experienced time and again the changes in weather, felt the cold air of winter, enjoyed the
coming of the hamsi, seen the density of fish near the kuyu on the sonar display or echo
sounder, seen and felt the hamsi's scaled 'clothing' etc. That these models have experiential
reality for him is also highlighted by his frequent use of analogies with human bodies.
Although the narrative, as a linguistic expression, naturally depends upon digital codes,
meaning is to a large extent constructed through analogies. This is not only apparent in the
human body analogies, but also in the style, or technique of the narrative, such as the
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 141

spreading of the fingers to demonstrate the dispersal of the hamsi, or the repetition of “party
by party, party…” which mimics the actual separation of the hamsi into lots of ‘parties’. This
is a world he participates and involves in, and that may be the reason why human body
metaphors as well as analogy techniques seem so appropriate a style to explain fish
behaviour. These metaphors in themselves involve very basic, experience-near models of
body and temperature and maybe even of sociality, which Lakoff (1987), in theory at least,
acknowledges as a field of primary experience.
However, the narrative also includes elements that have no relevance at sea. Yılmaz
has attended (but not completed) high school and likes to demonstrate that he is
knowledgeable (in ‘book knowledge’). He often spices his talk with semi-scientific ‘facts’,
therefore, such as the specific water temperatures different fish can tolerate; during the same
conversation he claimed that all sea animals and fish spawn when the water temperature
reaches 13-14 ºC in spring. Such figures have little experiential reality or relevance for the
fishermen. I have never seen them measure water temperatures with a thermometer. Once
when I was aboard a small gırgır from Sinop we approached an area outside Sinop known to
be on the interface between warm water (in the east) and a cold current in the west. The
skipper-boat owner, himself one of the most ‘cultivated' fishermen that I have met, asked one
of the crew to check the water: “Is it very cold? (çok mu soğuk?)”. The young man hauled
some sea water on board with a bucket, put his hand into it and said: “so-so, a little (şöyle,
böyle, az)” while holding out one hand, palm down and tilting it slightly from side to side
(usually meaning ‘medium’, ‘in the middle’).
The narrative of Yılmaz may be interpreted as a composite of various elements,
models and concerns. The basic structure is provided by the model of seasonal hamsi
movements, in accordance with changes in weather. This main model seems to be fairly
standardised and widely shared within the fishing community. It can be said to be an
institutionalised cultural model (Shore 1996). But it also in itself involves several interlocking
models. Weather (or ‘air’, hava), especially temperature, is clearly seen as the main driving
force of the seasonal changes and the behaviour of the fish. But, again, it is symptomatic that
the story mixes various factors - weather, fish, bottom topography and geography; none are
treated as isolated entities. On the other hand, references to Africa, temperatures, and the like
draw in the larger world, the book knowledge, and helps give the story ‘grandness’. It is an
important story, a big story, and Yılmaz is part of that grand story. It is difficult to interpret
this story as only ‘objectification’. There is a dynamics here in which embodied aspects of
knowledge are actively involved, especially in the extensive use of analogies, particularly
human body analogies, in a story that depicts aspects of the fishermen’s environment in such
a way that it can be clearly seen and discussed and thereby objectified. It is an observer’s
model, but an observer’s model that uses ‘techniques’ of actor’s models in order to create
meaning at a distance.
142 CHAPTER 4

Classifications

‘Indigenous’ peoples efforts to classify their environment has been one of the main focuses in
anthropological efforts to map other ‘systems’ of knowledge, especially within ethnoscience
and structural analyses. This extensive body of literature is at times very ‘technical’. My
ambition here is not so much to involve in those very specific debates about classification, as
to explore what place classification efforts have in the lived world of fishing, and what an
analysis of classifications can tell us about fishermen’ knowledges. When I take up this issue
here, it is partly to acknowledge that classification, or rather ‘identification’ (Ellen 1993:65),
is important for the fishermen, and that a survey of their knowledge would be incomplete
without a delineation of how they go about differentiating and recognising the world that they
interact in and with. However, I do not want to give the impression that fishermen share a
common cultural model of this world that is primarily based upon classifications and
taxonomies, detached from fishing skills. Fluidity, fuzziness, and especially embeddedness in
their projects and practices, surface as important qualities of the classification efforts. I shall
focus on two different domains where classification activities are expressed. First I look
briefly at what can be seen of classification, or rather differentiation activities in the practice
of fishing. Following that I sketch more substantial material of how fishermen talk about fish
and the differences between fish. I also take steps towards identifying the relative importance
of different sources (or concerns) for the kinds of classification fishermen apply.

Practical classification
Many kinds of fishing only exploit one kind of fish at a time, with gear, season and place
being instruments in this practical differentiation of kinds of fish. In the case that opened this
chapter it was clear that fishing for whiting is rather specialised, focusing on only one kind of
fish. Likewise, dredging for seasnail primarily takes place in spring and early autumn, at
certain depths with a dredge (algarna, kaska) specially constructed to harvest seasnails. The
hunt for hamsi likewise involves special gear (e.g. the purse seine is different from the one
used for catching palamut), in certain waters during the winter. Other species are only
occasionally caught when fishing hamsi, most notably istavrit and, more seldom and
unintentionally, sturgeon (morina/mersin balığı) and sharks. The differentiation between
different kinds of fish is therefore very institutionalised in the way the fisheries are set-up and
carried out. It is part of the embodied practice and is taken for granted. However, in some
kinds of fishing, notably in the small-boat molozma fishing and in trawling, a variety of
different sea animals and fish are encountered more directly. The practical activities of
differentiation on board trawlers are illuminating.
For a period of a couple of weeks in the autumn of 1990 I joined two boats from
Çarşıbaşı which trawled off Samsun. After the trawl sack was emptied onto the deck, the
fishermen immediately set about sorting the fish. First they would identify and remove the
poisonous tırvana (rina) since its long thin tail, which contains a dangerous poison, would be
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 143

difficult to avoid touching as they go about sorting the catch with their naked hands. Then,
after a brief estimation of the catch, they started working their way through the mixture of fish
and crabs, sticks and debris on the deck, taking care not to get stung by other poisonous fish.
Most commonly they would have separate cases for barbunya, whiting, seasnail, big turbot
(for sale), small turbot (for personal consumption), sometimes for çinakup, and finally a case
for other useful fish (pisi, tirsi, izmarit, kırlangiç, sturgeon, kötek, istavrit). After everything
that was regarded as valuable had been collected and roughly sorted, the cases were moved
forward to the middle deck and the remains - various undersize fish (especially whiting),
crabs, jelly fish, prawns, mussels, and various 'non-edible' fish (kovit, dil, öküz, yılan/deniz
iğnesi, and the poisonous iskorpit and trakon, etc.) – were all shovelled into the sea.
Following the sorting of a couple of hauls, the fish would, if necessary, be re-arranged on the
middle deck. If there were too few of some kinds to fill one case, several kinds of fish would
be mixed in one case, and some would be set off for personal consumption. Also undersize
turbot often found their way to the case for own consumption. The barbunya were put into a
small net which was shaken so that their scales loosened and they shone even more brightly.
This is a common sales trick. Then they sorted the barbunyas into three different sizes if
enough had been caught, taking care to put the biggest individuals on top.
This differentiation of the catch is obviously guided first and foremost by their
knowledge of the market, as communicated by their kabzımal and observed by the fishermen
themselves at the auction98. The distinguishing and naming of fish is clearly influenced by
their commercial value. Earlier, when whiting was less attractive as human food, it was often
simply known by the generic kayabalık (‘fish living among the rocks’). They have names for
some of the sea animals and fish that are not marketed (e.g. those mentioned above). But
occasionally we would encounter a less familiar fish and, when I asked its name, they would
hesitate or simply say that they didn’t know. Sometimes they would include them in a known
category (especially kovit, gobies) even though in physical appearance they were markedly
different from the common gobies. But normally they would not bother much about naming
unfamiliar kinds of sea animals and fish that are of little importance to them. Some non-
consumable fish and sea animals attract attention because of special features (being
poisonous, or beautiful, like the deniz iğnesi), but many are simply ignored. It is increasingly
common that the seasnail catches also contain quite a lot of what in scientific vernacular is
termed ak midyesi (‘white mussel’). I asked one fisherman what they called this. He just
shrugged his shoulders, and said midye (the same generic name as they use for seasnail).
Clearly he did not consider it important to have a name for it, although he also obviously
differentiated between it and the seasnail. He did however identify it as different from the
other midye. It is an unnamed category.

98
However, fishermen do not just passively adopt the framework set in the market. They also
experiment. Once a trawl skipper decided to deliver one case with platika (not generally regarded as
edible) ‘just to give it a try’.
144 CHAPTER 4

The named categories that most fishermen use are not very difficult to learn. Many
crew are only occasionally involved in the fisheries (approximately half the crew on these two
boats I went trawling with) and are not concerned about learning more than what is needed to
do their task. But, as the above example showed, the practice involved more than the
distinction between marketable and unmarketable, and the differentiations within the former
category. The practical work also involved identifying (various kinds of) poisonous fish,
legal/illegal individuals of the marketable fish, and a separate category for personal
consumption - and sometimes fish set aside for some friend. I took active part in this work
and learned where to toss the various fish mainly by observing the activities of the others. It
was not very important to get it right at once because between the hauls there was always time
to reassess the now differentiated catch. While working through the catch one of the crew
might decide to establish a new category simply by fetching an empty case and transferring
one kind of fish to it from, for example, the ‘own consumption’ heap as he realised that there
was more of this kind than initially assumed. Thus, the differentiation processes was not
linguistically marked in the operation, but sprang out of the dynamics of the work, signified
by an active part of the work itself: fetching an empty case.
A preliminary conclusion that can be drawn from this case is that classification here is
not an independent project. It is part of the occupational practice, one of the tasks or concerns
that fishermen are involved in. I agree with Ellen (1993) and Ingold (1992) therefore that
efficient practice that involves identification and distinctions does not require a formal set of
classifications. For fishermen most classifications are of this kind, involved in practice,
therefore the classification must also be understood as such: embedded in situated activity.
Setting out to map an overall shared taxonomy of each ‘people’, based upon the same
universal structural (hierarchical) principles independent of context, as has been the ambition
of Berlin and others (e.g. Berlin et al 1973, Berlin 1992), amounts to a violation of the role
classification has in the world of the fishermen and others. In a wonderful little article about
the taxonomy through tasks, what they call ‘taskonomy’, Dougherty and Keller pay full
attention to the details of how blacksmiths relate to their tools, and argue that “…taxonomic
trees…suggest a permanence or context-free validity that is inappropriate for genuine
taskonomy. The organizations of knowledge, in short, need a task-oriented contextual frame”
(Dougherty and Keller 1982:765). Fishermen similarly employ, or apply, unnamed
distinctions in their practical activity at sea, such as variations in the seascape, identified by
means of an embodied competence to feel or see one’s position at sea by sensing how far the
boat has travelled, where one is relative to identifiable landmarks etc. Only some of these
features, for example well-known and much exploited adas, or especially prominent
landmarks, have relevance across contexts, and therefore become part of what Dougherty and
Keller call ‘recipes’ (1982:768), or which Shore (1996) term instituted cultural models. But
many “[c]onstellations are ephemeral, being pulled together and held in mind only as long as
appropriate for a given task” (Dougherty and Keller 1982:768). Thus, pre-objective attention
to different aspects of their environment during practice may involve or even require
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 145

classification and taxonomy, but in a rather ephemeral and non-reflected manner. Good
‘technique’ requires effective but dynamic taxonomisation.

Taxonomy: from fishing to talk

Since I felt that observation of fishermen's classification work through practice only produced
very patchy information, I tried to elicit more comprehensive models during conversations
with them. Although I knew from experience that fishermen are not very concerned with
taxonomy of sea life and probably do not share one overarching sea-life taxonomy, I thought
that it would be possible for me to induce them during conversations to create ‘on the spot’ or
spontaneous taxonomies. I was also interested in how and to what extent they would
externalise and objectify their situated knowledge in language and taxonomy. It proved to be
very difficult to get them to be explicit about ‘taxonomies’, and even to classify. I asked the
fishermen to put the fish into categories (ayırt etmek, tasnif etmek, denizde ne var sa -
kategorise etmek, hangi kategoriler, hangi gruplar). To convey the point I sometimes also
used the analogy of categorisation of vehicles into different kinds. In only one case was this
approach understood by a fisherman; most didn't even understand the intent of my question.
They commonly answered by explaining how they recognised or evaluated, i.e. characterised
(god/bad, edible or not) different kinds of fish. Purse-seine skippers would typically talk
about interpreting the signals on the fish finder screens. Thus, fishermen found it difficult to
outline context-free taxonomies/classifications. For them classification, or rather distinction
and identification, only has meaning when they are directed towards some task or concern.
When Dougherty and Keller asked the blacksmiths to differentiate between tools, their typical
response was: “For what?” Although I basically agree with the position of Dougherty and
Keller, I would note that ‘tasks’ should not be understood as only manual work. Classification
activities may also be directed towards other kinds of concerns, such as what is edible and
what is not. Here moral considerations also make up a part of the ‘constellation’.
Taking with me illustrated charts of Turkish and Norwegian fish I went to visit one of
my best friends, Şaban, in the office (yazıhane) of the bus-ticket agency he runs together with
his wife in İskefiye. I posed the question to him in the same manner. Şaban, a small-boat
fisherman in his late 30s in 1998, without much hesitation set about working out this
interesting taxonomy for me (orally, I wrote it down):
146 CHAPTER 4

Figure 13 Small-boat fisherman’s classification of ‘sea animals’

I. Kabuklular II. Yalgılar III. Balıklar:

(shellfish) (jellyfish) (fish)

salyangoz ([sea] snail)

kum midyesi (sand mussel)
kara midyesi (black mussel)
yengeç (crab)

III.A. III.B. III.C. III.D.

Göçmen Devamlı olan Dip balıklar Kıyı balıklar
(migratory) (those always present) (bottom fish) (‘inshore’ fish)

palamut istavrit kaya balığı* levrek

lüfer whiting turbot kefal
barbunya kefal pisi(*) kovit*
hamsi dolphin* dil balığı*
tirsi keler* whiting
‘Russian’ kefal yılan balığı* karagöz
zargana mavruşkil
kötek
tikenli (iskorpit)*
vatoz*
tırvana*
öküz*
gelincik(*)
* Non-edible in Trabzon fish culture

The second level (III A-D) of this taxonomy of ‘sea animals’ seems to be based upon three
different oppositions:
(1) migratory : permanent (III.A. vs. III.B.),
(2) bottom : pelagic (III.C., the pelagic group has not been specified, but
implicitly includes all the other groups in III?),
(3) coastal : open sea (III.D., the open sea opposition has not been specified,
but implicitly includes all other kinds of fish).

Common to all of these three principles, and in contrast to the first division (between I, II, and
III) which focuses on physical appearance and behaviour, is the fact that they relate to where
or when the fish are to be found; in other words the distinction is involved in not one task, but
a multiplicity of tasks. This is an objectification of the totality of Şaban’s tasks. And since
different tasks (using different gear, at different times of year, in different places) may involve
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 147

similar species, both kefal and whiting are to be found in two of the groups. Likewise, most
fishermen will regard barbunya as a bottom fish, which Şaban also accepts, but when I
comment upon his classification of it he adds that it may leave the bottom. Since he uses
different criteria for setting up the groups, they are not mutually exclusive.
Of the three oppositions that are manifested in the scheme above, fishermen very
commonly refer to (1) and (2). Category (3) is more idiosyncratic, however, and reflects the
special interests and approach of this particular fisherman. Şaban became a (part-time)
fisherman because he was curious by nature and interested in hunting (he also enjoys going
hunting in the mountains or trout fishing in rivers). Thus, he likes to get close to the fish, to
observe them. In order to manoeuvre easily and get close to the shore he only uses a very
small kayık. He possesses nets for kefal and palamut only, and is one of the few who uses a
cast net (saçma). He talks about the kind of fishing which he practices as ‘shore fisheries’
(kıyı balıkçılık ). His taxonomy clearly evolves from his special adaptation. The fact that he
mentions fish such as karagöz, mavruşkil and kötek, which for most fishermen are marginal,
is also a reflection of his special approach.
Thus, both the categories set up and their content vary according to the kinds of
practice fishermen are involved in, what kind of tasks they are involved in. While Şaban
classifies hamsi as a migratory fish, Turgut, a fisherman who has worked for many years as a
skipper on big purse seiners plying all the seas around Turkey, casually - in a conversation not
focusing on taxonomies - spoke about the hamsi as a yerli (local, indigenous) fish. This
distinction is based upon the image that only fish that enter the Black Sea through the
Bosporus are migratory. ‘Here’ therefore means very different things for these two fishermen.
For Şaban ‘here’ is the offshore area outside of Çarşıbaşı, or in effect what is within reach of
his kayık. For Turgut ‘here’ is the Black Sea. The operating principles of their taxonomy
evolve from their practice, and the world presents itself as different things to fishermen with
different practices.
The second level of Şaban’s taxonomy is based primarily upon personal experience
and his particular way of ‘being towards the world’ (Merleau-Ponty 1962). In contrast, the
first order distinction between shellfish, jellyfish and fish is not an objectification of structures
within practice, but rather an institutionalised cultural model where the differentiating
principle is primarily morphological features. Other distinctions Şaban made were also shaped
in interaction within a community of practitioners. Since I had often heard fishermen
distinguish between ‘those giving birth:those leaving caviar/eggs’ (doğanlar:havyar dökenler)
I suggested this to Şaban. He readily accepted this distinction as well, and said that those
giving birth are dolphin, köpek balığı/keler (shark), and yağ balıkları (‘oil fish’, i.e. whales).
All others leave caviar. During our continued conversation about different kinds of fish, he
also spoke at length about scaled vs. unscaled (pullu:pulsuz) fish. He told me that once when
he was swimming with his harpoon behind the breakwater he saw a lot of fish, of many kinds.
Since they were difficult to hit with the harpoon he decided to throw in some dynamite. When
148 CHAPTER 4

he looked into the water again afterwards he saw that the unscaled fish (he especially
mentioned kovit) had not been affected by the dynamite, while all scaled ones had died.
The importance of differentiating between and classifying the animals of the sea is set
by the agendas of being able to assess the value of a fish, to decide on the appropriate catch
technique, and so on. It is important to know whether a fish at hand is tirsi or lüfer since there
is almost a one to ten difference in market value. The point is to identify (name) the fish and
know some of its qualities. That is what it means to know the fish. This is how Şaban and
fishermen in general approach fish and sea animals. Thus, although fishermen are not
concerned with 'classification', they are concerned with the differences and relations between
fish, and the naming of fish. The focus is on the different kinds of fish, on knowing the fish
and the principles underlying its identification, not on the system, not on any comprehensive
taxonomy in itself! Thus I agree entirely with Ellen that identification, and not classification,
is the primary concern of most people in most kinds of activities (Ellen 1993:65). From a
strictly taxonomic point of view, Şaban's talk was full of digressions, irrelevancies and
contradictions.
Categorisation, and certainly taxonomisation, is certainly not an independent project or
task, as it may be to science (see Chapter 7). To talk about fish and sea animals without the
context in which they are encountered may be a violation of the fisherman's perspective. A
fisherman will seldom grapple with fish free of context (such as sea currents, gear, economic
value, etc.). Once when I was strolling along the waterfront near the harbour in Çarşıbaşı
together with a fisherman, I saw some kefals swimming close to shore. I pointed them out to
him, but he only cast a disinterested glance at them and stated that “I haven’t got any kefalnet
(kefalağım yok ki)”. Fish are not just fish; they are fish for something (for catching, eating,
etc.). During the enumeration of the various classes and the kinds of fish and sea animals,
Şaban typically outlined many details of the animals' life form. For instance, he stressed that
shellfish are not harmful, that there is food for fish on their surface, that they filter the water
and ‘ventilate’ the sand. Because of this embeddedness, it is of paramount importance to
reveal the complexity in the fisherman’s approach to his environment, to provide a
phenomenological outline of his ‘umwelt’ (Ingold 1992), of the environment as experienced
by the fisherman, even when the analytic focus is on categorisation and taxonomisation. This
is important to keep in mind as I now proceed to discuss in greater detail how fishermen
perceive the differences distinguishing various sea animals and fish.

Different fish, different species?

The difficulties in rendering fishermen’s immediate experience of identifying and
differentiating fish into a shared language can also be illuminated by a discussion of the
tension between, on the one hand, the way fishermen experience different (‘kinds’ of) fish
and, on the other hand, the range of words used by fishermen to talk about the differences
between various creatures in the sea. The most common words are cins, tür, şekil, çeşit and
familya. Of these, two are also commonly used in the sciences: tür (‘species’, in general
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 149

vernacular also regarded as equivalent with cins) and familya. However, it is important to note
that probably the most widespread way fishermen talk about different fish is simply to say
that they are ‘different fish’, or that a fish is ‘the small’ or ‘the big one’ of another fish. But,
the fact that they say it is the ‘big one’ of some other, does not necessarily mean that they
think it is the same cins/tür! One fisherman once told me that yeşil izmarit (‘Green Picarel’)
was the bigger one (büyüğü) of izmarit and, at the same time, an other cins. However, they
also readily admit that ‘different fish’ are different cins or tür99.
As these concepts are used by the fishermen, they are seemingly fairly fuzzy concepts,
with varying and diffuse meanings. Sometimes they overlap, sometimes not. But it is also
evident that fishermen often imply, or indicate, slightly different things when they speak of
‘different fish’ and different cins/tür. To say that fish belong to the same cins does not
necessarily mean that they are the same fish. Once Yılmaz Terzi said that torik and palamut
were the same cins, but when he listed the fish in the Black Sea he counted palamut and torik
separately. Names of fish do not correlate with cins/tür, but may overlap partly with it. Names
differentiate fish that differ in appearance to them, a difference which most often is of
importance for the catching technique or marketing value of the fish, in other words
differences emerging out of practice. So, when a fisherman is asked to list the fish of the
Black Sea, he will most likely not list what he would regard as different tür/cins, but rather
the (commercially defined) different appearances of fish.
Furthermore it is common to talk about çeşit (kind of) or şekil (shape, drawing, kind)
to indicate variations within one category or to speak generally about similarities and
differences in physical appearance. One elderly fisherman said, when commenting upon a
picture of the Atlantic cod (which is not to be found in Turkish waters, but whose close
relative gadus merlangus (bakalyaro) occurs in the Aegean) that “the appearance is different,
but, yes, they are the same, it is the big one of whiting (şekli değişik, ama, evet, aynı, mezgitin
büyüğü)”100. Şekil and çeşit can therefore also be used to indicate what the fishermen regard
as minor physical differences. Fishermen also sometimes use the concept familya, especially
to indicate that fish are different but related; ‘the istavrit family’, ‘morina and mersin are in
the same family’. However, this concept does not seem to refer to a clear higher level in any
overarching taxonomy, even though it is obviously imported from scientific discourse. The
word familya is not used in other contexts, and it is certainly not employed to describe
relations between humans. All in all, I can find little evidence to support claims about the
existence of universal hierarchical levels in classification of living kinds, such as (starting
from the ‘top’) ‘unique beginners’, ‘life forms’, ‘generic-speciemes’ (Atran 1990), and with
the possible addition of ‘specific’ and ‘varietal’ (Berlin, in D’Andrade 1995).

99
I choose not to translate fishermen's use of tür and cins as ‘species’ since this concept invokes the
scientifically derived idea of reproductively separate populations. The fishermen's use of the concept
may be differently constituted.
100
Whiting never grow big.
150 CHAPTER 4

During another passage in the conversation with Yılmaz Terzi from which I quoted the
hamsi story, he used all five concepts when talking about different kinds of fish. I advise the
reader to read this conversation very carefully:

Ståle: There is kıraca, and there is istavrit. Are they the same, or are they different?
Yılmaz: There is one şekil of kıraca. It does not grow big. The large (iri) istavrit is different.
There are many çeşits of istavrit, for example yellow istavrit, and in the Mediterranean there is
a black one...
S: What cins of istavrit are there?
Y: Now, among the istavrit türs there are the ones with big eyes, in other words the biggest of
the large (iri) istavrit. One kilo istavrit.
S: Then yellow istavrit...
Y: Yes, yellow istavrit, and then black istavrit, I mean the black çeşit of cins (siyah çeşit
cinsi). The yellow istavrit makes a lot of money, [it] is very good food.
S: Then there is the kıraca.
Y: That is also a tür of istavrit, of the same family (aynı familyasından).
.............
S: Çinakup and lüfer are the same cins, isn't that so?
Y: The same cins. It is known that it gives birth, spawns, and [the eggs] become çinakup.
Çinakup grows big and becomes sarıkanat, sarıkanat grows big and becomes lüfer, lüfer
grows a little bigger and goes into the kofana cins (kofana cinsine girer).
...............

While there does seem to be a loosely hierarchical relation between familya, cins/tür and
çeşit/şekil, the fishermen do not use these concepts very stringently. These labels are used for
the purpose of distinguishing between different kinds of fish as well as indicating or
identifying similarities and relations. The focus and starting point is the animal itself, not any
comprehensive hierarchical taxonomic ‘system’. Although familya often seems to indicate a
higher level, I have also heard fishermen using it to distinguish between fish which are
perceived as being very closely related. An experienced reis once explained to me that mersin
and morina ‘are different familya’ (compare this to the statement above where another
fisherman claims that mersin and morina are of the same familya). The intention of the reis in
using the concept of familya was not to locate the fish within an overarching taxonomy; it was
- again - rather an utterance intended to convey that these two fish are different. He could
probably just as well have used the concept cins. Moreover, even on the level of names for
very common kinds of fish, categorisations are not universally shared. There is ambiguity and
even outright disagreement, particularly when the physical appearance of the fish
is very similar, or when different names are applied to different sizes of similar fish. This
pertains especially to different kinds of kefal, and to some extent to lüfer and palamut. While
most fishermen, and also scientific literature, would agree with Yılmaz that the different
variants of lüfer belong to the same cins, there are expert older fishermen who consider them
to be different cins.
The use of şekil (‘shape’/‘kind’) underlines the importance of physical appearance.
Also, fish with similar physical appearance are often mentioned together – for example all flat
fish (turbot, dil, pisi) - or given similar names (yılan balığı for ‘snake-like’ fish such as deniz
iğnesi, yılan balığı and zargana). The primary physical features of fish that fishermen pay
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 151

attention to are: shape, colour, ‘drawings’, length of fins, head construction and so on. Here
the coding is mostly analogic with no definite borders. On the other hand, differences in the
physical appearance of fish probably also play a role in the diffuse ideas that there exist
separate, essential cins. While the distinction between ‘different kinds of fish’ seems
primarily to be based upon categories prevalent in the seafood market as well as physical
appearance, the use of cins/tür often - but not always - seems to indicate an underlying idea of
essences. A little later in the conversation that the above excerpt was taken from, Yılmaz
listed the different barbunyas and distinguished them by physical appearance, giving them
different names. They are ‘different fish’. However, he closed the issue emphatically with the
comment “but the cins is the same, the cins is the same”, which I take to mean that he feels
that they share some essence. Moreover, Şaban told me that there are many cins of kayabalığı
that have no name. Thus, there seems to exist an (independent) idea that there are cins/tür that
can differ from the named categories usually employed by the fishermen.
Thus, in addition to the ‘taskonomy’ and cultural models prevalent in the wider society
(such as taboos), such ‘basic level concepts’ (Lakoff 1987) as ‘natural kinds with essences’
may influence the way fishermen differentiate between fish and sea animals. Brent Berlin has
argued that people recognise natural kinds with essences because that is how the world is.
“The natural system becomes manifest presumably because of the human ability to recognize
and categorize groups of living beings that are similar to one another in varying degrees in
their overall morphological structure, or morphological plan” (Berlin 1992:9, emphasis
added). Berlin seems to argue out from what Latour (1993) would call the ‘Nature Pole’ and
to apply a correspondence theory of meaning. This is what Lakoff designates as scientific
realism with objectivist metaphysics. The strength of the embodied cognition/language
perspective is to retain the realism without presupposing a fit between the world and our
categories. It may be claimed that people actually perceive differences because differences
and structures exist in the world, and that concepts are not entirely arbitrary or ‘cultural’,
without assuming that our categories correspond one-to-one with those structures. I also
consider it very likely that all humans are cognitively endowed to look for essences of living
kinds - but without presupposing a ‘fit’ with actually existing natural kinds (Atran 1990, Ellen
1993).

No discussion of fish classification here would be complete without mention of the special
position of hamsi: it is both fish and not fish. It is not the system of categorisation, of symbol
manipulation, that is responsible for the special status of hamsi in Trabzon; it is rather the
place it has in the daily experience and practice of its cooking and eating, as well as its
unrivalled importance in the fisheries. Hamsi has achieved such a pivotal position in the
hearts of the people of Trabzon that it may even be used as a metonym for all fish, or rather as
a metonym for the state of life in the sea. If there is little barbunya, fishermen may say that is
because there is little hamsi, even though they acknowledge that hamsi is not an important
source of food for the barbunyas. Small catches of hamsi, or even single individuals as
152 CHAPTER 4

chance catches in various set nets, are invariably welcomed with enthusiasm and commented
upon by small-boat fishermen, although their economic value may be negligible. On the other
hand, as outlined in Chapter 1, hamsi is also often differentiated from balık (fish). But if you
ask a fisherman to name the most important ‘kinds of fish’ (balık türleri), hamsi will
undoubtedly be among these, even the first mentioned. Categorisation of hamsi is therefore
ambiguous, not because it falls between two classes, but because it sometimes grows out of
the class it belongs to and forms its own category/class, or because it has come to be
metonymic for the whole class.
But the category of balık is also very flexible. While balık may sometimes be set in
opposition to hamsi, it may also be used to encompass all animals that live in the sea. I once
heard a fisherman say, “prawns are very valuable fish” (karides çok değerli balık). Both
hamsi and balık seem to be categories that lack definite boundaries. They may be fuzzy or
radial categories (Lakoff 1987), with their meaning being more or less inclusive or specific
depending upon context (or task). Balık may signify palamut. A fisherman involved in the
seasonal fishing for palamut said that he caught mainly balık (here meaning palamut) and
some lüfer. At the same time palamut may be a prototypical balık, in the centre of a category
that lacks clear boundaries and with the potential to encompass a lot of different objects. The
multiple senses of the hamsi, for example, may be an indication of its special cultural
significance.

Multiple modes and sources for classification

I have argued that fishermen's identification and differentiation of fish and sea animals grows
out of their various purposeful activities or tasks, and may also be influenced by universal
ideas of essences among living kinds. However, I have also indicated that one instituted
cultural model in particular, the market categories, is drawn upon in differentiation processes
while fishing. Worsley (1997:119) has pointed out that “[t]he ‘same’ thing – a green turtle, for
instance - ….has a quite different significance when it occurs within different frameworks of
thought”. He exemplifies by explaining the way the green turtle finds a place in four different
modes of classification (biological, religious, linguistic and food classifications) among the
Groote Eylandters Aborigine population. Based on this and other examples, he argues that
thinking is a plural phenomenon, therefore ‘knowledges’ in the plural. As should be evident
by now, I do not consider this a radical claim. The question is rather what the character of that
plurality is; what is the social distribution and how do different knowledges interact?
I have identified several different sources for the fishermen’s classification of fish and
sea animals. First, the practice of fishing (trawling, Şaban's taxonomy) and interaction with
the environment through the tools and social relations of fishing constitutes one important
source. Here biophysical aspects of the environment present themselves to the fisherman and
contribute to shaping more or less ideosyncratic categories, such as the distinctions between
local and migratory fish. The fish and other biophysical entities afford different things and are
experienced differently, depending on each fisherman's individual approach to the sea and the
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 153

fish. Through this practice, fish become known not only as categories, but also as a multi-
sensual phenomena. The fish has visual appearance, ‘feel’, smell, and taste. However, unlike
Ingold, I would maintain that practice is informed by ‘external’ models (but these need not be
in the form of ‘linguistic representations’), taking place in an environment which is already to
some extent culturally impregnated. In particular, fishermen's differentiation of fish in
practice is greatly influenced by categorisations prevalent in the fish market, which we may
regard as the second source of classifications. This is to a large extent determined by trends
in seafood consumption and food taboos. To these may be added a third source, the
fishermen’s own seafood categories, based primarily upon the Trabzon fish culture. This
distinction is implicit (not marked), for instance, in Şaban’s classificatory scheme where non-
edible fish and sea animals - marked with an * - were generally mentioned last in each
category101. Furthermore, the names of many fish and sea animals reflect some physical or
environmental attributes of the animal102. This may be coupled with a fourth source, the
tendency to organise fish and sea animals into basic level categories with supposed essences.
And finally, the influence of the scientific codification of tür and familya may also be sensed
here, linked with fishermen’s vague idea about essences. The importance of the sources varies
with context, but they are never kept totally separate. Although I have identified different
‘sources’ of knowledge, I do not believe that these appear to the fishermen as separate
domains. They experience a unitary world of fish and fishing, and except for the distinction
between practical knowledge (tecrübe, ‘experience’) and ‘book’ knowledge, they do not
objectify different sources of knowledge.
Adding to the complexity of categories are regional variations in the names of fish and
sea animals, especially the lesser known and/or seldom consumed kinds. But it is interesting
to note that there seems to have occurred a standardisation of the names for many of the
commercially important species. Orkinos (bluefin tuna) was once called istavrit azmanı
(‘huge istavrit’) (Çakıroğlu 1964:72) or azman balığı (‘enormous fish’) along the eastern
Black Sea coast, and kalkan (turbot) was earlier also called mıhlı balığı (‘nail fish’) in
Trabzon (Sınır 1950:88). Those of lesser commercial importance often retain local names, for
example crab, jellyfish103, and iskorpit (tikenli, çarpan). Yet some kinds of economic
importance also have various local names, for instance seasnail (midye/mussel, sülük/leech,
küflü/mildewy). While local names are commonly used, most are also familiar with what they
regard as the ‘real’ (asıl) name. One old fisherman in Keremköy, Muzaffer, regards orkinos
(bluefin tuna) as the ‘real’ name for azman balığı. “40-50 years ago”, he says, “they didn't

101
Kaya balığı is mentioned first in III C because of its very close association to the bottom (kaya =
rocks). Pisi and dil balığı also come early because they are listed together with kalkan (turbot). They are
all ‘flatfish’.
102
Some examples: yılan balığı (‘snake fish’); çarpan/tikenli (local names for the poisonous iskorpit,
meaning ‘striker’ and ‘thorny’); yag balığı (oil/fat fish, i.e. whales); fener balığı (lantern fish), dil balığı
(tongue fish); as well as all three names for turbot - mıhlı balığı (naily fish), kalkan (shield), and sofra
balığı (round table). There are many more examples.
103
Names for jellyfish: deniz anası (Trabzon), deniz amı (Trabzon), medüz (Istanbul), pelte (‘gel’,
Sinop) yalgı (yakmaktan)/yalku (Trabzon), amcala (Lazi).
154 CHAPTER 4

know any better, but they have now learned from drawings and writings”. This is simply a
matter of different names for the same thing. The integration of the Turkish seafood market,
the improved communication networks, the increased mobility of fishermen, and so fort have
evidently led to a standardisation of names. There is reason to believe that the names used
within the Istanbul seafood culinary culture have a hegemonic position in this standardisation
process since they often come to be regarded as the ‘real’ names. On the other hand,
fishermen generally do not even know of the existence of scientific Latin names.
The preceding discussion has also indicated the importance of radial categories and
analogic models in the fishermen’s classification of fish. For instance, relations between fish
are often based on ‘similarity’ of physical appearance, creating names by analogy to land
animals. Moreover, human body analogies play an important role in the understanding of fish
behaviour. On the other hand, fishermen also employ a range of oppositions when they handle
and talk about different fish and sea animals. Some of the more prominent ones are:

Fish : Hamsi
Local : Migratory (Yerli/devamlı olanlar : Göç)
Bottom fish : Fish not living on the bottom (Dipte yaşayanlar : dipte olmayanlar)
Mammals : Spawning fish (Doğanlar/yavru/Memeli : havyar dökenler)
Fish : Non-fish, shellfish and jellyfish (Balıklar:balık olmayanlar, kabuklular ve yalgılar)
With scales : Without scales (Pullu : Pulsuz)

Thus, fishermen’s models of kinds of fish and the environment they live in involve a variety
of cognitive processes where both analogic and digital codes (Shore 1996) are at work.
Things are really very interwoven. While Balık (fish) stands in opposition to hamsi, it is also a
radial category which at the core may be represented by either palamut or hamsi, but more
generally refers to mobile sea animals with fins, and sometimes even encompass prawns,
shellfish and squid.
Finally, some fishermen, especially those who claim to enjoy their work, often
attribute aesthetic qualities or intelligence to fish. The dolphin is the fish which is accorded
the most human-like qualities. It is said to be able to reason, but in anthropomorphizing it the
belief that it is a social being and has feelings seems to be more important. It often seems to
seek the company of boats/fishermen, and one elderly fisherman claimed to have seen
dolphins shedding tears104. Fishing for kefal, either with a cast net (saçma) or a regular net set
around a school of kefals that is visible in shallow waters (see next chapter), involves more
direct ‘interaction’ with the fish than most other kinds of fishing in this region. Especially
‘true’ (hakkiki) kefal is often regarded as being very smart (akkıllı/intelligent or
kurnaz/cunning). It thinks out and learns ingenious ways to escape the net, and that is why
some fishermen claim it is the most widely distributed fish in the world. In contrast the new
kefal, the ‘Russian’ one, is regarded as ‘dumb’ and easy to catch. The whiting is also

104
In a novel of Yaşar Kemal, set in Istanbul during the 1970s, the relationship between a fisherman and
a dolphin is one of the central topics (Kemal 1992[1978]).
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 155

generally regarded as a stupid (ahmak) fish. All in all, the ‘social interaction’ with fish is quite
limited here compared to some other coastal cultures, such as in the Marovo Lagoon in
Solomon Islands where “[f]ishing…is basically a form of direct social interaction between
human being and fish” (Hviding 1996a:200). In contrast to the tropical Marovo Lagoon,
virtually no fishermen in Trabzon, with a few exceptions (e.g. Şaban), dive as part of the
fishing operation (except when there is a problem with the propeller etc.) or for fun. The cold
winters, harsh weather, and murkiness of the water makes direct physical contact between fish
and man more limited.
Nevertheless, some fishermen have clear aesthetic evaluations of fish, independent of
their value or quality as food. Especially bluefin tuna and palamut are much praised for their
beauty. They are clean and beautiful fish. Catching them is zevkli (fun, enjoyable). ‘Perişan’, a
small-boat fisherman, said that he just loves to lift a net with shining palamuts hanging on it
like a bunch of grapes. “I lift the fish and kiss it” he says. He compares this with the ‘Russian’
kefal, which is fished in a somewhat similar manner to palamut, but does not provide any
pleasure (zevk). Some fish are also considered ugly (çırkın), such as köpek balığı, fener balığı
and kovit. These factors contribute to a fuller and more complex picture of the different fish,
and highlight once again the importance of individual experiences in fishermen's
characterisations of fish. However, they are not used to distinguish between fish in a
taxonomic system.

The above outline of sources for codification of fish and sea animals identifies two main
domains: personal experience with fish (practice, physical appearance of fish) and importation
of extraneous models (market, science). An important intermediate level must be added: the
community of practitioners. The models are elaborated, tested out, transformed and so forth
within this community. Sometimes, different communities develop distinctive practices,
terminology and ideas (e.g. different names for seasnail: sülük (Eynesil), midye (Çarşıbaşı),
and küflü (Yoroz)). However, I found generally relatively little variation in fishermen's
categorisations along the coast. This may be due partly to similarities of practice, but also to
the standardisation of the names of fish and sea animals. Given the high frequency of
interaction between fishermen from different communities - especially in the purse-seine
fisheries - the whole fishing sector in the eastern Black Sea coast may be regarded as one
community of practitioners in some respects. Most fishermen share similar models of the sea
currents, weather, bottom conditions, fish behaviour and the like. These models are filled with
local content, for example about local ada and kuyu, which is knowledge that may be shared
by only a small group of fishermen.

Non-inscribed unstable collectives

In all the material discussed here – the opening case, the knowledge of ada and kuyu, the
hamsi narrative as well as classification efforts – it is evident that most, but not all, of
156 CHAPTER 4

fishermen’s knowledges are embedded in or developed on the basis of personal experience at

sea and as members of a fishermen’s community. That is hardly surprising. However, I would
also claim that I have surveyed in some detail what effect this has upon the dynamics of
fishermen’s knowledge. For instance, I think that it would be untenable to offer any clear-cut
definition of the five or six different concepts invoked by fishermen to talk about ‘kinds of
fish’. These display no clear boundaries and there is overlap and ambiguity. Perhaps the
phenomena that they help to describe are themselves perceived as having properties of both
essence and patterning, on the one hand; and fluidity, ambiguity and uncertainty, on the other
hand? Their classifications are primarily for practical purposes, ‘taskonomy’, and for
communication about such contexts. One fisherman’s response when I asked him about fish
classification/taxonomy is typical: “We catch the fish, the classification we leave to the
scientists!”
The challenge, then, is to hold an analytical focus on knowledge while keeping in
mind that this knowledge is always situated and seldom becomes an explicit or independent
pursuit for the fishermen. For instance, different behavioural modes often go together. Once a
fisherman taught me how to remove small crabs from triple walled nets: “First you tear off
these (tearing off the claws), then you take these (breaking off the legs), then you take it
through like this – don’t crack it (holding the shell and manoeuvring it through the meshes).”
Here bodily attention to an object related dialectically to short verbal utterances. Talk and
body movements point at each other and form a totality of both doing and showing. Verbal
utterances can be used for many purposes, and this example is clearly one of ‘doing’ or
‘being’. Şaban’s classification and Yılmaz’ narrative are other instances of language use
which illustrate a greater degree of distancing or objectification, but also remain rooted in
personal experiences and are directed towards more immediate concerns: to tell a good story,
to impress, or simply to have a ‘sweet’ conversation.
Partly for the reasons cited above, I find it difficult maintain a clear separation
between theory and practice. Different kinds of cognition, knowledges, and expressions are
intertwined and integrated. In later chapters I explore the interaction between different ways
and kinds of knowing. In particular, I want to problematise further the common distinctions
between practice/body and discourse/language (Chapter 10). I argue that in order to
understand better knowledge processes, one must also pay attention to the materiality and
context of skills, knowledges and communications. I will not elaborate much on this here
except to discuss the extent and manner in which fishermen draw on or produce inscriptions.
First, it is evident that they generally relate little to ‘inscribed’ knowledge. Although they see
a recurrent cyclical/seasonal pattern in the life of fish and in their own activities, they keep no
notes of past activities to help prepare for upcoming seasons. I have heard fishermen who are
preparing new nets for an upcoming season say such things as ‘When was it that ‘Russian’
kefal arrived last year? We should have taken note of it.’ But they don’t. Instead they have
mental associations with important days or seasonal occurrences. Moreover, they seldom
read or look at pictures/drawings in books, they do not use nautical charts and so on.
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 157

Figure 14 Directions at sea: compass vs. operational model.

Some of their more powerful models are also to be found in inscribed forms, such as the
model of directions of winds and sea currents, which have its authoritative model in the
compass. But there is not a complete overlap between the operational models of the fishermen
and the inscribed model. The fishermen’s model usually includes five or six different
winds/directions, with two of them (karayel – poyraz) constituting a primary axis. Once I got
a fisherman to write down the wind directions. He made a sketch, but was not satisfied with
the result and fetched a compass so that he could copy it (see figure 14). His inscription was
an attempt to reproduce the authoritative model, in the belief that his operational model
conformed to it. However, it did not, and because of that, his inscription was partly ‘wrong’.
The model employed by the fishermen therefore exists primarily on the level of practical
engagement, including verbal references. Fishermen cope at sea by relating to their
operational model. Likewise, when at sea or talking about ‘karayel’ they refer to their
operational model, not the formal compass model. But, as with the fish names, they think that
there exists a formal, authoritative model, the model that is inscribed on their compasses.
Poyraz and karayel are often used as general terms for spatial direction along an east-
west axis, or more correctly, for the main spatial dimension, the coastline. This seems to be a
very pervasive model, an instituted but non-inscribed cultural model, based upon a
158 CHAPTER 4

dichotomy. People may say ‘at karayel, in Istanbul...’, even though Istanbul lies, ‘strictly
speaking’ - according to the inscribed compass model – to the batı (west). Moreover,
fishermen do not use the wind directions when they talk about ‘going to sea’ (which would be
north/yıldız) or ‘towards the shore’ (which would be south/kıble). Instead they say yükarıya
(‘upwards’) for away from the shore, and dışarıya (‘to the outside’) for towards or on shore.
Thus, the main model for directions is as follows:

Yükarıya git go upwards

Yükarı Upwards

(İçerde) (Inside)

Yalıya düşmek fall towards the yalı

Aşağı Dışarıya Downwards Outwards

Karayel---------------------------Poyraz Karayel---------------------------------Poyraz
Yalı/Sahil coast/seaside

(Dışarı) (Outside)

Figure 15 Fishermen’s model of directions at sea

However, it is not entirely correct to say that fishermen’s knowledge of the winds (as an
operational model) is not inscribed. For instance, the knowledge of how the poyraz wind
blows in different places along the coast is summed up in the following saying which is
transmitted orally within the fishing community. The saying indicates the increasing strength
of the poyraz as one passes the Capes from east to west along the Black Sea coast:

Dialect Standard Turkish

Poyraz rüzkarı
Yoroz'ta eserim
Yason'ta tuterim
İnce'te kaptan secerim
Kerembe'ta anacuk sikerim
Poyraz rüsgahrı
Fener burunda eserim
Yason burunda tutarım
İnce burunda kaptan seçerim
Kerempe burunda anacık sikerim
The poyraz wind
I blow at Cape Fener
At Cape Yason I gain force
At Cape İnce I choose captain
At Cape Kerempe I fuck your
mother

Thus, knowledge of wind and geography is inscribed in an easily memorised rhyme.

According to Shore (1996:68) this might be called an instituted model. In Connerton’s (1989)
terms this could also be said to be one way ‘societies remember’ by rituals that reproduce
knowledge through repetitive practice, or ‘incorporated practice’: bodily and performative
memory whereby traditions are sustained without being inscribed in texts. However, there
 FISHERMEN’S KNOWLEDGES 159

must certainly be differences between this oral-ritual ‘inscription’ and other kinds of
‘inscription’. On the one hand some knowledge may be considered to be inscribed in non-
ritual practice: you remember how to set the net once you are at sea. On the other hand, there
are very ‘context independent’ inscriptions, written or other, whose materiality and
technology offer very different potential for objectification, transportation and so on. For
instance, the models inscribed in practice or rhymes require active re-enacting. They are not
inscribed outside of the individual. Thus, to use Latour’s (1987) conceptual framework, most
of fishermen’s knowledge is non-inscribed, representing phenomena that from the outside
may be seen as unstable collectives, held together only in practice within fairly small
communities of practitioners. The operational model of directions proved to be very fragile
when set against a more hegemonic inscribed model. However, such a latourian framing begs
the question: unstable in relation to what? Who decides the criteria for ‘stability’? The next
chapter demonstrates that behind the changes in the forms of fishing there have been
continuities in fishermen’s practically and socially embedded knowledge of fishing.
5 INFORMAL REGULATIONS

IN SMALL-BOAT FISHING

In Chapter 4 I sought to bring out the embedded character of fishermen’s knowledges, but at the
same time also indicated that their knowledges interacted with culturally instituted models. There
is, in other words, a great deal of sharing of knowledge within communities of practitioners.
However, I did not discuss the social dynamics that this sharing is situated in. That becomes
critical as I now proceed to discuss whether the local management forms and the knowledges
that serve to uphold them can be seen as ‘traditional’. Here it is apposite to remind the reader of
the official denial of local management forms and ‘traditions’ in the fisheries (see Chapter 3).
The perspective here shifts towards the social context and the distribution of fishermen’s
knowledge, towards communication, sharing and social institutionalisation (formalisation) of
knowledge. I argue that since most of fishermen's knowledge is bound up in their practice,
bodily as well as social, the formalisation or fixing of knowledge is dependent upon the social
institutionalisation of practice, upon communities of practitioners being organised into
recognisable bodies. Moreover, I would emphasise that since fishing is not simply a technical
activity, knowledge of gear and sea/fish alone is not sufficient to ensure a livelihood from
fishing. Most kinds of fishing are also situated in an ethical and political context. However, in
practice the technical and ethical skills required for coping are very much intertwined; for
example with morality and social limitations placed on the sharing of information (knowledge)
about fishing conditions.
In this chapter these issues will primarily be discussed in an ethnography of small-boat
fishing, especially as this pertains to informal regulations in these fisheries and to the
organisational dynamics prevailing among small-boat fishermen. The following examples of
informal regulations in small-boat fishing demonstrate my points by illustrating how the
management patterns in certain small-boat fisheries emerge as a result of situated fishermen
relating to the framework of biophysical conditions (especially fish movements, water currents,
space), technical aspects (especially properties of nets), and ethical considerations. In Chapter 6 I
will develop further this analysis of the social dynamics and politics of fisheries, especially as
pertains to big-boat fishing.

160
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 161

Informal regulations in small-boat fishing

In Chapter 3 I documented the existence of a wide variety of specific rules of access in the
fisheries at the beginning of the 20th century, often sanctioned by the state. While the Ottoman
State acknowledged and even encouraged the restriction of access to voli or dalyan to specific
individuals or villages, such state-sanctioned privileges were not encouraged by the Republican
State. In the Middle East, management of communal resources such as water and pasture have
often been in the hands of clan and/or segmentary kinship groups or villages. These institutions
have managed the rights of access through customary laws, often outside of the framework of
Sharia and state law (Attia 1985, Barth 1964, Gilles, Hammoudi & Mahdi 1992). In contrast to
the fishing sector, there still exist various kinds of acknowledged and formalised/semi-formalised
rules of privileged access to grazing commons in Turkey, even in the face of various pressures
for privatisation. Village grazing commons (mera) have generally been the property of the
village and administered by village authorities (council of elders, muhtar, influential families or
patron (aga)). Right of access is in theory regulated by village membership, but may in practice
also depend upon alliance to political faction (Bates 1974). The village meras were officially
sanctioned, and it was possible to take conflicts over its use to court. Starr (1992:63) has noted
that there were quite a few cases of usurping of village land in Bodrum’s Criminal Courts in the
mid-1960s. The new mera law (1999/2000?) Also recognises the authority of villages or
municipalities in the management of the mera (http://www.tarim.gov.tr./mera/mera.htm,
17.02.00). The eastern Black Sea ecology leaves little room for village meras. Most soil is
already under the plough (or rather ‘turned by the spade’, as most fields are too steep to be tilled
by ploughs). Traditionally the cows have been kept in their owners’ gardens, and the few sheep
have grazed in others’ fields for a small fee. However, in the summers villagers took their
animals to the high mountain pastures (yayla).
In Turkey access to yayla is also often regulated by ‘customary law’. A study of sheep
herding in south-eastern Turkey states that “[s]ummer pastures ‘belong’ to tribes. So
acknowledged membership of a tribe is a necessary condition for access to pastures” (Yalçın-
Heckmann 1993:20). Access to the yayla in the Kaçar mountains along the eastern Black Sea
coast has not so much been the privilege of tribes as of groups of villagers or patronymic groups.
Each village spent every summer season on a particular yayla. Although the yayla were formally
state property, de facto usufruct was established locally. For instance, groups from Akçaabat and
Vakfıkebir long fought (until the end of the 1970s) for the control of one particular yayla. Gilles,
Hammoudi & Mahdi (1992) describe a very similar system of seasonal access to pastures (agdal)
among the Berber populations in Morocco. However, the Moroccan state does not recognise the
authority of the village councils to govern the agdals.
The yayla and the sea have generally the same legal status: they are state property. But
there seems to be less of a tradition for village, clan or tribal authorities to ‘govern’ the use of the
sea. Although the ‘water produce’ law opens the way for fishery cooperatives to manage access
to fishing grounds, the state de facto does not acknowledge any kind of local privileged access.
162 CHAPTER 5

The various regulations presuppose that ‘the sea is free for all’. However, the fishery regulations
adopted and amended each year by the Ministry of Agriculture contain few rules that apply
specifically to small-boat fishing. Nevertheless, a wide set of general rules with regard to fishing
season, mesh size, gear, minimum catch size and so forth are relevant in principle for small-boat
and big-boat fishing alike. Still, a variety of ‘illegal’ small-boat fishing activities are not policed
at all, partly because supervision is difficult and partly because bureaucrats regard the sector's
contribution to total catches as insignificant and acknowledge that small-boat fishermen are poor
people who need a livelihood. Thus, although one regulation states the minimum legal size of
various species (circular number 32/1, paragraph 15), nobody inspects whether small-boat
fishermen adhere to this. In effect it is only the regulations that apply to the dredging for seasnail
and the total ban on trawling in the eastern Black Sea that de facto pertain to small-boat fishing.
Thus, most small-boat fishing can be said to be relatively sheltered from formal state
regulations. However, as has been demonstrated many places in the world105, as well as along the
Aegean and Mediterranean coasts of Turkey (Berkes 1992), fishermen often manage local or
communal systems of regulation which are independent of the officially sanctioned rules. This
was precisely the kind of thing I was looking for during my first fieldwork when I was primarily
interested in resource-management systems in the fisheries. However, formal or semi-formal
rules and regulations developed by the fishermen themselves were very hard to find.
Nevertheless, on closer inspection it became evident that there is a certain amount of what I call
informal management in several kinds of small-boat fishing. I will here describe and discuss the
evolution and workings of some of these, notably trammelnet molozma fishing for barbunya,
gillnet fishing for palamut and the newly evolved net fishing for ‘Russian’ kefal. I shall more
briefly discuss small-scale local trawling and dredging for seasnails. What kinds of knowledges
are involved in these kinds of fishing, and what is the degree and character of continuity and
social institutionalisation?

Continuous user-right spots in the molozma fisheries

Every year during April and May, an intensive small-scale fishery of the highly prized barbunya
used to take place off Çarşıbaşı and along the rest of the eastern Black Sea coast of Turkey.
Since barbunya moves at right angles to the coast, the nets are most appropriately set parallel to
the coast. The nets used are about one metre deep and between 100 and 500m long, and are fairly
expensive (about US$ 1 a metre in 1991). The barbunya is sold for local and regional
consumption. Good catches may earn US$ 60 per boat (two or three men) each night, which
made this one of the most popular fisheries in the region. In the molozma high season, when fish
were abundant and nets placed in shallow waters (5-15 metres’ depth), both full-time fishermen
and part-timers went for barbunya. The nets were set just before sunset, pulled in later in the
evening and set anew to be pulled in once more in the morning. Often the nets were left in the
water for the day if they were not very dirty or in need of repairs which required them to be

105
To name but a few studies: Acheson 1988, Akimichi 1984, Hviding 1996, see also overviews and
collections such as Acheson 1981 and Cordell 1989.
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 163

brought ashore. A special tool, a cup mounted on a pole, was beaten (tokmak) on the water
surface to frighten the fish into the net. Some also practiced this kind of fishing in deeper waters
during the winter season (then tokma is not applied). This implied very hard work for smaller
catches. Only the poorest fishermen had started deep-water molozma fishing in the early 1990s,
as the relative value of fish had risen due to generally falling catches in the fisheries.
During the winter of 1990 Orhan was the only fisherman in Çarşıbaşı who kept fishing
with a molozma net all winter. He set his net regularly in deep waters. As the weather turned
warmer in April and it was expected that the barbunya would start moving to shallower waters,
he started to place his net in the same spot every day - he was both ‘securing a position’ for the
coming molozma season, and seeking the first big catches of barbunya of the season which
would be more valuable and therefore result in a good income. A couple of days later, Mehmet,
the store-owner, was out fishing for pleasure. He set his molozma net between the shore and
Orhan's net. Observing this, Orhan told Mehmet to remove his net. Mehmet pulled in the net
somewhat later in the evening. When discussing this with me, Orhan made it clear that the
position of Mehmet's net was unacceptable because it was an obstacle for fish moving towards
his own net. Mehmet and Orhan knew each other quite well as they lived in the same
neighbourhood and frequented the same kahve.

Movement of barbunya at night

*---------------------------------------------------------------------* Net position that can be tolerated

‘legal’ net position

Firstcomer *--------------------------------------------------------------* *------------------------------------------

*----------------------------------------------------------------* ‘forbidden’ net position

SHORE

Figure 16 Positioning of molozma net for catching barbunya

This is an example of the adjustment of behaviour in molozma fisheries with reference to a

general ‘rule’; a net cannot be placed alongside another, parallel to the coast, as the second net
would catch fish otherwise heading for the firstcomer's net (figure 16). Fishermen should
164 CHAPTER 5

therefore place their nets in a line extending from the firstcomer's net. The kind of net-
positioning exemplified in the case above was described by one fisherman as ‘inappropriate’
(olmuyor) and ‘forbidden’ (yasak). A net may be set parallel to another as long as it is placed at a
substantial distance outside of the already occupied position, since fish are supposed to move
away from the coast during the night (figure 16).
Appropriate conduct for fishermen in the molozma fisheries therefore produced a general
pattern. During the evenings and mornings in April and May, the coastline would be lined with
buoys (şamandıra) marking molozma nets. Each boat/team would use the same position
regularly and would claim the right to position their net in the same place every day during the
season. If a fisherman continued to set his net at the same site for several days, it would be
regarded as his position. Such continuous user-right to a marked position may even be spoken of
as being ‘owned’ (sahibli). One part-timer conceptualised the general situation saying:
‘everyone has their obvious net-position’ (herkesin belli ağ kurma yeri var). Moreover, even
though fishermen do not usually have clear conceptions of boundaries, the user-right positions
are generally located close to fishermen's home environs. Fishermen operating from the same
harbour (i.e. fishermen from Burunbaşı, Keremköy and several other ‘villages’ (köy) or mahalle)
set their molozma nets at some distance from their own ‘village’, notably at some distance west
of Çarşıbaşı where there are fewer small-scale fishermen.

Ethical know-how in informal regulations

The principle guiding fishermen's behaviour in molozma fishing is actually the outcome of
adapting a more general ‘rule’ on which there seems to be common agreement, to the special
conditions in this kind of fishing. This rule applies to all kinds of small-scale fishing all year
round and may be summed up as follows: ‘the fisherman first occupying a location has the right
to fish there for whatever resources, according to common knowledge, can be caught with the
gear used. Other fishermen must not go about their business in such a way as to threaten the
firstcomer’s right to maximise his catch’. But what is the status of this ‘rule’, what kind of
knowledge does it involve?
I have used the word ‘rule’ to denote certain guidelines for fishermen’s behaviour at sea.
However, this ‘rule’, although shared, is not formalised or objectified, and certainly not
inscribed. No fisherman would spell it out, articulate it, in an explicit rule as I did it above. The
‘rule’ is enacted in practice and remains largely implicit in social intercourse. As Bourdieu
(1977:19) has pointed out, much of ‘customary law’ is not codified in explicit rules, but depends
on a different ‘logic of practice’. Action is not the enactment of rules, just as talk (parole) is not
the playing out of language (langue). How then is this ‘rule’ known? There are intriguing
similarities between the embeddedness of fishermen’s knowledges as described in the previous
chapter, and the situatedness of this ‘rule’ in the social-technical activity of fishing.
In this context I consider it useful to distinguish between ‘ethical know-how’ and ‘ethical
know-that’ (Varela 1999). This plays on the distinction between embodiment and objectification,
between the pre-objective and the reflective, outlined in the beginning of Chapter 4. When
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 165

formulating this distinction, Varela takes his inspiration from the phenomenologist Merleau-
Ponty, the pragmatist John Dewey (know-how/know-that), and a ‘non-information processing’
direction within the cognitive sciences to which he has himself made important contributions106.
It would seem that the actions of fishermen when they behave decently towards each other at sea
and elsewhere “…do not spring from judgement and reasoning, but from an immediate coping
with what is confronting us…Cognition consists not of representations but of embodied action”
(Varela 1999:5). He states that, “[e]mbodiment entails the following: (I) cognition dependent
upon the kinds of experience that come from having a body with various sensorimotor
capacities; and (2) individual sensorimotor capacities that are themselves embedded in a more
encompassing biological and cultural context” (ibid:11). This formulation situates Varela clearly
at the intersection of the ‘embodied cognition’ theories, the language theory of Lakoff, and
phenomenological theories of Merleau-Ponty and others.
Here it is important to note that Varela’s concept of embodiment is more radical than the
one proposed by Lambek (see ‘Towards…’ in Chapter 4). Lambek’s separation of embodiment
and objectification is roughly based upon an inside/outside of body distinction. This caused no
serious analytical problems as long as I focused on ‘where’ the knowledge is located: within the
bodies/persons, or in some external design. However, is that the only difference? I believe that
the condition of situatedness cannot be reduced to ‘being internal to the body’. Embodiment of
sea animal identification implies more fundamental dimensions than merely that of being
‘internal’. It is more aptly understood as a certain attitude to the world, an immediacy that
Merleau-Ponty has variously called the ‘pre-objective’, ‘tending towards the world’, ‘a taking up
of the world’, and such (Csordas 1999, Merleau-Ponty 1962). Thus, embodiment is not about the
body per se. “[C]ulture and self can be understood from the standpoint of embodiment as an
existential condition in which the body is the subjective source or intersubjective ground of
experience” (Csordas 1999:181). Since writing his monography in 1993, Lambek has (1997)
elaborated on the concept of phronesis so that it has come to mean exactly the same as Varela’s
concept of ‘ethical know-how’. Lambek, drawing on Gadamer, holds that phronesis in the
domain of morals is the equivalent of techne. Mark Johnson (1993) has also articulated similar
ideas. He differentiates between moral imagination and moral law and stresses that the first one
is more dynamic as it involves metaphoric reasoning.
I consider the approaches of Varela, Lambek and Johnson to ‘pre-law’ ethics to be
roughly congruent and have chosen to employ Varela’s terms. The terms ethical know-
how/know-that focus on the difference between the pre-objective and the representative in the
domain of ethics/morals. Ethical know-how attends to ‘what it is good to be’, ‘living wisely’. It
is immediately perceived, unreflected ethical standards that ‘spring from an immediate coping
with what is confronting us’. Ethical know-that focuses on ‘what it is right to do’. It is explicit,
ideally context independent, and often inscribed, standards for appropriate conduct. I view this as
roughly the moral rules. I feel that these insights are very compelling and useful when I examine

106
In the work referred to his argument also develops in dialogue with Confucian ethics and Buddhist
epistemology. Those parts of the book (or rather lectures) do not concern me here.
166 CHAPTER 5

the question of the way in which knowledge is held, be it by fishermen or scientists. In addition,
the phenomenological impulse may be employed in order to counteract analytical reductionism
(a danger of cognitive approaches for example). However, I do not want the analysis to remain
on the level of phenomenology. I want to expand the analysis beyond personal experience. Bruce
Kapferer claims that phenomenology is not a theory, but an approach that gives authority to the
world(s) that one encounters (seminar spring 2000). I am especially interested in the interplay
between the pre-objective and the representations (like those of the culinary cultures of seafood,
for example, Chapters 1 and 2). While Csordas chooses semiotics (Peirce and Sartre) as the
theoretical dialogue partner of being-in-the-world (see e.g. Csordas 1994), I have chosen to
operationalise theories of embodied cognition, as well as theories of Latour, Foucault, and others
in order to study the ‘transformations’ and social dynamics of knowledge.

I regard the ‘firtscomer’s right’ as being a kind of ethical know-how. While there is no scheme
for the overall organisation in molozma fishing, and there are no moral precepts that apply
specifically to fishing, interaction guided by ethical sensibilities – largely unarticulated values
and norms - result in the described pattern in molozma fishing. The pattern is the result of the
interplay, in fishermen’s coping, of such sensibilities with the technical and bio-physical
environment. In molozma fishing the firstcomer’s right is in effect for an entire season (between
one and two months) and is connected to the fisherman's home area. This is unique to molozma
fishing. The application of the firstcomer’s rule is not sufficient, therefore, to create a pattern of
continuous user-right sites. The fishermen claim user-rights to the same net-position only in the
high-season of molozma fishing. This is mainly because this is the sole period when limited
accessibility is experienced and expected. Limited access is from time to time a problem in
fishing for palamut as well. But there the application of the same basic firstcomer rule has other
implications than in molozma fishing.

Regulations in palamut fishing

Palamut enter the Black Sea through the Bosporus in late summer. They then migrate eastward
along the coast in search of food before returning in a straight line to the Aegean Sea. Since
palamut generally moves parallel to the coastline, nets are most appropriately set at right angles
to the shore (figure 17). The catches vary enormously in value, from absolutely nothing to US$
800 in a single night. While the catches of a single boat generally amounted to US$ 400-1200
during the season, the luckiest and/or most competent in the district studied earned US$ 3200.
Except in seasons with extremely good catches, palamut is a very highly valued fish. A catch of
100 palamut (1/2 kg each) would be a coop for a small-scale fisherman. Due to the potential for
bumper catches, palamut fishing may involve more fishermen than molozma fishing.
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 167

Movement of

palamut

SHORE

Figure 17 Positioning of the uzatma net for catching palamut

The drift gillnets are cast every day around sunset and may be pulled in several times during the
night. As there will be competition for good positions during periods with large catches,
fishermen will launch their boats early in order to secure a position. During the most hectic
period, boats lay lined up outside Çarşıbaşı as early as noon, six to seven hours before sunset.
This was the accepted way to secure a position without casting the net. Fishermen stress that, in
this kind of fishing, net positions are not ‘owned’ (sahibli), but they do have opinions about the
appropriate distance (roughly two hundred metres) between the nets. A net placed too close to an
occupied position will obstruct fish moving towards the firstcomer's net. Although not so
optimal, nets may be set either outside or inside the already occupied positions.
Why does the same pattern not emerge in both fisheries? Since the same basic
‘firstcomer's-right’ principle, the same ethical know-how, applies to both, divergence in the
aggregated overall pattern must be sought elsewhere. It can be argued that it is not space
limitation, but fishermen's behaviour in adapting to the different circumstances, that produces the
dissimilarities between regulations in the two fisheries. Three aspects (a-c below) produce
different contexts for fishermen's behaviour in these two fisheries:

Molozma-fishing:
a) Since the nets used rest at the bottom and are in addition also often anchored, they are not
easily moved by currents. Moreover, the nylon (monofilament) nets don’t decay and can be
pulled in and set again immediately and therefore left for long periods in the water without
168 CHAPTER 5

requiring drying. In this way, nets can easily occupy a position physically and, with their buoys,
indexically signify occupation - or possession - of a position.
b) Due to the outlined characteristics of the resource and applied technology, nets are most
appropriately aligned in a single long row along the fairly straight coastline. Then, if the total
length of nets that fishermen want to set exceeds available space, there will remain no open
places. Fishermen will therefore have a great interest in securing the position they have already
occupied. Available space tends to simply become filled up.
c) Since the availability of barbunya is fairly evenly distributed and amounts do not vary greatly
from day to day, fishermen are generally content to use the same position.

Palamut-fishing
a) Nylon (monofilament) nets are used, as in the fishing for barbunya, but the nets used to catch
the pelagic palamut are drift nets, which are tied to one end to the boat (depending on the
direction of the current). Thus, boat and net float freely and change position according to weather
and currents. Technically therefore, when the fisherman is not at sea with his boat, a position
cannot physically be occupied by a net and signified by its buoy.
b) Since nets are placed vertically to the shore, more nets can be accommodated as long as the
diminishing distance between the nets can be accepted. There is no absolute limit as to how
many nets can be operating in an area. Moreover, due to the more erratic movement of the
palamut, attractive net positions can also be found inside and outside positions already occupied.
c) Compared to barbunya, the availability of palamut varies considerably. Information about the
previous night's catches as well as observations of the palamut's movement (yol balığı) by day
provide a basis for determining attractive positions. Fishermen may travel several hundred
kilometres in pursuit of this valuable fish.

The same ethical know-how induces the fishermen to apply different ‘rules’ in different fisheries.
It is not enough to be familiar with ethical standards. They must also know the technology and
the practice of fishing in order to act in an ethically sensible manner. That is precisely the point:
ethical know-how is situated, context dependent, and defies formalisation in explicit rules.
Technique and ethical know-how are tightly knit. You have to be a good fisherman to be able to
behave ethically or acceptably in the eyes of other fishermen. Likewise, to be a good fisherman
your behaviour has to be ethically sensible. An inexperienced fisherman may set his net in an
inappropriate way because he does not know enough about local ecology and gear. When the
shopkeeper Mehmet set his molozma net inside of Orhan’s it may have been due more to
ignorance than to maliciousness.

Patterns of informal regulations along the Eastern Black Sea coast

I possess no comprehensive knowledge of the extent and kind of informal fisheries management
along the Black Sea coast of Turkey. The very nature of the regulations - the informality, the fact
that they are manifest only in practice, the lack of objectification - means that one has to
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 169

participate in order to get to know the workings of such regulations. I have more than once
experienced on my first visit to a fishermen's kahve, when several men usually gather around me,
and some outspoken skippers take it upon themselves to reply to my questions, that they
categorically deny that small-boat fishermen apply informal regulations. ‘Here’, they say, ‘the
sea is free for all’. On the other hand, I have also realised that once I am able to speak from
experience, from practice, it becomes possible to engage fishermen in conversations – although
only in very informal contexts - about comparable forms or principles. Indeed, in 1991 fishermen
in Çarşıbaşı claimed that the pattern of informal regulations in molozma and palamut fishing
existed all along the eastern Black Sea coast of Turkey. This was very likely so since the density
of small-boat fishermen is high along most of the coast. I have also been told by local fishermen,
that informal rules govern user-rights in fishing for tirsi off Çarşamba, in beach seining near
Arsin (20 km. east of Trabzon), and in bottom-net fishing for turbot.
I have not detailed information about these regulations however. The pattern for tirsi
fishing is said to resemble the pattern for palamut fishing since the same kind of nets are used
and the fish are migratory. Beach seining (barabat, manyat) - which is now of little general
importance in the region - may be more subject to notions of territoriality. In the past this was a
more common form of fishing with about 15 teams (takım) in Çarşıbaşı. Villages or teams might
possibly have laid claim to territories (stretches of coastline), but it has not been possible to
confirm this assumption. My impression is that the teams kept to certain regions shared by
‘friends’, and did not cross boundaries into other regions (‘We mostly worked this area, and we
never crossed the river’). This ‘perimeter defended’ (Acheson 1988) model is echoed in some
contemporary situations, for example in Gerze (Sinop Province) where small-boat fishermen
chase trawlers from their home waters, and in some fishing communities (Faroz, Eynesil) in the
province of Trabzon where (illegal) small-boat trawling and (legal and illegal) dredging for
seasnail are both internally sanctioned and closed to strangers in the ‘home area’ (to be discussed
in greater detail below). It should also be noted that, since use of dalyans and other fixed gear
was not very widespread in this region, there has not been any tradition of fixed legal status,
officially sanctioned, of use-rights to fishing locations in this region107. There may have been de
facto and informal ‘ownerships’ of good net locations, but these ‘possessions’ have for the most
part disappeared with the change in technology. Few fishermen are willing or able to talk about
privileged access in the hamsi fisheries of former times. However, one very old fisherman in
Faroz told me that it used to be common to close places (yer kapardılar) a month before the
hamsi arrived.

Traditional knowledge?

What I have described above may be only a small fraction of the informal management forms in
small-boat fishing, and the variations between regions and even villages may be substantial.

107
Indeed, the voli in Elegü (Beşikdüzü) – the only one in this region mentioned by Devedjian (1926) - had
free access.
170 CHAPTER 5

However, there is sufficient evidence that small-boat fishermen along the eastern Black Sea coast
of Turkey have a proclivity to work out informal regulations in various kinds of fishing, based
primarily upon general principles of firstcomer rights and home areas. But to what degree can
these regulations be seen as traditional? Are these forms of regulations handed down from their
fathers and grandfathers? Are fishermen bound by customary law and traditional knowledge of
sea and fish? Can the knowledges involved be seen as constituting a tradition of knowledge? But
then, what constitutes a tradition of knowledge or a custom?

Further clarification of the concept of knowledge

Anthropology has had, and still has, a tendency to reproduce a simple dichotomy between
scientific and ‘other’ knowledges, often conceptualised as local, traditional, customary or
indigenous knowledges. The academic impulse for such studies comes from two sources. One
line of studies goes back to ethnoscience, with its emphasis on culturally unique ways of
structuring knowledge. I have already discussed the limitations of such an approach. This
program has been increasingly coupled with the concern of ecological anthropology (and more
recently political ecology, see e.g. Escobar 1999) to identify ‘indigenous’ or ‘local’ bodies of
knowledge that support or sustain local-level forms of resource management. Studies
incorporating this perspective have especially emphasised social and cultural processes in
resource management, as is exemplified in anthropological contributions to the debate about
Common Property Resources (Berkes 1989, Bromley 1992, Cordell 1989, McCay & Acheson
1987). These studies tend to emphasise locality-specific conditions like the adaptation aspects
of local knowledge (Brush 1993:659), as well as various ecological, technical and social
conditions that make each case unique. Anthropologists and biologists have demonstrated that
various ‘producers’, such as hunter-gatherers, fishermen and pastoralists, often possess
extensive ecological knowledge (Freeman & Carbyn 1988, Johannes 1989). A dichotomy or
conflict between this kind of ‘traditional/customary/local/indigenous knowledge’ and
‘scientific knowledge’ is therefore often a main topic in studies of resource management (see
e.g. Feit 1988, Johannes 1989, Palsson 1991).
Several reservations with regard to such approaches may be raised. First, this usage may
be non-symmetric since to employ concepts such as ‘traditional’ or ‘indigenous knowledge’
may contribute to sustaining dichotomies between ‘developed’ and ‘primitive’, between ‘us’
and ‘them’ (Palsson 1995:5). It implicitly upholds the Great Divide (Latour 1993). It has also
been noted that the concept ‘indigenous’ is often used uncritically and with varying meaning.
The focus is either on the unique knowledge that a human group possesses, or on the political
conflict between an ethnic minority and the nation state. The result is that the 'indigenous'
becomes polysemic and this term is therefore difficult to use as an exact concept (Brush
1993:659).
Moreover, the very common polarisation, explicit as well as implicit, between
scientific and ‘other’ knowledges (indigenous…) often entails an unfounded idealisation and
romanticism of ‘ecological friendly cultures’. A timeless, essential ideal cosmology, often
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 171

monistic, and full of animal symbolism and the like, is frequently assumed to result in
‘sustainable practices’. And these assumptions are sometimes made without studying the
history of practices or ideas, and without prolematising the social differentiation of various
scales within and outside of the society in question. While the foregoing may be a caricature
of this approach, there are very recent examples of such studies, for example Århem’s study
of the ‘Cosmic food web’ of the Makuna in the Colombian Amazon. After a structuralistically
informed analysis of their ‘indigenous eco-cosmology’, he concludes that “[m]yths, in effect,
are plans for land use – and extremely efficient ones since they are at once ecologically
informed, emotionally charged and morally binding. In all, the Makuna mode of livelihood
[which he has said nothing about!] amounts to a complex but efficient system of resource
management, a cosmology turned into ecology. … I think it is possible to see such
representations…as cultural codifications of deep ecological insights…” (Århem 1996:200,
201-2).
Finally, the widespread tendency to associate indigenous knowledge (and similar
compounds) with a special group of people, either ethnically or geographically distinct, is also
problematic. To adopt a perspective that assumes that people's ecological knowledge is part of
their ‘tradition’ or ‘custom’, in the analysis of fishermen along Turkey’s Black Sea coast
would be in violation of my observations. Fishermen do not make up a distinctive ethnic
group or a separate population unit, except for very specific (fishing) purposes. There is no
‘fishing’s people’ with a characteristic all-embracing ‘fisherman’s culture’. Thus, to try to
claim legitimacy for their knowledges through embedding them in some special local culture
would here be misplaced. Concepts of ‘Indigenous’, ‘local’, or ‘traditional’ knowledge risk
being far too reifying and essentialising. But the fishermen’s knowledges deserve to be
acknowledged, by anthropology as well as by the wider society.
So what concepts are we left with to frame these fishermen’s knowledges, in order to
indicate that to a certain extent the mental models, techniques, and language are shared, have
continuity over time, and have a tendency to be socially enclosed? The critiques that can be
raised against concepts such as ‘indigenous knowledge’ resemble to a very large extent those
that the concept of culture was confronted with from the 1980s onwards. ‘Culture’ was
supposed to encompass simultaneously both mental and social continuities - the special
habits, language, rituals, and so forth of a certain population, ‘a culture’. As first the social,
and later the ‘mental’ coherency was deconstructed, experimentation with new concepts and
models infused studies with more dynamism, flow, overlap, contradictions, and so on. Some
directions in cognitive anthropology, including Shore’s (1996), have also worked towards a
greater plurality and dynamism in the ‘cultural content’ side of the knowledge concept.
Clearly, concepts such as ‘knowledge systems’, and maybe even ‘knowledge regimes’
(Escobar 1999), ascribe too great a degree of coherency (especially mental, but also social) to
knowledges. ‘Local knowledge’ retains its meaning in opposition to something else, the
universal/global scientific knowledge, and when this dichotomy is deconstructed (scientific
knowledges are only kinds of local knowledges), the concept loses its power. In his recent
172 CHAPTER 5

book on this issue, Worsley (1997) makes a point of writing about ‘knowledges’ in the plural.
This is indicative of a welcome ‘loosening up’ of the concept. Yet, we also need concepts that
can facilitate a higher degree of specification in description and analysis. Barth has suggested
an analysis of ‘streams of cultural traditions’108 in complex societies (Barth 1989:130). There
is much to recommend this approach. He tries to formulate a concept that can establish a
middle ground between essentialising concepts such as ‘culture’ and ‘knowledge system’ on
the one hand, and ‘post-modern’ or ‘deconstructivist’ approaches that are unable to depict any
degree of patterning and continuity, on the other. There are clearly strong affinities between
this concept and some uses of the notion ‘discourse’, but he prefers to see the ‘streams’ as
socially reproduced, not as free floating semiotics. In the depiction of the social production
and reproduction of such ‘streams’, he stresses that it is important to “…leave it as an open,
empirical question how and to what extent its ideational contents achieve logical closure as a
tradition of knowledge” (Barth 1989:133).
Independent of Barth, Lambek has elaborated an understanding of ‘traditions of
knowledge’ that resembles Barth’s. He distinguishes between ‘traditions of knowledge’ and
‘disciplines’. The former are loosely defined entities which are roughly separated because
they contain “different kinds of knowledge” (1993:31). These traditions may have a broad
distribution geographically and historically and are also seen as received knowledge with
distinct subjects of discourse (1993:392). In this respect ‘tradition’ is here roughly the same as
‘streams’. However, when he seeks to specify the ethnographic detail of these traditions, he
prefers to focus on what he calls disciplines: processes of transmission, retention and
reproduction of knowledge within a specific community, “the organized product of social
means and forces” (1993:393). Thus ‘traditions of knowledge’ are only diffusely defined as
directed towards ‘distinct subjects of discourse’, without attending to the social dynamics as
Barth does. This makes it impossible to frame fishermen’ knowledge in my case. Although
their knowledge is not represented and transmitted by acknowledged experts within a specific
social body, I nevertheless consider it relevant to describe the social embeddedness or
patterning of their knowledge.
Moreover, a more serious weakness with both Lambek’s and Barth’s definitions is the
danger of excluding practical knowledge. Lambek primarily focuses on knowledge as
explanation, on kinds of knowledge that people can take a stance on; in other words
knowledge that to a certain extent is objectified. Although he pays considerable attention to
embodied knowledge, tacit, common sense, and implicit knowledge is only relevant in his
analysis insofar as it is subsumed within one of the traditions. This focus evades a question
which I find it imperative to ask of my material: how is it that certain knowledges become
part of disciplinary projects while others do not? Why is some knowledge not objectified?
With regard to Barth’s concept of streams, it easily situates knowledge outside of persons.
What about the lived, experienced qualities of knowledge? Can’t there exist certain

108
A concept supposedly adapted from the Indonesian ‘aliran’ which is commonly used to denote the
various large scale ‘civilisational’ influences on the islands.
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 173

‘traditional’ ways of setting the net that are not framed by explicit, acknowledged and partly
formalised traditions of knowledge? Barth does not include embodied knowledge in his model
of traditions of knowledge.
Actually, I would have liked to coin a new term to cover the meanings I intend the
concept to have - a certain, yet unspecified, degree of both social and mental
(experiential/cognitive) continuity or patterning (clustering) of knowledges, both embodied,
inscribed and objectified knowledges. But terms such as ‘assemblies of knowledge’ or
‘clusters of knowledge’ seem rather awkward. The notion of ‘bodies of knowledge’ points too
exclusively to the ‘content’ aspect of knowledge. I choose to employ the term ‘traditions of
knowledge’, but with the added meaning of embodied knowledge, and with an assumption
that there is a certain degree of social patterning. Also, I find Lambek’s definition of
‘discipline’ useful in order to indicate the formalism and ‘clustering’ of knowledge.
Thus I equip myself with the concepts: ‘knowledges’, to be used in a very general
sense without indicating much about social patterning, and ‘traditions of knowledge’, which
presuppose some degree of social patterning that may or may not be formalised in disciplines.
I must emphasise that the way I intend to use the concept ‘tradition of knowledge’ deviates
from ‘traditional knowledge’ which I claim links up with ‘indigenous’ and ‘local knowledge’.
Latour’s concepts (networks, inscription etc.), some of Shore’s framework, as well as the
phenomenologically derived senses of the distinction between embodiment and
objectification (‘know-how vs. know-that’, ‘being-in vs. representation’, ‘technique’ vs.
‘technology’, etc.) will be mobilised in order to give specificity to analyses of transformations
between knowledges, traditions of knowledge, and disciplines. I also discuss the degree of
social institutionalisation, formalisation and official recognition of fishermen’s knowledge.
The status of knowledge should not be assumed a-priori by identifying it as indigenous or the
like. Rather, both ‘content’ and degree of sharing and transmission of knowledge are things to
be discovered. Likewise, whether a set of practices and knowledges has continuity over time,
whether such a set constitutes a ‘tradition’, is an issue to be studied. On what level are there
continuities, on what level is there change? On the surface, given the very rapid changes in
the technology and adaptations in the fisheries in question, one may assume that there is little
continuity in knowledge. In the next section I will unravel some of the history and development
of informal regulations in the fisheries of Trabzon.

The emergence of the regulation pattern in molozma fishing

Molozma-technology has long been known and used by fishermen along the eastern Black Sea
coast of Turkey. So it is safe to say that there exists a tradition of knowledge of molozma fishing.
Etymologically ‘molozma’ has its root in Greek (Kahane, Kahane and Tietze 1958:492), and its
pre World War I use in Çayeli (near Rize) is mentioned by Kazmaz (1994:273). Nets used to be
made of cotton and susceptible to decay if not regularly dried. When monofilament nets became
available in the 1960’s, fishermen did not have to bring their nets ashore for drying and could
therefore occupy a position by keeping the net more continuously in the sea. Fishermen in the
174 CHAPTER 5

mahalle Faroz in Trabzon then started to occupy the same position for longer periods in the
molozma high season. In addition, the improved technology made possible the use of longer nets.
This, together with the already high density of boats there, meant that the shift to monofilament
nets led to more competition and the described pattern of informal regulations gradually
emerged.
Fishermen in Çarşıbaşı also started to use monofilament nets in the 1960s, but informal
regulations did not emerge initially as there were very few (3-5) boats. The practice of informal
regulations did not develop until 10-15 years later when the number of boats and fishermen
increased. I was told that during the second part of the 1970s fights and physical confrontations
took place (at sea) between fishermen from Keremköy and Burunbaşı109. This is now
uncommon. These earlier conflicts may have consolidated a pattern of diffuse user-right
territories in molozma fisheries. Previous bargaining over and subsequent establishment of
territories, may be the reason why fishermen today abstain from fishing in areas that they do not
consider their own. One old fisherman in Çarşıbaşı, who had made the shift from cotton to
monofilament nets in the 1960s, told me that the molozma principle did not come into effect as a
result of agreement (anlaşma) but emerged little by little (yavaş, yavaş) as it became necessary
(mecburen) for fishermen to position their nets in the same place several days in a row in order to
secure a place at all. Thus they also knew who operated alongside them, and who had used the
same position the day(s) before.
This can be illustrated by the following example. During the winter of 1991 Orhan had
been the only fisherman from Çarşıbaşı using a molozma in pursuit of barbunya. Other
fishermen eventually began molozma fishing on an irregular basis and in various locations, as the
expected time for the barbunya's approach to the coast drew nearer. The weather was unstable,
the work hard and the catches so minute that few regarded it as worthwhile. The best catches
were still made at a depth of 25-30 metres. Spring was late that year, and when the weather
cleared up and offered some warm days around 20 April, many fishermen started the season
while others shifted to molozma from other types of gear. The fishermen began to stick more
permanently to a single position. Orhan could name six or seven boats/fishermen using molozma
to catch barbunya, and all of them operated close to his position just outside the harbour. They
all knew each other well and all frequented the same kahve, which was associated with villages
just west of Çarşıbaşı. At the same time fishermen from Keremköy begun molozma fishing right
off their village.
Although the pattern re-emerges ‘spontaneously’ every season, it is something the
fishermen expect to happen and which they therefore adapt their strategies to, for example by
planning ‘where to position the molozma net this year’. Fishermen came to conceptualise the
regulations as a system of commonly agreed rules and expectations of the pattern's re-
emergence. This means that both the actual observed pattern of net positioning and the
fishermen's conceptualisations developed gradually and informally over many years. It was

109
High levels of inter-communal tensions connected to the political turmoil in Turkey during this
period may have reinforced fighting at sea.
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 175

worked out through a multitude of informal encounters at sea and on shore and therefore evolved
in an interplay between, on the one hand, changes in technology and the number of fishermen
and, on the other hand, fishermen's responses and interactions110.

There is also etymological evidence that there exist continuities in the practices and by
implication in the knowledges of the fishermen. On the waterfront between Keremköy and
Yoroz a rock protrudes from the water. It is of no importance, even invisible, to the common
man, but it is a significant landmark for the fishermen who identify it by the name ‘zihna’ which
they suppose is Greek. Furthermore, while some adas are named by proximate places onshore
(‘Eynesil adası’), a few also have their own proper names, such as two fairly wide adas off
the city of Trabzon. These ada are important fishing grounds for small-boat fishermen from
Faroz. They bear the names ‘Büyük (the big) Panavrası’ and ‘Küçük (the small) Panavrası’.
The fishermen say that the names are Greek and that they do not know their meaning. This
indicates that fishermen have set their nets on these adas for a long time, and that there is
continuity, and therefore a tradition, from the times when many fishermen in Trabzon were
Greek. The impression that Faroz fishermen are more direct ‘descendents’ of past fishing
cultures in Trabzon than for example the fishermen in Çarşıbaşı is reinforced by the
observation that fishermen in Faroz often use the Greek concept langoz in place of kuyu. It
should also be mentioned that the terminology and technology of purse-seine fishing is an
especially rich site for observing continuities over time. The basic technology of purse-seine
fishing has remained unchanged throughout this century, and the terminology for both
operations and equipment indicate deep roots in a common Levantine marine language that
was primarily based on Italian dialects, but with Greek and Turkish additions (Kahane,
Kahane and Tietze 1958).
However, as the following story indicates, there may also be loss of knowledge and
discontinuity in tradition of practice. Nailon and other fishermen in Çarşıbaşı relate rumours
of a secret ada. It is alleged to lie far out (açıkta, ‘in the open’) from Yoroz, and to be small
but very rich (see figure 12). Some do not believe this, others say that a long, long time ago
Greek fishermen used to come from Akçaabat with 7-8 m boats and set sail from the mouth of
the river at İskefiye to find the ada. They located the ada by taking bearings (kerteriz). Once
there they would cast their nets, wait a day or two and then lift their nets and return to
Akçaabat and Trabzon with the boat full of valuable turbot. Some claim that the ada was
recently rediscovered using sonar. I spoke with a captain who had searched for it with sonar.
They didn't find it. But there are rumours that a trawler fished there regularly 20 years ago.

110
Thus, the variables that I find relevant to take into consideration to understand the pattern of regulations
in this case correspond roughly to Oakerson's (1992) framework for analysing the commons (outcomes,
physical and technical attributes, decision-making arrangements, and patterns of interactions).
176 CHAPTER 5

New Tradition: fishing for ‘Russian’ Kefal

The fact that my visits to the field have extended over so many years meant that some of my
initial observations became ‘history’ and I could observe the evolution of new practices, study
the dynamics of tradition and innovation in work. Interestingly, the intensity of the seasonal
molozma fisheries declined during the 1990s and was largely replaced by an equally intense
fishery in May for a new fish, the ‘Russian’ Kefal. In the spring of 1998 only a handful of men in
Çarşıbaşı tried their luck at molozma fishing, and nobody secured fishing spots by leaving a
marker. A variety of reasons combined to make the previously popular springtime molozma
fishery less attractive. First of all, fish were less abundant than before, very likely because of the
illegal small-boat trawling which caught the barbunyas further out, in deeper waters. In addition,
the molozma nets to some extent compete with seasnail dredging for space, and during the spring
season many fishermen chose to invest their resources in either seasnail dredging or netting of
‘Russian’ Kefal.
The first examples of this fish were observed in the early 1990s, during my first
fieldwork in the region. In the beginning there were only occasional catches of and stories about
a ‘new’ kefal. Existing categories were extended to accommodate it. Fishermen said in the
autumn of 1990 that for the first time plenty of sarıkulak (one kind of kefal) had been observed
in Samsun. They speculated that it may have come from Russia, and also said that it didn’t taste
good. Later the fish gradually acquired its own identity and become a new category. By the
middle of the 1990s the general idea had developed that there was now a new fish, popularly
called ‘Russian’ kefal. This name has humorous associations for most men with ‘Nataşalar’,
‘Russian prostitutes’ (see Chapter 2), who also arrived in the beginning of the 1990s, coming
down from north/northeast, like the fish is supposed to do. Moreover, just as the ‘Nataşalar’
engage in ‘sexual’ encounters and depart, the ‘Russian’ kefal come to deposit their eggs and then
disappear. Turkish men entrap both the Nataşas and the ‘Russian’ kefals.

Was there any kind of continuity between the molozma and ‘Russian’ kefal fisheries? By 1998
the fishery for ‘Russian’ kefal had already acquired a certain degree of predictability, pattern and
‘tradition’. Fishermen prepared for the season and had fairly clear expectations about when the
fish would arrive, how it would behave, and how to catch it. The mean size of the fish had
increased to approximately one kilo and it came in large runs towards the shore. It was possible
to make enormous catches. Although unusual, one boat may catch as much as one ton in a day.
‘Russian’ kefal is not very highly esteemed as food, but it has gradually found a market. The
season continues for 20-30 intensive days, and for the fishermen in Çarşıbaşı this fishery has
developed into one of the main sources of income, on a scale almost comparable to the palamut
fisheries. A brief survey of the catch technique and social dynamics involved in this fishery will
illustrate the ways in which and degree to which ‘traditional knowledge’ is involved.
First, with regard to catch technique, how did fishermen go about catching this new fish?
Basically they modelled their catch technique on the well-established and widely-known
technique for catching the ‘native’ (yerli) kefal. Once the kefal has been visually observed
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 177

fishermen set a net around the small shoal of fish, enclosing as much as possible of them
between the shore and the net. The ends of the net are curled to form koltuks (‘armpits’, see
figure 18). Fish are considered to be able to see the net, and the koltuks are supposed to increase
their confusion as they try to escape when the fishermen attempt to frighten them into the net.
The net, which like the molozma is a kind of trammelnet (but with larger meshes) approximately
two fathoms deep, is lifted immediately. Away from shore the net can be set in a circle, with the
two koltuks coming together.

KOLTUK

SHORE

Figure 18 Typical net set for kefal

Fishermen use the same kind of nets for catching the ‘Russian’ kefals and set the net with
koltuks. Most nets were set in the shape of the left-hand example in figure 19. However,
fishermen tried out many different shapes in order to, as they put it, ‘confuse’ (şaşırtmak) the
fish. The nets were invariably set towards the shore, with the ‘opening’ towards the east, since
the fish are held to come from that direction. Experience has shown that most fish were caught in
the koltuks.

Fish
movements

SHORE

Figure 19 Alternative ways to set nets for ‘Russian’ kefal

178 CHAPTER 5

During the preparations for the 1998 season many fishermen were busy adding depth and length
to their nets. Many held that fish often escaped under the nets, so it was considered important to
close the gap between the net and the bottom. After the net is cast it is left for some hours before
it is lifted. The net may be set and lifted several times each day/night. They do not attempt to
frighten the fish into the nets, but some keep guard at sea and close the gap of the koltuk with
their boat if they see fish swimming into the koltuk. These nets are very sensitive to winds and
currents. Fishermen often have to struggle to disentangle the nets in the koltuk, which may have
folded completely in on itself. This heightens a need to keep constant watch on the net, so the
fishermen prefer to cast their nets close to their home area (home and/or kahve). Alternatively,
they may go away for several days to fish in waters less influenced by the prevailing
currents/winds. Already ten days before the first ‘Russian’ kefals arrived, some of the most
diligent fishermen set out buoys in order to secure a good fishing spot for the upcoming season.
Fishermen clearly saw a parallel between this and the equivalent practice in molozma fishing and
some said that they put the buoy there in order to establish possession of the spot (yer
sahiplamak için). However, not everyone did this. Only one of the around 15 fishermen in
Keremköy who engaged in the hunt for the ‘Russian’ kefal marked a spot, right off the small
village mendirek (breakwater). A few others later put out markers, one with a paraffin lantern,
and kept to the same place during the entire season. Others ranged more freely, trying their luck
in Beşikdüzü or towards Mersin köyü east of Yoroz. Many fishermen from Eynesil fished
continuously in Beşikdüzü – which does not have so many ‘native’ fishermen – during the entire
season.
Because the nets are mostly set from the shore outwards and it is acceptable to set them
close together, there is no lack of space (although the most popular spots may be occupied).
However, as was the case in the molozma fisheries, fishermen from Burunbaşı and Keremköy
did not fish in front of each other’s ‘villages’. Thus, to summarise, the knowledge of technique
and fish/environment which fishermen employ in their pursuit of ‘Russian’ kefal is developed in
a dialectic between the established knowledge of kefal fishing and creative experimentation. But,
on the level of ethical know-how the same basic principles apply as in the molozma case. It is the
same tradition of knowledge, the same local culture, that the fishermen draw upon when they in
their handling of their nets strive for technical perfection and ethical performance.

Tradition, objectification and creativity

Nobody is in charge of or is imbued with the authority to organise and supervise the informal
regulations in small-boat fishing. There is no formal and/or inscribed agreement stipulating
individual fishermen's positions or a village's territories and there has been no assembly of
fishermen to negotiate and plan the described pattern of regulations in these fisheries. Nor have
the state bureaucracy or other extra-local agencies been involved in shaping the pattern of
informal regulations. They (re-)emerge spontaneously on the aggregate level each season as the
fishermen adapt to the techno-ecological framework and interact with other people who have
business at sea according to certain standards of ethical know-how concerning decent behaviour.
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 179

It is not a consciously planned, defended and talked about system, but a ‘lived’ or ‘enacted’
system, worked out and experienced in practice. It was typical therefore that, even though I had
asked whether informal regulations existed, it was not until I took part in molozma fishing myself
for the first time that I started to learn about such ‘rules’. Thus this knowledge is generally not
verbally articulated and objectified.
However, fishermen are at times able to objectify such knowledge during informal
conversation. I have already mentioned that positions under continuous user-right in the
molozma fisheries were referred to as ‘owned’ (sahipli). Moreover, the agreement on the
principle of ‘owned’ positions was talked about, when I raised the issue, as ‘our principle’ (bizim
prensep). However, such talk only occurs on the basis of shared experience of practice. The
objectification presupposes prior familiarity with fish behaviour, fishing techniques, the impact
of sea currents, and so on. On a visit to Sinop I was amazed at how much I could learn during an
informal conversation with a fisherman about how they go about their business at sea. This man,
who worked as an accountant for the local ‘water produce’ cooperative, clearly had more
schooling than the average fisherman and had an unusually reflected perspective on the practice:
“During one or two seconds the fisherman evaluates seven to eight factors”. He spoke easily of
the various ways to position nets and illustrated these with simple pen drawings (e.g. alternative
designs of setting kefal nets). Yet, even though I introduced the topic of kerteriz (bearing), he
was unable to explicate how they decide upon where to set the net for example. Here he
conveyed an impression that this is an experience-dependent process where many factors are
taken into consideration simultaneously. It may seem as if some aspects of the practice lend
themselves more readily to objectification than others. Thus he is able to generalise about the
practice (“yes we use kerteriz”), but is less able to detail and exemplify the process at work.
It is also interesting to note that while he could articulate aspects of the technical know-
how, he found it difficult to explicate the social processes at work between fishermen, for
instance in informal regulations. In other words, he found it easier to lift aspects of the technical
know-how to the level of conscious reflection than the ethical know-how. Thus many standards
for interpersonal interaction remain unarticulated as they seem self-evident, and are only
summed up in standard metaphors such as ‘he is a good man’, ‘ he is a very stubborn (inat)
man’, and ‘what an ‘asshole’ (ibne 111) he is!’ There is reason to speculate whether all ethical
standards for interpersonal interaction are framed by the vocabulary of Islam and the codes of
honour, shame (şeref, namus, ayıp) and so on.
Socialisation into the knowledge of fishing is not separate from the local social structures.
Young men learn the craft primarily by assisting older family members and relatives, neighbours
and friends. Men without such options in their immediate surroundings may try to seek out
prospective ‘friends’ to work with. Thus, Şaban learned much by joining an experienced small-
boat fisherman, assisting him at sea and on shore, and sharing the catch. But it was not a

111
Ibne denotes the passive partner in male homosexual interaction, but is used widely as a metaphor in
many contexts. I have heard fishermen exclaim when the fish won’t bite the hook: “ibne balık
(‘assholefish’)!”
180 CHAPTER 5

‘formalised’ relationship. There is no concept by which to identify the relative positions of such
partners, no ‘esoteric’ knowledge to be initiated into, no rituals to mark the completion of the
‘initiation’. It is a very open, flexible and indeed informal process. Moreover, young men who
are curious or eager to sign on the purse-seiners as crew may join for a few days as a ‘friend’,
just for the ‘tour’ (gezme). He may lend a hand here and there, and at some point the reis may
ask him whether he would like to sign on. By then the reis has noted his skills as well as
personality and social relations to other crew members.
Except for the obvious fact that the reis/kaptan are generally more knowledgeable than
the crews, there are no ‘experts’ in fishing, no men whose knowledge bears authority beyond the
socio-techical units (fishing team) they control in their capacity as boat-owners. However,
individuals may be known, even renowned, for being good at special things: a crew member may
be very skilled at net mending, a reis may be very good at tracking the palamut, a small-boat
fisherman may be an expert at catching kefal or turbot. Nevertheless, there is no class of experts
and no traditional authority on the knowledges and practices of fishing. The expertise is not
embedded in a social structure that is geared towards organising such knowledge. Formal
education in fishing is of practically no importance (see Chapter 11). Thus, at first sight the
fishermen’s knowledges as outlined in these cases may not seem to amount to a ‘tradition of
knowledge’ since there is no traditional authority governing it and the system is not ‘traditional’
in the sense of ‘having existed for a long time’. Nor do fishermen talk about it as ‘tradition’ (e.g.
as gelenek, örf), or as something ‘received from our ancestors’.
Although fishing for the ‘Russian’ kefal is new and shows a novel pattern, I would claim
that its practice embodies aspects of ‘tradition’. It is embedded in a tradition of knowledge, and it
draws upon ‘traditional’ know-how of nets, sea currents, fish behaviour, and more particularly
kefals. This is employed in a creative manner, together with established and shared know-how
regarding firstcomer rights and place reservation – as in the molozma fisheries - making possible
the swift and successful development of a new kind of fishing. I want to stress, however, that
tradition is on the level of knowledge/know-how as it is employed, involved, or enacted in
practice, and not on the level of form, which is an emergent pattern. The different patterns in
molozma, palamut, and ‘Russian’ kefal fishing conceal continuity in basic knowledges that are
all part of a tradition of knowledge. Tradition therefore only exists in so far as and as long as it is
reproduced in the practice of fishing. The pattern described in the molozma fisheries can now
only be traced in individual memories (and my writings, especially Knudsen 1995). Fishermen’s
knowledge and the emergent pattern of informal regulations are neither fixed in any kind of
inscription nor framed by any kind of formal organisation.
The general pattern of regulations in molozma and ‘Russian’ kefal fishing is not
formalised therefore but expected, and appears to imply some kind of custom or tradition. A
tradition of knowledge exists as an enduring pool of fishermen's experiences and knowledges of
the sea, fish, and gear, which are often shared and common. Moreover, fishermen's interaction is
informed and sanctioned by shared ethical know-how, particularly ideals of fairness, decency,
and reciprocity. They are restricted by a set of codes, values and knowledges, by ideas of the
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 181

traditionally appropriate forms of interaction between people. These experiences, codes,

sensibilities and knowledges are shared by a community of practitioners, or rather, by various
levels of communities of practitioners ranging from the fishing community at large (in Turkey,
Black Sea coast), to the group of fishermen regularly setting their net on the same ada.

However, on the level of both ethical and technical know-how, continuity is supplemented with
creativity and conflict. Fishermen’s experimentation with new net positions is not unique to the
fishing for ‘Russian’ kefal, but actually occurs to some degree in most kinds of fishing. In
addition, other developments suggest that what constitutes proper conduct at sea is not always
agreed upon and static. There is not only tacit agreement, but also confrontations and conflict,
quarrels, mutterings and slander, as well as negotiation. But this is clearly based upon a common
understanding of fairness and so forth that is not framed within an Islamic idiom of moral rules.
Informal rules regarding the firstcomer’s right, directed at fairness and equality, have been
documented in many fisheries around the world112. There is clearly also a tendency, but no
‘rule’, that fishermen should have privileged access to ‘home waters’ for certain kinds of fishing,
especially those that are closer to shore or in shallow waters, such as molozma fishing. But there
have also been attempts at ‘closure’ (Palsson 1991) in other fisheries. Small-boat fishermen in
Yalıköy (Kılıda), between Çarşıbaşı and Vakfıkebir, specialise in whiting fisheries. For 15 years,
until the middle of the 1980s, some of them used to go as far east as Hopa in pursuit of this fish.
However, the locals started to chase them off (bizi kovdular), especially by cutting their nets. The
fishermen from Yalıköy couldn’t do anything about it since their group consisted of only four
boats. For some time they also fought with the more numerous Eynesil fishermen for access to
the rich whiting grounds off Eynesil. Eynesil is much closer to Yalıköy than Hopa is, and after
some time they came to an understanding that granted the Yalıköy fishermen access.
Furthermore, recent years have seen an increasing degree of conflict over seasnail
dredging. While fishermen in 1991 could freely range along the coast in pursuit of rich seasnail
grounds, communities have striven increasingly since then to restrict seasnail dredging in their
‘home’ areas. Seasnail fishermen from Çarşıbaşı and Yalıköy have been driven away from Hopa
and other places. Moreover, fishermen in Eynsil and Faroz - who are both less well equipped for
seasnail dredging and oppose it because they hold it to be harmful - enforce informal restrictions
on fishermen from their own communities and also try, partly in cooperation with State
supervising bodies, to keep strangers out of their waters. Towards the end of the 1990’s
fishermen from Çarşıbaşı decided that it was ‘comfortable’ (rahat) to dredge for seasnails only
between Trabzon and Görele, even avoiding some areas within this region. Thus, some
fishermen are actually trying to work out a new rule for which there is no prior tradition and
which is highly controversial among fishermen. Interestingly, trying out a new location or
enclosing a territory can also mean testing out a moral border. Morals or ethical sensibilities are
an integral part of the practice of fishing.

112
For example Akimichi 1984. See McGoodwin 1990:140 (on ‘Etiquette’) for a summary discussion.
182 CHAPTER 5

Sometimes the formalisation of ‘traditional’ management institutions in small-scale

fisheries is thought to safeguard and even strengthen the system (see e.g. Bailey and Zerner
1992). Definitions of ‘tradition’ that pay too much overt attention to ‘forms’ (e.g. the pattern of
molozma fishing) may be misleading and of little use. They risk being essentialising and reifying,
and can give the impression of ‘frozen’ traditions/practices; or of a complete collapse of or break
with traditions although beneath the surface forms, there are continuities. But the ‘tradition’ I
have described is a dynamic continuity, open to innovation and adaptation to new circumstances.
New technology and changes in markets or resources encourage fishermen’s creativity, as in
their experimentation with nets in the fishing for ‘Russian’ kefal. There are also creative
dynamics on the level of the social organisation of the fisheries, as exemplified in the working
out of new informal rules of access. The non-formalised and non-inscribed (e.g. in local or state
legal codes) ensures the potential for dynamism. It has been noted that in ‘Customary Marine
Tenure’ [CMT] in small scale fisheries “…it is important to realise that the ‘fossilation’ of
tradition through explicit, detailed legal definitions in terms of state law may both weaken the
adaptive flexibility of a traditional system…as well as incur high social costs…” (Ruddle,
Hviding, and Johannes 1992:267-8). On the Black Sea coast as well excessive formalisation may
be unresponsive to new management needs as adaptations change (see Knudsen 1995 for an
elaboration of this). In order to understand the dynamism of tradition, traditions of fishing must
be understood in a historical perspective. I have tried to indicate some changes over time here,
and in Chapter 3 a longer duré was sketched, in which I argued that there have been continuities
in traditions of knowledge over the last 100 years or so despite radical social and political
changes.

Social organisation and ethical behaviour in small-boat fishing

I have already indicated that there are no ‘formal’ organisations (recognised, named social
bodies with explicit rules and membership) that draw up and oversee regulations for small-
boat fishing, except for limited control by State supervising bodies. I will now take this
discussion one step further and consider in more detail the character of the interaction
between small-boat fishermen. What is the extent and level of common and collective
activity? What is the role of ethical know-how in small-boat fishermen’s interaction, and what
are the implications of this for the ‘small-boat fishing tradition of knowledge’? Are the
knowledges of the fishermen the subject of a knowledge discipline? In Çarşıbaşı there are two
primary reasons for interaction between small-boat fishermen: cooperation and assistance in
the work (e.g. in affirming and accepting others’ claims to a fishing spot), and exchange of
information (knowledge). Other potential reasons exist, such as coordination of sales or
common control and regulation of sea-space, but these are not actualised. The ability to
mobilise others as a workforce, and to acquire information from others depends critically
upon an individual’s moral standing in the community.
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 183

Family and friendships

Small fishing boats are either owned individually or in partnerships between father/son(s) or
brothers. The most stable work constellations are based on close family relations. However,
the men who work in such teams often live in separate households. Thus, the family-based
work on the boat is also the primary context for socialisation into fishing. Boys often start
joining their fathers, brothers or patrilineal uncles on school free days when they are around
ten years old, and are considered fit for more regular work by the age of 13-15. Sometimes
two boys may carry out the work at sea alone under the general supervision of their father.
When the team composition requirement cannot be met within the close family circle, more
distant relations, especially patrilineal cousins but also affinal relations, may together
constitute stable teams. Families ideally constitute close knit units with a large extent of
sharing and little internal conflict. However, there is a wide variation in family life. More
specifically, there is often integral friction between the ideal of absolute paternal authority and
the real desire of the son(s) for independence and esteem, particularly when the son(s) are the
actual bread winners. I know also of several cases where brothers have fallen out with each
other and discontinued joint fishing activities. Thus, to start with, the management of relations
with close kin (father/son, brothers) who are also engaged in fishing is of pivotal importance
in order to ensure stable work relations and access to important information.
It is also important to know a wider circle of fellow fishermen when there is a need for
assistance, when friends occasionally form more or less enduring partnerships, for sharing of
information, or, as already mentioned, for guaranteeing each other’s user-rights in certain
fisheries. When people interact at sea, they have to take into consideration the fact that they
also mingle with some of these men at other times and in other situations. A person’s general
moral standing in the community impinges upon the quality of social relations in fishing. The
example of Coşkun’s troubles illustrates this. Coşkun, (see Chapter 2), although held by all to
be a very able fisherman, had great difficulty in recruiting men to help him with beach seining
(which requires four or five adult men). The main reason for this was the fact that most people
preferred to avoid him since he was know to be a heavy drinker (şarapçı). He often had to drink
his tea alone in the kahve. The only help he got was from other ‘outcasts’ of the community.
Likewise, another poor man trying to earn some extra income from small-scale fishing had great
difficulty fishing at all due to the fact that he had been jailed for the murder of his brother. He
had many sons, but most had left Çarşıbaşı. No one else wanted to assist him, and even his only
remaining son, who did not have any job, refused to help him.
The actions and general moral standing of a fisherman are therefore of vital
importance for fisherman-fisherman interaction. But, what are the bases for evaluations of
people’s moral standing? First of all, moral standing is not strictly individual, but is to a large
extent a reflection of the moral standing of the family. Indeed, the family is the moral unit. In
addition, the moral standing of one family (parents and offspring) may also reflect upon other
close kin such as the brothers or cousins of the household head (reis). Ekrem, a small-boat
fisherman from Burunbaşı, regularly worked together with his unmarried son Sezayı on their
184 CHAPTER 5

kayık. Some time during the winter of 1991 a couple of valuable coils of telephone cable were
stolen from outside of the post office in İskefiye. Popular slander had it that Sezayı was
responsible for the theft. Because of these accusations, the brothers Orhan and Rıfat, who
were Ekrem’s paternal cousins (amca oğlu) and neighbours, as well as his brother’s son Cahit,
distanced themselves from Ekrem. A konuşmaz (‘no-talk’) relation was established. During
this konuşmaz period I often went fishing with Orhan who was one of the few regularly
casting a molozma net. He asked me whether Ekrem had asked me about the depths at which
he, Orhan, currently set his net. I had to admit that he had, whereupon Orhan responded “oh,
what an asshole he is! (o ne ibnedir yaa!)”. While Cahit and Orhan exchanged certain
information about fishing, Orhan and Ekrem never did. Orhan distanced himself from Ekrem
and his family not in spite of, but rather because they are close relatives. He did not want to
be tainted by the bad reputation that Ekrem’s family had recently acquired. Wider descent and
kinship relations than these also entail moral commitments, but have little importance in
small-boat fishing. Larger kin groups seldom cooperate or form factions. Thus, relations
outside of the immediate patrilineal kin group are generally framed by non-kinship principles
of moral conduct. On this level the most important reason for fisherman-fisherman interaction
is the exchange of information and occasional sharing of work; there is never shared
ownership, although they may pool their resources and form partnerships for the duration of
one season or less.

Friendships and moral standing

What other standards are applied to evaluate a man’s moral standing? In this context I see the
relevance of discussing religiously derived standards and friendship values in particular.
Small-boat fishermen are generally somewhat less observant of religious rituals than the
population at large, and drinking also seems to be more widespread among small-boat
fishermen. But there are significant individual differences, and many also stress that there are
pronounced variations between localities. Thus, as indicated in Chapter 3, people in the
western part of Çarşıbaşı (e.g. Burunbaşı) tend to regard people from Keremköy as
‘excessively religious’ (aşırı dinci), while people in Keremköy emphasise that they
themselves, ‘on our side’ (bizim tarafta), are ‘good in a religious sense’ (din açısından iyiyiz)
and that they protect their families’ ‘honour’ (namus). They often portray people on the other
side (o tarafa) as ateist and komünist.
These stereotypes rather exaggerate minor differences. Indeed, in daily practice there
is not much difference between small-boat fishermen in the two localities. Men in Keremköy
may be more strict about their womansfolk’s behaviour. Another notable difference is that
while few men on the western side of Çarşıbaşı attend Friday prayers, most fishermen in
Keremköy, including small-boat fishermen, regularly flock to the mosque on Fridays. In
Keremköy there is more emphasis on maintaining a collective village identity, and one of the
primary instruments for this is attendance of the Friday prayers in their beautiful new mosque.
However, within the Keremköy population small-boat fishermen tend to be religiously more
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 185

‘relaxed’ than other men are. Nevertheless, the degree of religiosity had little influence on
interaction in fishing. While religiously stipulated moral conduct is generally regarded as
crucial for a man's standing, only excesses are sanctioned among small-boat fishermen.
Accordingly, Coşkun, the drunkard, has problems finding work mates, while devout Muslims
and more relaxed ones –those who never participate in the namaz prayer - may work together
at the same kayık. Religiosity in a narrow and explicit sense (prayers, fasting, etc.) is of little
importance in the establishment and maintenance of bonds between small-boat fishermen. A
wider and more diffuse moral universe of ethical sensibilities is mobilised by fishermen when
they evaluate others’ moral qualities.
It may be claimed this moral universe to be religiously derived, and many certainly see
moral conduct as inherently Muslim, which incidentally is also regarded by many as
synonymous with being human. However, I find it difficult to subsume all moral standards
and ethical know-how under the label of religion. Gilsenan (1996), in his study of authority,
hierarchy and violence in a Sunni Muslim community in Lebanon, also found – to his surprise
– that in the practices of power and the negotiation of status among males, ‘confessions did
not enter in any central way into the themes’ that he examined. In the same vein, in a study of
a provincial town in western Turkey, Tapper & Tapper (1991:62) claimed that, “…there is a
range of concepts113 which townspeople readily volunteered as key values by which they live,
and which seem to contain or deflect any specific republican or Islamic interpretation that
might be placed on them” (italics in original). Furthermore they argue that the fact that most
of the terms that they list are of Arabic or Persian origin “…suggests important social
continuity with Ottoman values and forms of social control”. Although the ‘harmonious
integration’ of Islamic and Republican ideology that they describe, and generalise to apply to
all of Turkey, cannot be said to exist in Çarşıbaşı, the same list of ‘neutral’ concepts, with
some modifications, could be made for Çarşıbaşı. What is interesting about these concepts is
that they refer to a moral universe and standards that lack clearly defined rules and scripts.
They are inherently negotiable. Interpersonal relationships are negotiable with reference to a
wide set of values and standards that do not simply add up to an ideology of social control, as
the Tappers seem to assume (Tapper & Tapper 1991:80). In the following discussion I focus
specifically on the standards for good friendship.
Among the local and ‘traditional’ values, the drive to maintain local bonds of
friendship is of great importance to fishermen and others. Friendship between men is
symbolised by generosity (tea, cigarettes etc.); by physical gestures such as hand-holding,
resting a hand on a mate’s knee, even ‘squeezing’ the friend's testicles; through ironic
humiliating jokes, and simply by spending time together, more often than not in the kahve.
Which kahve a man frequents, who buys him tea, who he plays card with, and who he walks
arm in arm with back and forth in the street are explicit and ‘public’ expressions of friendship

113
They mention samimiyet (sincerity, friendship), insaniyet (humanity), komşuluk (neighbourliness),
medeniyet (civilisation), kültür (sophistication), misafırperverlik (hospitality), hizmet (community
service), vazife (duty), saygı (respect), hürmet (honour), temizlik (purity), and irade (self-discipline).
186 CHAPTER 5

and allegiance. Many men spend most of their time, at least their free time, in informal and
intimate interaction with friends. Almost all men sit for at least a couple of hours in the kahve
each evening, and some seem to hang around there most of the day. Most men have their
friends in their own neighbourhood/village/quarter, but the more important among them tend
to socialise with men outside of their neighbourhood and even outside of Çarşıbaşı (see
Chapter 6). However, for the small-boat fishermen the world centres on the local clique of
friends who habitually meet in their local kahve.
Friendship may of course also be expressed by assisting each other and exchanging
information on fishing. Thus Aydın and Yaşar, two small-boat fishermen from Keremköy, are
good mates who spend a lot of time together and also team up for certain fisheries (see case at
the beginning of Chapter 4). Such teamwork involving fishermen (-families) that possess
small fishing boats is not uncommon in a single locality. Teamwork is not only facilitated by
but also seems to be contingent upon the partners being friends. In 1990/91 neither Neşat nor
Şaban, two small-boat fishermen, had sons able to assist them at sea. Their brothers were
engaged in other professions and could not be depended upon for much assistance. Both lived
by the river, but at a considerable distance from each other and their respective
neighbourhood groups, and both lacked immediate friendship relations to other small-boat
fishermen. For an extended period in the autumn of 1990 they worked together continuously
in kefal fishing. They used Neşat’s net and Şaban’s boat and shared the catch 50/50. Their
personalities are very different. Şaban is an easy-going man who loves to tell stories, play
jokes, go hunting and have a drink. He is known by the nickname ‘crazy’ (deli) Şaban. Neşat
is more introverted, calmer and cares more about Islamic rules and rituals.
Despite this, they spent a lot of time together on various kahves, especially in a kahve
in central İskefiye that catered to all of Çarşıbaşı and was kind of ‘neutral’ ground. They spent
more time together than with other friends. The logistics of the fishing required this
socialising since they had no established work routine but simply now and then went to the
seashore in search of fish. In contrast, two brothers who worked together in the same kind of
fishing spent much less time together; their allegiance did not need constant reconfirmation
since they were brothers. After a couple of months relations between Neşat and Şaban became
strained and they stopped working together. They disagreed about the division of the catch
among other things. Şaban claimed that Neşat gave his brothers too much fish. After that they
did not sit together at kahves. Neşat returned to solitary work while Şaban began working
with Mehmet, a small-boat fisherman from Burunbaşı. Şaban started to hang around with his
new pal in Mehmet’s regular kahve. By 1998 Şaban’s eldest son had grown into a good crew
member and Şaban no longer had to work alone or depend upon unstable friendships. Neşat’s
eldest son had also come of age, but on one fishing trip he had fallen over board and
developed fear and dislike for the work. As one of the very few full-time fishermen in
Çarşıbaşı Neşat continued to work alone.
What does it take to be a good friend? The criteria for this are clearly much more diffuse
than the standards for being a good Muslim. Spending time together, sharing equally, displaying
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 187

generosity and mutual trust, respecting the other’s family and possessions, and not trying to
‘profit’ from the friendship are among the valued qualities. On the other hand friendships are
clearly regarded as strategic relations, and most people try to establish new friendships that can
expand their sphere of action. Taking a ‘Western’ idealistic understanding of friendship as a
reference point, friendship relations in Çarşıbaşı are seldom ‘pure’ friendships. They are often
seen to include a potential for reciprocity and mutual indebtedness (White 1994). Moreover,
when people involve in any kind of transaction or cooperation, as seen in the example above,
they prefer it to be at least superficially expressed (hanging out together), and possibly
experienced, as a relationship of friends and not between strangers.
Thus, friendships embody an integral tension between the ideal companionship and the
instrumental. The instrumental dimension may never be realised, or may alternatively be ‘over
exploited’ so that the ‘friend’ aspect of the relationship is ruined. The friend becomes a trickster
or charlatan, a foe. The very great importance placed on (male) friendship relations, and their
vulnerability, has been claimed to be a pervasive feature in many Mediterranean (Davies 1977)
and Middle Eastern (Bates & Rassam 1983:244-5) societies. Herzfeld (1992:173) has noted that
“[f]riendship…is an inherently unstable relationship.” He takes the analysis of friendship one
step further as he couples this ambiguity in friendship relations to a similar ambiguity in
family/kinship/blood symbolism which, he claims, is used to prop up the legitimacy of the
(nation-) state while at the same time familism in state bureaucracy is severely criticised for
being corrupt and impure. However, in Çarşıbaşı friendship ideology seems to be based less on
kinship ideology than Herzfeld seems to imply is common in European and industrialising states.
Both friendship and kinship make up important symbolic as well as action fields, and contain
some similarities with regard to ambivalence. There are, however, also important differences,
which will be discussed towards the end of the next chapter. What is important to note here is
that the scope of the instrumental, or material, aspect of friendship relations in Çarşıbaşı and
beyond, implies that a violation of the friendship bond is, if not more serious, than viewed
differently than in many other societies.
Descent in Çarşıbaşı is rigorously patrilineal and settlement virilocal. Moreover, few men
have moved into the villages in recent years (the last major influx seems to have taken place in
the 1920s and 1930s). People coming down now from the mountainous interior to settle in the
developing coastal area generally find a home in the new blocks of flats in İskefiye. All in all this
means that most (or all?) men living in Keremköy, as well as most men in the mahalles and
villages to the west of the centre, were born and raised in the community where they are
presently living. While many women have moved into the village on marriage, there are, to my
knowledge, no male newcomers to Keremköy and all the men have long established and
complex relationships to the other men in Keremköy through kinship, neighbourhood,
friendships and work. Thus, most fishermen are born into a network of locality based friendship
relations, friendships which can be drawn upon for various purposes, such as for assistance in
fishing. It is indeed unusual to socialise with fishermen outside of one’s immediate group.
188 CHAPTER 5

Sometimes the kahve clientele and the village identity overlap (as in Keremköy), but most often
they do not. Then the kahve may be the focal arena for maintenance of friendship relations.
I know of only one case of a stranger moving into a community and trying to establish
himself as a fisherman. In 1990 Metin brought his family from his native Beşikdüzü and settled
on the western fringe of İskefiye. He set up a shop selling equipment to small-boat fishermen,
but business was slack so he tried to supplement his income by fishing. He also started
socialising with fishermen and others in one of the kahve - often called the ‘socialist kahve’ since
it was the social base for the Social Democratic Populist Party (Sosyal Demokrat Halkçı Partisi
or SHP) - that catered to the neighbourhood he was living in. However, he felt increasingly
uneasy in İskefiye; his net was cut in the sea at night, and he became more and more isolated in
the kahve. It probably annoyed others that he portrayed himself as generally more
knowledgeable than the locals and that he dared to criticise them for being lazy (tembel) since
they spent their time complaining about the political situation instead of taking advantage of the
potential the sea provided. He bragged about knowing exactly when and where to catch
mavruşkil (a rather specialised fishery) and about having made a new net that could catch all
kinds of fish. He even declared that he was the best fisherman in the locality.
In recent decades many local men have invested in boats and set themselves up as small-
boat fishermen in Çarşıbaşı. But being an outsider, and thereby without kinship and long
standing friendship bonds, Metin lacked local ‘insurance’. Moreover he apparently lacked the
ethical know-how or sensibility that could have helped him to take more careful steps into the
community. After having spent one year in Çarşıbaşı Metin, resentful and disillusioned,
eventually moved back to Beşikdüzü. Though it may not be impossible for strangers to set
themselves up as small-boat fishermen in established fishing communities in Çarşıbaşı, this
would very likely depend upon a command of the ‘local ethical sensibility’. Several fishermen,
such as Neşat and Şaban, especially from central mahalle in İskefiye, have no base in a kahve-
centred group of fisherman friends and operate more as free rangers.

What then, can be said to constitute the connections between knowledges and moralities? First of
all, access to knowledge or information about other fishermen’s experiences, depends upon one’s
moral standing within a loosely defined community, usually centred upon a kahve. This situates
knowledge socially in a universe of morality and is interestingly at conflict with the ideally
neutral knowledge within science. Furthermore, these ethical sensibilities are an integral part of
the fishing practice, not just something drawn in from the outside post hoc and reflexively in
order to evaluate the practice. When a fisherman goes about setting his net, relations to other
fishermen, ethical/moral considerations, are one set of factors he more-or-less unconsciously
relates to in the flow of the work. Lambek, although at one point presenting mediumship as a
moral knowing-how (1993:308), in a more paradigmatic statement claims that “[m]orality has
to do with evaluating and directing the uses to which knowledge is put…” (Lambek
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 189

1993:7)114. I would claim that, not only does morality impinge upon knowledge and
knowledge become a resource in ethical or moral discourses, but knowledge is already
ethically impregnated by being socially constituted.
Moral conduct is partly evaluated according to some rather explicit rules, primarily
associated with Islam. People who are excluded on the grounds of being drunkards or murderers
are clear examples of this. However, the bulk of the standards are less explicit and rigid. This
ethical knowledge comes into play in appreciation and evaluation of family life, friendships and
locality/community allegiance. Demonstration of such ethical sensibility is one important
condition for access to information, for mobilisation of friends for shared work, and for securing
a place in informal regulations or support in confrontation with strangers. When you set your
molozma net you are safer if those setting their nets close to you are arkadaş (friend). But there
are no formal criteria for belonging or membership, such as those found in fisheries in many
parts of the world, and those documented in Alanya on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey
(Berkes 1992). In Çarşıbaşı the informal regulations - and more generally interaction between
fishermen and among the population at large, are based upon local and customary values, a body
of ethical know-how which is lived, embodied and situated in social practice, but only rarely
spelled out in explicit rules. It is a tradition of knowledge that is not objectified, and in
conversation only diffusely codified in characterisations of people by metonyms/metaphors such
as: ‘he is a good/bad (kötü/iyi) man’, ‘he is a self-seeking man/opportunist (menfaatçı)’, ‘he is a
man with good intentions (iyi niyetli bir adam)’, and so on. Above, when I discussed my
conversation with the fisherman cum accountant in Sinop, I made exactly the same observations.
Thus, many of the standards for interaction and evaluation employed by fishermen (and
others) along the eastern Black Sea coast of Turkey are embedded in practice and rarely raised to
the level of explicit ‘rules’. This is perhaps what Herzfeld in Poetics of Manhood (1985) calls
‘social poetics’. In his analysis of manhood, friendship and kinship in a village in Crete, he uses
this concept in order to stress the importance men place on performative and ‘stylistic’ aspects of
action. “…[I]nstead of noticing what men do, Glendiots focus their attention on how the act is
performed” (Herzfeld 1985:16). There is no fixed code here; conventions are rather ‘creatively
redefined’. Without elaborating too much on it here, I would note that there are very marked
similarities between Glendiot and Çarşıbaşı ‘poetics of manhood’. It is also possible, I believe, to
extend the scope to include a ‘poetics of friendship’. People are less concerned about what a
friendship is or does, than how it is performed. That may be the reason why spending time
together, ‘performing’ together, for each other as well as others, is so important.
However, it should be noted that the more explicit moral rules, or ethical know-that, may
seem to be accorded primacy over the more diffuse ethical sensitivities in some contexts. Many
men said of Coşkun something in the vein of: ‘actually, he is a good man’. He was praised for
being generous and friendly. However, most did not want to be associated with him since he was

114
He also notes in the same paragraph that ‘morality is itself a part of knowledge’. This claim is,
however, based upon the fact that morality is part of the subject of discourse of one of the disciplines
(ilim fakihi) that he studies.
190 CHAPTER 5

a drunkard. One day as I was strolling towards the harbour together with Kaya (pseudonym), a
young small-boat fisherman, we met Coşkun. I exchanged a couple words with him, but Kaya
said nothing. As we continued our stroll Kaya commented that he prefers to talk to his regular
friends. “Coşkun is a ‘good for nothing’ (yaramaz)”, he said and continued “One day I’ll beat
him up”. I asked him why. “Because he is a drunkard (şarapçı).” For Kaya, Coşkun symbolised
the dangers of immoral behaviour. With his gambling and visits to prostitutes, Kaya’s father had
squandered away their share in a purse seiner (gırgır takım), and thereby the potential for
becoming rich.

In summary, interaction between fishermen builds upon both (1) highly traditional values and
rules (custom) for accepted behaviour between neighbours (komşu), relatives, and friends
(arkadaş), and (2) upon their knowledge of the marine environment. These factors together
therefore constitute the cultural foundation for the informal management systems in small-boat
fishing. There is no one single set of values or codes that is drawn upon to direct and evaluate
behaviour. Ethical sensibilities as well as moral rules from models as diverse as manhood,
kinship, family, neighbourhood, village, friendship and Islam guide people’s behaviour. But
these models are not separate, nor is there a ‘segmented hierarchy’ of models. Although very
explicit Islamic rules may be difficult to overlook, more implicit ethical sensibilities may be
mobilised in evaluating whether a man who is conscientious in all his five daily prayers really is
a ‘good man’. He may be accused of being a ‘bad man’, of not living up to (more diffuse) moral
standards for what it means to be a good Muslim. It is important to note that on the level of
small-boat-fishermen interaction it is primarily evaluations according to ethical know-how that
are of importance. Whether one fisherman is able to get along with another depends more upon
whether he respects him as a ‘good man’, than on whether he keeps his fast.

Diffuse Social Clusters: relations in wider social contexts

In Çarşıbaşı the scope of collective action by small-boat fishermen is very limited. The informal
regulations described are based on common compliance, but regulations that would require
collective action and formalisation, such as for allocation of net locations in palamut fishing,
seem difficult to establish. Fishermen in Çarşıbaşı are not capable of sustaining regulations on a
larger scale than the informal regulations already described in the molozma fishery. It is the
technical possibility and fishermen's interest in ensuring an enduring user-right position that
make friendship an adequate mechanism for regulation in molozma fishing. Here I shall look
more closely into the character and scope of small-boat fishermen’s concerted or collective
action. I would argue that small-boat fishermen’s relation to others, within the general workings
of heterogeneous local communities, makes it difficult for them to develop more comprehensive,
extensive and formal organisational structures.
The highest degree of concerted action among small-boat fishermen in Çarşıbaşı that I
have seen is the collective transportation of men from Keremköy to the harbour when they go
out to lift their whiting nets early in the morning (see beginning of previous chapter). Otherwise
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 191

there is some spontaneous and highly informal cooperation in tasks that require the strength of
many men, such as the landing of a kayık. Moreover, small-boat fishermen involved in illegal
seasnail dredging cooperate in an alarm system warning of approaching supervision vessels.
However, this system is organised by the seasnail factory which posts one of their cars and
villagers in a position to observe and report (by cellular or vehicle telephone) advancing
controllers. Except for periods when 3-5 kayık travel together to fish in foreign waters, the
following example is the most extended case of small-boat fishermen interaction that I observed.
An important aspect of the activities surrounding the informal regulations in small-scale
fishing is communication and exchange of information. This exchange is spontaneous and
informal, such as fishermen simply chatting at the harbour - or more importantly - assembling
around a table or two in the kahve. When the fishermen from Keremköy return from their
morning work on the whiting nets, they usually sit for a while in small groups in the kahve and
talk about the fishing before they go home to have a late breakfast or go about some other
business. Sometimes this social continuity between sea and kahve may be more extended.
In the late autumn of 1990 the weather had been nice and quiet for a long period. Many small-
boat fishermen had been busy dredging for seasnails for some time. Mustafa had been out
dredging together with his friend Mehmet the previous evening and again in the morning. They
had worked towards Yoroz, but catches had been meagre. Later in the morning hardworking
Cahit returned. He had been working alone all night and brought up 500 kg, a good catch with
which he was satisfied. Later that morning Cahit, Kaya and several other friends assembled at
the harbour, some of them mending the nets of the algarnas (dredges). Mustafa and Mehmet
made one more try, but soon returned. The spectators at the harbour were quick to interpret that
to mean there were few seasnails. Before mooring the boat they made a detour by the group of
men at the harbour and told them that catches were insignificant. The friends Kaya and Ali who
were currently working together then decided to wait until evening before going to sea.
Despite the warm and pleasant weather the men little by little gathered in the ‘socialist’
kahve. Except for the seasnail fishermen, mostly young men, few others were about, only a
couple of elderly men and a teacher. Others were at work or pursuing higher education; some
were away working as tayfa (crew) on the larger fishing boats. As the hours passed fishermen
left and returned. Some paid a visit to a lokanta, others went home to have a meal, but nobody
was away for long. Ekrem and Sezayı came in at around 14.00, but Ekrem did not sit down with
the group around the stove in the middle of the room. The group, including the teacher who
himself fished quite a bit during the summer, was discussing the seasnail fishing. Sezayı, Orhan
and the others who had been out earlier in the day said that catches were small (az kaldı) because
there were strong currents (sular). Evening was approaching and Kaya and Ali changed their
mind; no point in burning expensive fuel and struggling with the dredges when catches are small.
Sezayı maintained that the currents were karayel; others thought they were poyraz. They
talked about different areas suitable for dredging. The areas were usually referred to by
proximate features on shore. Bottom conditions, such as the presence of rocks (kaya) or wood
(odun) were also an issue. Mehmet claimed that they had depleted the seasnails off Çarşıbaşı and
192 CHAPTER 5

would have to go even further away than Yoroz or Beşikdüzü in order to have good catches.
They discussed back and forth whether to go dredging or not. They also considered the monetary
situation and all were concerned about the fact that the factory was very slow to pay for the
catches. Nobody could come up with a good explanation, but the disillusioned ‘socialist’
Mustafa said that the problem was that the cooperative didn’t work. He thought that it could have
organised the seasnail trade, but the others did not agree.
During all these hours no strangers had entered the kahve. Seasnail fishermen from other
social milieu probably kept to their own groups. Metin, the newcomer, arrived but did not sit
down with the group. Some solitary elderly small-boat fishermen who had been out fishing with
a handline (olta) also came to the kahve, but did not sit down with the seasnail fishermen.
Around 17.00 the kahve started to fill up with men returning from work or studies. The group of
small-boat fishermen dissolved and small, mixed groups started to play cards. At this time Orhan
and Cahit regularly played with the big boat fisherman Niyazi and another neighbour who
worked as a carpenter. The younger, unmarried men among the small-boat fishermen sat down in
a corner together with other young men and chatted about the inflation, football, and so forth.

The fishermen who keep their boats in the harbour in Çarşıbaşı live in several villages along the
coast as well as in the town centre, and frequent three or four different kahve. Establishment and
maintenance of enduring user-right spots in palamut fishing therefore would require cooperation
between fishermen from several social environments, in order to agree on and accept a more
fixed system of user-rights to stipulate positions, for instance, possibly marked by immovable
buoys. Why then are there no mechanisms for cooperation involving a larger number of
fishermen? Like other men, small-boat fishermen visit kahve other than their regular one only
very rarely. Men from Keremköy almost never visit the ‘socialist’ kahve, even though it is the
one located closest to the harbour and they usually pass it on their way to and from the harbour.
In the harbour itself the different groups have established, again informally, separate mooring
places. Although men from the different groups know each other and exchange a few words if
they meet at the harbour (some used to be schoolmates), the flow of information between the
groups is very restricted, as the following case illustrates.
Only one or two weeks after the diffuse social cluster of seasnail fishermen described,
one of the small-boat fishermen, Muhammad from Kaleköy, came to the ‘socialist’ kahve and
reported enthusiastically about good barbunya catches off Vakfıkebir and Beşikdüzü. During the
following ten days many small-boat fishermen that were regulars at this kahve made good
catches of barbunya. However, they made sure that this was kept relatively secret and they
stressed that I should not tell the men in Keremköy where they were setting their nets, and
especially not how good their catches were. Securing privileged access to resource by keeping it
secret within an informal group of ‘producers’ seems to be a fairly common strategy among
small-boat fishermen (see e.g. Forman 1967, also Acheson 1981 and McGoodwin 1990). But the
local-level management systems' scope is limited in Çarşıbaşı as compared, for example, to the
system in Alanya (Berkes 1992). This may be attributed to the user groups' lack of homogeneity
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 193

and unity. When compared to the ‘success story’ from Alanya, where the community of
fishermen is very uniform (all being small-scale fishermen from the same community) the small-
boat fishermen in Çarşıbaşı do not constitute one single, homogenous group. In fact, fishermen
from different localities can be quite antagonistic and avoid interaction. Moreover the small
groups that do exist are very diffuse and can hardly be regarded as corporate.
Owners of big fishing vessels, captains, small-scale fishermen and crew maintain local
identities and bonds of solidarity with each other through kinship, friendship, patron-client
relations and so forth. This is articulated above all in the closeness of interaction and perception
of ‘all as equal’ in the local kahve. In this arena different kinds of fishermen also mix with local
people who make a living in other ways, such as teachers, bus drivers, carriers, shop keepers,
farmers, traders (tüccars), and so on. Friendship relations extend in all directions and are usually
not limited to one’s professional group. In addition, important kinship ties often crosscut interests
based upon differences in profession, wealth or education. Most locals can claim to belong to
and socialise with an informal and diffuse group of men that can claim that ‘he is one of us’
(bizden). I recall clearly the day when one of the leading figures within the group of young men
in the sosyalist kahvesi finally accepted that I paid for their tea. Loudly he exclaimed, “He has at
last become one of us (o artık bizden)”.
The lack of formal organisations, and by implication of social institution of knowledges
and rules, is not restricted to the small-boat fishing sector, but is a pervasive aspect of social life
in Çarşıbaşı. Social webs and not formal organisations constitute the primary organisational
feature. The user groups in small-scale fishing may therefore be regarded as one aspect of a
wider web of friends, where the shared fishing activity and corresponding interests form the
basis for cooperation. The groups are not clearly codified or even spoken of as groups. They are
not stable, but change according to who participates in the different fisheries and may more
appropriately be termed ‘diffuse social clusters’ (cf. ‘social clusters’, Acheson 1988). The fact
that one is a small-scale fisherman (küçük balıkçı) is of relatively little importance in establishing
and managing social relations. It is only actualised in situations more directly connected to
fishing. ‘Fisherman’ is not a status to be invoked. An individual becomes a fisherman only when
involved in fishing. In a social environment where the men easily change occupation and often
pursue several parallel income strategies, occupation is usually not the main social marker and
imperative criterion for sociability and social support. Cooperation between small-scale
fishermen will clearly be easier where the shared identity as small-scale fishermen is
supplemented by other shared identities and bonds of solidarity (as Berkes' Alanya case clearly
reveals). In Çarşıbaşı, relations between small-boat fishermen are supplemented by other kinds
of common identities, but small-boat fishermen sustain relations to a lot of other men as well.
Relations between small-boat fishermen do not take precedence over relations to other people. In
the next chapter I critically examine the concept of networking and formal/informal organisation
through a discussion of the social processes in big-boat fishing.
194 CHAPTER 5

Trust and local politics: cooperatives versus ‘big men’

Unlike the Alanya case where the fishing cooperative is used to help legitimise the fishing
system (Berkes 1992), the user-group formation in Çarşıbaşı is not connected to any formal
organisations at all. The small-boat fishermen's position in the local communities makes this
difficult. Very few small-scale fishermen in Çarşıbaşı are now members of the fishery
cooperative and none are involved in the running of it. Nor have small-scale fishermen
established their own cooperative. During the 1990s it has become increasingly common for
small fishing boats (designed for the purpose of fishing seasnails) to involve in illegal (small-
boat) trawling in the province of Trabzon. All trawling is forbidden in this region, and all
fishermen, including those who practice trawling, concede that it is a harmful and undesirable
activity. In addition to catching undersized fish and possibly disrupting demersal ecology, the
trawls often ruin set nets. This illegal trawling was therefore a sensitive issue, both in
Keremköy and among fishermen in other communities along the coast of the province of
Trabzon.
One day the local headman (muhtar) of Keremköy sat down near the cooperative
headman in the warm spring sun outside of the village kahve and exclaimed loudly that, “You
are the headman of the cooperative. Organise a meeting and stop the trawling!” The village
headman stressed that various bottom nets were in the sea and were often damaged by the
trawls. One or more of the small-boat fishermen who did not involve in trawling had probably
complained to him. However, none of the small-boat fishermen present spoke up during the
ensuing discussion. The cooperative headman didn't say very much. He agreed that it was a
problem and said that they would soon organise a meeting. However, there was never a
meeting called to discuss the problem. Some of the committee members were allegedly very
busy and no action was taken. The cooperative in this case proved to be an ineffective
instrument in fisheries management. During the days following the above conversation, I
asked many small-boat fishermen whether they knew about the initiative. Nobody did. While
only 21 out of 130 small-boat owners in this cooperative's region were members at that time,
most small-boat fishermen in this particular village were members. However few identified
with it. Some said that the cooperative was ‘empty’ (boş) or that “it has absolutely no function
(hiç fonksiyonu yok)”. It was claimed that “there has never been a proper meeting (doğru
dürüst bir toplantı hiç olmadı)”. There had been no genuine election and they had never been
to any meetings. The activities of the cooperative were said to take place only “among
themselves (kendiler arasında)”, in other words, among the rich big-boat and factory owners
who were in charge of the cooperative's dealings.
Small-boat fishermen generally do not have sufficient confidence in each other to
establish their own cooperative, for example for management of sales. They are now dependent
on local dealers or on making a tiresome 30-45 minutes bus-trip to Trabzon to market their catch
(see beginning of previous chapter). I often found it difficult to understand why there was not
more collective action among small-boat fishermen. When asked, they maintained that they can
 SMALL-BOAT FISHING 195

not cooperate on marketing since they cannot trust anyone to do an honest job. They especially
distrust fishermen from other ‘diffuse social clusters’ (i.e. other user groups). Influence is
usually pursued through local notables such as village heads, owners of factories, leaders of
fishing companies or other politically and economically influential men. It is uncommon to
forward one's interests through 'horizontal' interest organisations with voluntary membership.
This is an aspect of social life that has also been noted by other scholars that have studies
Turkish society. It is observed for instance in the working of political parties (Güneş-Ayata
1990) or in the petty commodity production (White 1994). One previous long time leader of a
fishery cooperative spoke about the cooperative as ‘I’ and said that seven ‘persons’ (i.e. seven
cooperatives) were needed to establish an association (birlik). Others stress that if fishermen
are to be members of the same cooperative, they have got to be friends.
The widespread mutual lack of trust, which is not confined to the fisheries, makes
cooperation difficult. Trust is often vested in family members and in patrons, influential local
leaders who are also seen as friends, as ‘one of us’. As has also been noted in the case of
Greece, for example among Sarakatsan shepherds (Campbell 1964, referred in Herzfeld
1992:175), very instrumental relations of dependency/loyalty are conceptualised and
‘performed’ as friendship relations. Of course the ideology of friendship, of mutual affection
and respect in an equal relationship, glosses over stark inequalities. Sometimes this is only a
gloss, ‘performed’ on front stage, but denigrated back stage. Sometimes men from very
different walks of life really do stick together as ‘equal friends’.
Small-boat fishermen sometimes note that they cannot handle their activities
collectively because they lack a leader. Their notion of a leader is someone who is not a
small-boat fisherman, someone with a base of influence and money. The leader of the
cooperative in Faroz, which is composed almost entirely of small-boat fishermen, is such a
figure. He is better educated than most fishermen are, he has a fairly wide web of social
relations, and – if not actually rich – has a secure economic ‘backbone’ outside of fishing.
Although his father was a small-boat fisherman and he himself is an able crew member who
takes his turn on tough night ‘shifts’, some of the local fishermen are still sceptical of him
serving as the leader of the cooperative. He is not seen as a ‘real fisherman’. In addition,
experiences with and rumours about corrupt fishery cooperative leaders have helped to
undermine the trust in cooperatives. I was told that another fishery cooperative close to
Trabzon had problems rebuilding the members’ trust after a former leader had enriched
himself and then moved to another part of Turkey. This cooperative rents a kahve (within the
harbour area) which they run in order to ensure a steady income for the organisation. Among
other things, the former leader pocketed the money that was meant to cover the rent of the
kahve. Similar stories can be told about many fisheries (and supposedly other) cooperatives.
However, I do not want to give the impression that friendship ties blind small-boat
fishermen to inequalities, unfairness and exploitation. The manager of the seasnail factory in
Keremköy - a local and a friend, but also a man highly influential in the whole region - had
distributed credit to many of his fellow villagers so that they could invest in bigger boats and
196 CHAPTER 5

better equipment that would increase the catches of seasnails. The fishermen thereby became
‘bonded’ (bağlı) to the manager and had to deliver all their catches to him. During one period the
fishermen became increasingly dissatisfied with the price paid for their catches. They
complained that payments were repeatedly delayed, and that he did not make advance payments
(avans) any longer. Although most men would still talk about the manager as a good man, and a
close friend, as being helpful and cheerful, there was a subdued discourse of dissent evolving.
Bent forward over the kahve table, and looking round to ensure that nobody was listening, and
without mentioning any name, they complained that there was now one ‘big man’ (büyük adam)
in Keremköy, ‘somebody’ that wanted to be aga (lord) (cf. Meeker 1972) while others become
köle (slaves); ‘the inequalities (dengesizliği) in Keremköy have increased’. Some also claimed
that the manager had used a cold storage plant, processing facilities and offices of the
cooperative without paying. To these critiques were also added comments about his past, about
how he had become rich by smuggling during the 1970s. One man fired an imaginary handgun
and said ‘yes, that’s how he became rich’.
The negative mood among the small-boat fishermen did not go unnoticed by the
manager, and – I was told – one day he showed up in the kahve and loudly exclaimed: “ Let one
person rise [and speak]! (bir kişi kalksın!)”. Nobody rose and the critique remained muted. The
small-boat fishermen were likely afraid of exposing themselves, of bringing down upon
themselves the wrath of the manager, who was their main link to the outside world, to torpil
(middleman broker) services and the like.
Despite disagreements, conflicting interests, anger and fear, people go to great lengths
to give relations a veneer of ‘friendship’. For the small-boat fishermen and other men without
influence, the dilemma remains: a leader should be one of us, but then he will be powerless.
And if he is powerful, he joins the (relative) elite and becomes morally suspect. Power is a
resource (money, positions in the state) to be drawn in from out there. That is one of the
things to be discussed in the next chapter: the increasing importance in big-boat fishing of
relating to the powers ‘out there’.
6 BIG-BOAT FISHING;

TECHNOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT,

FRIENDSHIPS, AND POLITICS

‘The big fish always eats the small fish!’

In the previous chapter I discussed the intra-communal social relationships and claimed that
below the surface changes in patterns of small-boat fishing, there were continuities in
underlying knowledge, both with regard to technique and ethical know-how. In this chapter I
extend the scope and discuss how fishermen in large-scale fishing, particularly purse seining,
have increasingly become involved in large-scale social processes. What has the implications
been for knowledges? This question may be specified by splitting it in three: (1) Has there
been any change in the kinds of knowledges fishermen employ? (2) What changes have taken
place in the way the fishermen’s knowledges are socially embedded? (3) Has technological
development brought about new ways of relating to technology and to knowledge?
The last of these questions will be discussed in detail in Chapter 9. Here I focus more
on the implications of the extended social scale of the fisheries. The second question also
raises issues such as degree of institutionalisation and inscription of knowledge and calls for a
general survey of the social processes that fishermen involve in. Who became fishermen and
why? What was the interplay as the fisheries evolved between, on the one hand, local people,
resources and knowledges, and on the other hand external factors? What is the aggregated
effect of many individual careers? These issues are crucial if one is to understand the special
character of the politics of knowledge. In addition I argue that politics constitutes an
important new area of attention for the fishermen. Although the importance of involvement in
politics beyond the locality has greatly increased, I reveal that the social processes that
constitute these politics are to a large extent personalised within the frameworks of friendship
and patron-client relations. Thus, in the second half of this chapter I take the discussion of
friendship and networking initiated in the previous chapter, one step further.
The discussion will here proceed by focusing on three conceptually distinct ideal
typical fisheries adaptations which I regard as overlapping in time, but which are still typical
for different stages in the recent development of the fisheries. The types will be exemplified
by the men, the entrepreneurs, who were among the first to pick up new practices which were
in time generally accepted and adopted. It is my own categorisation and not one prevalent

197
198 CHAPTER 6

among the fishermen. I could have made a more refined division, but the current one is, I
believe, adequate to elucidate the most salient issues to be discussed here. Since the fisheries
have undergone rapid changes, a heuristic focus on ‘entrepreneurship’ to specify the interplay
between contextual changes, agents, and aggregated effects makes it easier to identify the
changing dynamics of the fisheries.
Like many other fisheries of the world, the Turkish fisheries have also become
increasingly capital intensive, large scale and dependent on high technology. The
consolidation of the fishing into two often conflicting sectors – small-boat labour intensive
and large-boat capital intensive - mirrors common developments, although along the Black
Sea coast the social distance between the sectors is not as pronounced as many other places.
As I indicated in the final section in the previous chapter, small-boat and large-boat fishermen
generally live in the same communities and interact on a daily basis. The large boats are not
owned by foreigners or large metropolitan (i.e. Istanbul) consortiums that come from the
outside and extract the resources from under the noses of the ‘indigenous’ people, as is the
case in many of the third world fisheries. The situation in Turkish fisheries at present is not an
example of some neo-colonial situation, but rather resembles similar developments that took
place earlier in the North Atlantic. There has not been a technological ‘great leap’, but rather a
gradual (although swift) appropriation of new technologies through the career of individual
teams.

Type 1: Labour intensive fisheries

According to old fishermen in Faroz, in the city of Trabzon, there were in the 1950s only
around ten teams (takım) in the eastern, or possibly the whole, Turkish Black Sea region: one
in Fenerköy (the Lahoğlu team) two or three in Sürmene115, one in Kalecik (near Araklı,
between Yomra and Sürmene east of Trabzon) and the rest in Faroz. Crew was, however,
recruited from a wider region, especially the Çarşıbaşı-Fenerköy area. In Çarşıbaşı, many
claimed that Ali Reis116 from Burunbaşı was the first local boat owner (mal sahibi) to form a
team. He probably started hunting dolphins when the use of shotguns for this purpose was
legalised around 1950. The pursuit of dolphin by medium-sized boats (10-12 m) often took
the fishermen far off shore. Locally, this hunt was one of the few options for cash income.
Since the economy of the region was mainly of a subsistence character, fish was difficult to
market. However, there was both a domestic and an international demand for dolphin blubber
(see Chapter 3). Later on, Ali Reis switched to ığrıp, to catch pelagic fish such as hamsi. Two
boats ten to twelve metres long were employed.

115
This count probably includes only the ığrıp/çevirme (seine) teams and thereby excludes the teams
primarily hunting for dolphins. There would have been some of these, hunting with shotguns from
medium sized or small boats, both in Sürmene and Çarşıbaşı in the 1950s.
116
‘Reis’ was not his family name but is rather a label added to his first name to indicate that he was
some kind of ‘boss’, here ‘Ali the skipper’.
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 199

During the 1950s some fishermen also started utilising engines, thereby increasing the
area of operation considerably; one motorised boat could pull two others all the way from
Trabzon to Fatsa. Fishermen told of how for months they would fish hamsi, which tended to
stay in deep kuyus, often also called yatak (bed). This fishery was very strenuous. Nets were
small, approximately ten to forty fathoms deep and 100 fathoms long. But since they were
made of cotton they were heavy and required many men to lift them. Drying the nets (because
of the danger of their rotting) also required substantial labour. Including the crew on a couple
of supplementary vessels (reserve or carrier/taşıyıcı, yedek motor and net boat/ağ kayığı), a
team would typically consist of approximately forty men. Reislik, the skill of the captain, was
crucial for the success of a team. This mainly depended upon his ability to discover shoals of
fish. Only visual observations were possible. In the daytime they could spot hamsi from a
hilltop or masthead as red areas in the sea. But most catches were made on moonless nights,
when hamsi was easily identified by its phosphorescent glitter (yakamoz).
In 1961 the Turkish journalist Fikret Otyam (1982) published an essay entitled ‘Irıp’
(i.e. Iğrıp). This text includes a fairly detailed account of the actual fishing operations in the
Black Sea off Giresun/Espiye during this era. In particular the description of the process of
searching for and observing hamsi is as close as any anthropologist could desire. I have
chosen the sections from Otyam’s text that illuminate especially the issue of how men relate
to the environment. This means that I have excluded conversations with the crew, poems, and
the journalist’s own journey, as well as his asides into literature, for example Çelebi’s
writings on hamsi.

The sun set. A little later a soft poyraz started to blow. We turned the bow and entered the bay.
The sea calmed. There were light splashes. Near the surface jelly fish. The motor [i.e. the
motorised boat] cut the power, moved on and on before it started to roll on the spot. On the
opposite shore the lights of Espiye were burning. The boat was completely silent. I moved to
the stern and looked at the waiting ‘seiners’[ırıpçılar, literally those working the seines], or in
other words, the sea labourers [ırgatlar], looking inside the big big boat as if they were
sacrificial [kurban] sheep. They were also quiet. At the bow was the reis, his eyes on the sea.
Lying flat. Now and then he raises his arm to the youngster [tüysüz, literally one too young to
have a beard] standing upright at the steering wheel, giving signals of left and right. Then the
motor starts, moves and stops upon the second signal, rolling on the spot.
(….)
The motor started up. The labourers had already put on their yellow, red rain clothes, rubber
boots on their feet. They stand upright in the black night without stars, each resembling a sea
monster… Later they sat down. The motor started to draw wide curves. We were five persons
in the bow, our eyes on the sea. The captain gave my shoulder a nudge: [captain’s
conversation in dialect]:
- Do you see the fish?
I though he was kidding. No, I didn’t think so; the fellow was downright kidding. I grinned
stupidly. He nudged my shoulder again.
- Let me say to the right, you see the fish, don’t you?
- What fish, reis?
- Just fish, hamsi, you see?
I started to look more attentively.
- Well there, huge fish.
He wasn’t kidding. The waves cast up on the two sides of the bow were bright, sharp green
200 CHAPTER 6

from time to time. The lights were like pebbles, the water was phosphorescent. It was a
greenness difficult to explain, a luminousness. Later a sign was given; the motor cut the path.
When we stopped, the reis took the pole in his hand. On the tip of the pole there was a pot. He
started to beat the sea’s surface with the open end of the poled pot. On each strike a boom
boom echoed.
- Heey, work the engine!
The motor ran at full speed, the bow was turned towards the open [sea]. All eyes hung with
full attention on the sea. From the depths of the sea there was a stream of phosphorous.
Aboard the motor a flurry started. Commands were given, and a man moved towards the stern;
there was shouting to the ‘seiners’.

[a short poem]

We had found traces of the hamsi. Now we were searching for the place they were gathered.
The motor, followed by the [other] two boats, was drawing wide circles in the darkness of the
night. Far away on the other side there were silhouettes. Other motors with their lights turned
off. In the sky were scattered stars from place to place. All faces turned towards the hunt.
Nervousness up to the knees. The ‘seiners’ were also like this, quiet, impatient.

From far away other motor sounds from time to time mix with the regular tok tok from our
motor, which bore the name ‘Sea’. So, we are not alone in these waters, close to us there are
other labourers, this is good business. It means there is fish…
(….)
The reis suddenly sprang up from the bow where he was lying and shouted:
- Heey, stay ready.
We were ready. There was someone else at the helm of the motor. The reis lay down again in
the bow. The eyes of the man at the helm [dümenci] remained fixed on the signs given by the
reis’ right arm. There was a commotion aboard the motor. We had found the hamsi ‘bed’
(yatak). The sea ignited with green green phosphor. The motor had cut the power, drawing
wide circles. The waves and huge streams, created by the changes in direction on the
directions of the reis’ arm signs, shook the motor. Suddenly the shout was heard:
- Let it go, heey hurry on, let it gooo…
They cast the nets; the motor turns. Those in the net boat, very clearly, inside themselves
trading with God [Tanrı] as the nets were let go. This is the bread money…The reserve boat
remained at one end of the seine. The ırıp was finally in the sea, the curved ‘drawing’ was
complete. The motor, the hunt boat [i.e. the net boat], and the reserve boat closed in on each
other. Approaching, approaching even more.

The farfars were lit…Put briefly, a farfar is a coarse-wicked gas lamp. Two farfar, yellow and
red, cut through the dark night... The fishermen’s faces were illuminated… They were tired
faces; they were toiling the ırıp. They started to haul. They hauled all at once…They pulled,
pulled…The captain, the owner, the reis, the ‘sea labourers’ were all very anxious…They
pulled, pulled…A couple hamsi were in the meshes…They pulled with great scepticism
(kusku), they hauled and the bottom of the net became visible, with a soft splash they wound
up the middle of the net with a lifeless, joyless splash. With hail and haul only one tin of
hamsi had been caught, after seven hours toil…

One ‘sea labourer’ took the gedal and stretched it into the middle of the net, skimmed and
raised it… The hamsi filling the gedal were emptied into the reserve boat. This was done
twice and no fish remained in the net.

A gedal is a huge scoop-net… Not even the gedal was satisfied with this catch. And what
about the others? If you had thrown knives into their faces not a single drop of blood would
have flowed, I sincerely believe so… Not one single drop of blood would have appeared.
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 201

A new command was given, a trembling voice wanted the nets to be quickly pulled together…
With a superhuman effort the ‘sea labourers’ started to wind up the nets…

[the search for fish continues, somewhat later:]

- Heey, fish hit, fish hit [Paluk vurdu daaaa. Paluk vurdu].
(….)
Two persons held the farfars. The flames’ yellow and red light fall on the sea, breaking apart
in the rippled sea. […] The nets are pulled in. Thirty men shouting “Ya Allah” steadily pulled
the nets. [a couple paragraphs giving colourful descriptions of the net full of hamsi] Another
boat approached. The doors of the holds open…Thirty-five persons’ pleasure was limitless,
the net was filled to the brim. […] The gedals were lowered into the net, lifted into the air,
water seeping out from the silvery brightness; the blink blinking silvery brightness was
emptied into the boat. This continued for an hour…Kilo upon kilo of hamsi was in the hold of
the motor. And finished…The motor started up. The air was filled with the smell of burnt fuel.
Commands were given, the motor reversed, later turning and diving into the dark of the night.
The ‘livelihood’ [nafaka] was finally on the way to the market… I watched the red and yellow
lights to the left, to the right, until they disappeared from view. Hurry on…pull together the
nets. […] We had found the home nest [yuva] of the hamsi…We thoroughly blacked out our
lights…Far away, pairs by pairs, lights flamed up and faded away; other ‘seiners’ had also
cornered the hamsi. (Otyam 1982:283-302)

In the beginning of the 1960s purse-seine fishing was still very labour intensive and, except
for the engines, based upon locally produced technology. The boat owner’s personal
involvement in the fishing, both as organiser of the crew and as the one responsible for
seeking out and spotting the fish, was critical for success. These were really the main skills
the reis depended upon; his locally based social position than enabled him to raise funds and
recruit crew117, and his skill as skipper (reislik). Ali Reis was regarded as the ‘big’ fisherman
in Çarşıbaşı during the 1940s and early 1950s. But he was big because of his skills as skipper,
not because of his material assets. He may have been - here I can only speculate - an
innovator and a risk-taking skipper at sea. But Ali Reis never entered a spiral of growth. In
Keremköy there were also two teams during this period, but both ceased to operate after a few
years. The cultural emphasis on reislik and the fact that there was no one to carry on Ali Reis’
business when he died in 1965 (his sons had long since moved to Faroz to pursue small-boat
fishing - a common move to get closer to the market), indicate the relative low importance of
accumulated capital in this adaptation. He didn't head an innovative and expansive enterprise.
The catches were generally sold in local urban centres. For fishermen in Çarşıbaşı this
primarily meant Trabzon. With 35,000 inhabitants in 1950, it was the only major city and the
main market in the region. Fish could also be offered for sale in rural areas on local market-
days. Since catches of hamsi far exceeded the urban demand, people in rural areas could also
afford to include it in their diet. Nevertheless, marketing the fish was a problem. Surplus
catches were delivered to the EBK factory in Trabzon for a very low price, or used as
fertiliser, especially for the tobacco crops in Akçaabat. Thus, in the era of Ali Reis, resources
were abundant, but lack of demand made investment in new technology unfeasible. The main

117
He may also have had strong personal/economic- links to a kabzımal in one of the larger towns along
the coast.
202 CHAPTER 6

assets in fishing were labour and personal abilities and skills, especially those of the skipper-
owner. Monetary investments were less important and profits limited. One old fisherman put
it succinctly: “one didn't work to become rich but to survive”. Until some important
contextual changes took place, there was simply no potential for expansive, innovative fishing
businesses.

Type 2: Capital intensive fisheries

Several people from Ali Reis' home region cooperated with him during the 1950s. These
younger contemporaries of Ali Reis also caught dolphins, or practised beach seining (barabat,
manyat), for both pelagic and demersal fish. This technique required only five or six men and
one small boat. Fishermen claim that there were approximately five beach-seining teams in
the district of Çarşıbaşı, but the number might have been higher. Çelal Terzi, the father of
Yılmaz Terzi (see Chapter 4) from Keremköy, started his career as beach seiner and dolphin
hunter, but turned after some years to hamsi fishing, having in the early fifties bought his first
large boat (12 m) and an appropriate net. Through subsequent purchases he acquired larger
boats. A turning point of great symbolic importance in his career was his investment in 1971
in the first iron-plate boat in the eastern Black Sea region. While the usual size of the wooden
vessels in those days was twelve to sixteen metres, this boat, Zafer II, was 20 metres long.
Soon afterwards, Çelal Terzi retired from business, but Yılmaz and his younger brother kept
the business going and expanding. In 1984 they sold Zafer II to an affinal relation, bought a
bigger boat which they named Çelal Baba and invested in more advanced equipment, such as
echo sounder, sonar, and larger purse seine. They also invested in a fairly large block of flats
near the sea in the village.
Many teams have developed by such gradual step by step expansion. The career of
Zekeria Ertuğrul from Kaleköy, west of İskefiye, is another typical case. During the 1940s
Zekeria, together with his father, owned a freighter which operated between Trabzon and
Istanbul. In the beginning of the 1950s they did some sand dredging (kumculuk) outside
Istanbul. In 1954 Zekeria invested in his first fishing boat (anamotor, literally ‘mother-boat’)
when he bought a boat and seine from the fishery school at the Village Institute in Beşikdüzü.
He was in partnership (ortaklık) with Ali Reis from 1957. Since then he has been in four more
partnerships. He was also among the first to start trawling off Samsun. Commencing in 1962,
he received credit several times, mostly in connection with investment in new and larger boats
and nets. Prior to 1983 he had invested in new and larger boats 13 times! In 1990 he was the
owner of one of the largest purse seiners in Çarşıbaşı and owned houses in both Samsun and
Çarşıbaşı. He was also an important political figure. Thus, several of Ali Reis' younger
contemporaries later developed expanding businesses. The first, like Zekeria, who risked
investing in an engine in the 1950s may have been the entrepreneurs who sparked a new
trend. Some still have their 5 Hp engines, as a reminder of the seed of their career growth.
These innovators had typically been young men when some important contextual changes
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 203

took place. I outlined many of these general developments in Chapter 3 and will simply add
some comments about local initiatives and developments here.
Initially, the fisheries were primarily locally embedded with regard to capital,
resources, technology, knowledge and market (except dolphin export). A notable exception
was the fishing school at the Village Institute in Beşikdüzü in the 1940s. Some of Ali Reis'
contemporaries and mates were, for some time, associated with this school. The school was,
like other Village Institutes, closed towards the end of the 1940s (see Chapter 11). During the
1950s and especially the 1960s things started to change more definitively. At a conference in
Trabzon in 1952 where the issue of ‘progress’ in the province was discussed (Trabzon
Vilayeti Kalkınma Kongresi 1952), fisheries was explicitly selected as a sector to be
developed. Expectations were raised of rapid growth and development of this sector, but few
of the state’s initiatives in fisheries in the 1950s seem to have been of immediate relevance for
the fishermen. Most of the funds made available for the sector probably went into the EBK.
The effect of state initiatives in the fisheries was not to be felt before the 1960s. Nevertheless,
the general economic development and dynamism of the 1950s, with increasing
monetarisation of the economy, may indirectly have contributed to an expansion in the
fisheries.
Although investments were initially on a modest scale, some capital was still
necessary to launch and manage a team. In the 1950s funds were mostly raised locally. A few
sold land or borrowed money from relatives to invest in a boat and gear, but investments were
generally very limited. Until the first road along the coast was built in 1957 by the state -
financed by Marshall Plan money - freighters (taka, çektirme) served the Trabzon-Istanbul
route. In the 1950s and early 1960s there were some ten freighter owners in Çarşıbaşı. Thus,
this business was more important locally than fishing. When freighting was gradually
outstripped by road transport during the 1960s, many sold their freighters and invested in nets
and/or boats suitable for fishing. Thus, better infrastructure and increased demand were
directly and indirectly facilitated by governmental initiatives. Many also invested the shares
earned as crew in fisheries. Although most of the money made as transient labour migrants in
Western Europe from the 1960s onward was securely invested in real estate, a few put their
capital to work by investing in boats and equipment. Together with these contextual changes,
higher profits and subsidised state credit from the 1960s, facilitated re-investment in
improved and new technology. Many teams entered spirals of growth and from the mid-1960s
the use of technological innovations took off. A general effect of this was to reduce the
number of crew on each team.

Local and regional changes

During the 1960s it had become possible to build entrepreneurial careers in fishing in rural
areas. Urban capitalists played only a minor role as investors in the fisheries in the Black Sea
region. Most of the new careers evolved in rural and small town societies along the coast,
effecting a regional shift away from Faroz/Trabzon. In order to understand who entered
204 CHAPTER 6

expansive career cycles in fishing, it is necessary to take a closer look at such issues as
household organisation and economy. Several considerations seem to have been of
importance when people embarked upon a career cycle in the fisheries. The issue of capital
has already been mentioned above. Initially, when capital requirements were low, most
managed to raise sufficient funds locally, for example by borrowing from relatives or selling
freighters. For many, partnerships with other households were indispensable in making the
first investments. In addition, both fishing experience (as crew on purse seiners) and a large
male labour force in the household (many grown-up sons) were advantageous.
From the 1960s onward the growth in the fisheries was paralleled by a turn from
subsistence farming to hazelnuts. To households with a substantial income from hazelnuts, the
risks and exhausting work of fishing were less attractive. Thus, it was mostly households with
insufficient possibility to plant hazelnut-groves that were pushed into fishing118. Due to the
limited potential for subsistence agriculture and cultivation of hazelnuts (steep slopes and
small fields), there were many fishermen in the villages of Keremköy, Gülbaçhe and
Fenerköy just east of İskefiye at an early date. Many successful careers in fishing had an early
start there. In 1990/91 people living in these villages owned and managed ten purse seiners
and a total of twenty-six big boats.
When the attractions of the fisheries sector became apparent with the profits and
growth during the late 1970s and 1980s, the comparatively well-to-do agricultural households
had no experience in fishing and therefore lacked the relevant competence. What had been a
disadvantage for poor rural households turned into a comparative advantage for some of them,
when changes in the macro context transformed the fishery adaptation from a means of
survival to a potential highway to wealth and prestige. Furthermore, yet another process has
been at work discouraging rich hazelnut-growing households from venturing out on the seas.
Because of the limited need for labour in growing hazelnuts, a nuclear family possessed
sufficient labour. Moreover, as the fields would be too small if split by inheritance, they were
often kept by one male member of the family while the others left for western Turkey and
sometimes Germany. The households involved in fishing as owners of big boats, on the other
hand, tended to be extended since all available male labour was needed. The household
structures therefore put limitations on flexibility in adaptation. Herein lies one of the main
limitations to growth since people tended to quit when ‘on top’. This partly explains Faroz'
decline as a centre for purse-seining teams. Often, sons of successful boat owners in Faroz did
not learn the business but received extended schooling instead. Some left fisheries altogether
and found employment in good positions in Ankara and Istanbul, while others, through
accumulated family capital, set themselves up as fishmongers and kabzımal. In fact many of
the major kabzımal in Istanbul and Trabzon came from fishing families. One of the early,
more profitable family-based teams in Çarşıbaşı also, and for the same reasons, sold out in the

118
Outside the hazelnut region, the dynamics might have been different since cultivation of tea and
tobacco is very much more labour-intensive.
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 205

second half of the 1980s and invested in a less risky, but capital intensive, business: a store in
İskefiye that sells electronical goods such as televisions and household appliances.
The three family fishing firms formed by Zekeria Ertuğrul, Çelal Terzi and - at a later
date - Can Kardeşler (see Chapter 3) all had a suitable family structure and commanded the
necessary assets, especially capital and knowledge about fishing. They clearly emerged as
innovators, being willing to take risks, including mortgaging their house to obtain loans and
exploring new resources/technologies (like trawling). When Çelal Terzi's new steel vessel was
brought to the region, people said it looked like a vapur (steamer), indicating that it was much
bigger than fishing boats, and wondered whether such a construction was possible. The
expansive adaptation of Çelal Baba and some others early on provided an ideal and a model
for other teams' development. The technical innovations quickly became culturally accepted.
The new colourfully painted 30m boats that filled the harbours and were equipped with
expensive sonars, became the new symbol of success and progress in the fisheries and the
region at large. Thus, there have clearly been far-reaching changes in the practice of fishing
and in its role in the regional economy since the 1950s. Below I survey in some detail the
consequences of technological and economic developments. It is possible to distinguish
several broad topics for discussion: (a) the development of a capital intensive sector and
widening gap between small-boat and large-boat fishing, (b) the fishermen’s relation to
technology, and (c) the expansion of the scope of their skills to include politics, and the like. I
will first address (a). The issue of technology (b) will be elaborated in more detail in Chapter
9.

The emergence of a capitalist sector

The aggregated outcome of all the quantitative and qualitative changes in the fisheries had
effects that the individual units had to adapt to. The continual adoption of new and expensive
technology demanded successive increases in investments, and the enterprises that were not
able to follow suit were easily outpaced. While the value of boat and gear for a team in 1967
was equal to 1-2,000 tonnes of hamsi, this had increased to 5,000 tonnes of hamsi in 1990 119.
Thus, to start fresh in this business today requires a much more substantial investment than
earlier. Almost all of the existing teams that I know, both in Çarşıbaşı and elsewhere, have
evolved through a gradual development similar to that of Zekeria Ertuğrul, Çelal Terzi and
Can Kardeşler. In the small-boat sector, investment in new gear and better boats does not
necessarily result in better catches although it may ease the work, and investments above a
certain level are not advantageous at all. In contrast, in the capitalist adaptation, investment
and expansion are a prerequisite for maintaining a viable business. There are several reasons
for this.

119
1967: Investment in a boat and gear for a team: 500,000 lira, 0.25-0.5 lira/kg hamsi (Çakıroğlu
1969).
1990: Investment in a boat and gear for a team: 1 billion lira, 200 lira/kg hamsi.
206 CHAPTER 6

First, in addition to each boat's increased catch capacity and mobility, the number of
teams also rose, at least initially. By 1967 there may have been as many as 175 teams in the
eastern Black Sea region120. This intensified competition. The biggest boats with the most
powerful engines and the best electronic equipment were, and still are, in the best position to
spot fish and land large catches. Secondly, different kinds of purse seines are used for
catching different fish, and in order to be able to operate during the whole season and exploit
different resources121 it is necessary to have at least the hamsi seine and the all-purpose seine.
However, these nets are very expensive. One seine may cost as much as US$ 100.000.
Thirdly, to be able to spot fish at all, technologically advanced fish finders (such as sonars)
must be used. Because of the general advance in technological sophistication, each family
firm had to continually reinvest to attain the high level of capitalisation that was necessary in
order to stay in business.
Some fishermen have not managed to keep up with these developments. For instance,
cooperation between four brothers who operated a very profitable trawler business broke
down. They were on the brink of turning into purse seining during the 1980s, but without their
partnership, they had no chance to raise the necessary capital for investment in a purse seiner.
As individual units they were too small. Two of them ended up on a temporary mid-level as
owners of carrier vessels, operating on seasonal contracts with owners of purse seiners. This
kind of adaptation does not require the same degree of technological innovation as purse
seining. On the other hand, it does not hold the potential to produce sufficient profits to make
investment in a purse seiner attainable. The larger catches have also increased the demand for
bigger carrier vessels, so the smaller ones are liable to be put out of business.

The increased capitalisation in one part of the fishing sector has brought about a distinction
between careers in big-boat fishing and in the more labour intensive small-boat fishing. To
my knowledge, the last fishermen to make the transition from a labour-intensive adaptation to
a capital-intensive one were Can Kardeşler (‘life/vitality/soul brothers’). In Chapter 3
(‘Technological developments…’) I described their transformation from poor small-boat
fishermen to a successful family firm. Their success is readily seen when compared with other
fishermen. Coşkun, the drunkard mentioned in Chapters 2 and 5, was also a very competent
fisherman. Like the Can Kardeşler he had a beach seining business in the 1970s. However,
unlike the brothers, he never entered into the spiral of continual reinvestment and growth. He
could barely make any profit from his now very marginalised adaptation and became
increasingly poor. In 1990 he was the sole beach seiner left in Çarşıbaşı and almost an outcast
in the community.

120
According to ‘Our Black Sea Fisheries’ (Çakıroğlu 1969), the Sinop - Hopa area was home to 175
fishing boats with engines of 50 hp or more, big enough to operate as trawlers or ‘mother-vessels’ in
purse seining.
121
The first couple of months after the summer ban on fishing terminates in September, purse seiners
must capitalise on palamut and kıraca, since hamsi usually does not approach the Turkish coast till late
autumn. Some purse seiners also fish for tuna in the Mediterranean and can switch easily to trawling, a
common strategy during the years of resource crisis.
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 207

Several developments have changed the requirements for entry or continuation in the
business. Until the onset of the general resource crisis in 1989-90, it was possible to switch to
other resources to offset the problems created by tougher competition and decline in a specific
fish stock. When the stocks of large istavrit122 were exhausted, for instance, the purse seiners
that had made huge profits in this fishery near Hopa - among others Çelal Terzi and his sons -
could still depend on palamut, hamsi and kıraca (small istavrit). Moreover, trawling was an
important stepping stone for many of those who began a big-boat career at a late date. This
requires only five or six men and the necessary investments are not as substantial as in purse
seining. Moreover, especially during the 1960s and 1970s, catches and accompanying profits
were certainly pleasantly high. However, this has changed. The trawling grounds are crowded
(there were up to 100 trawlers in the Samsun area during the autumn of 1990) and the fish
stocks waning. This is only in part offset by rising prices. Moreover, fishermen try to increase
their catches by illegal use of small-mesh trawls, only to place more pressure on the stocks as
masses of undersized fish are shovelled back into the sea. Thus, trawling is not as profitable
any longer, but is still regarded as less risky than purse seining. As stated by one fisherman:
“trawlers do not go bankrupt (trolcular iflas etmez)”.
The gap between the successful and unsuccessful big-boat fishermen has also been
cemented by the fact that the purse-seining technology utilised in the 1970s is no longer
competitive123. In 1990 I met an elderly man in Beşikdüzü who was trying to operate a small
purse seiner comparable to the first one Can Kardeşler had used 15 years earlier. With the
boat’s comparatively inefficient equipment and limited range, the schools of pelagic fish were
discovered and caught long before he arrived. The lack of competitiveness is also reflected in
the fact that, although he only needed the manpower of three or four men, it was almost
impossible for him to recruit crew. They did not expect any shares to be paid out.
Finally, some fishermen raised the capital to keep up with technological developments
by working abroad. However, labour migration to Europe has been restricted due to changes
in the economies and immigration policies in recipient countries. Yet, it has generally become
much more difficult to achieve upward social mobility in the region. The change in options is
also reflected in people's attitudes. Small-boat fishermen, for instance, no longer consider
continual reinvestment in fishing (spiral of growth) a realistic path by which to leave their
labour-intensive adaptation. They now look to international shipping, to labour migration to
states in the Middle East and above all, in a more extended time-frame, to the prospect of
their sons having higher education in order to escape their partly stigmatised and strenuous
adaptation.

122
For 10-15 years in the 1940s and 1950s very large istavrits (half a kilo) were caught in the eastern
Black Sea region. Fishermen still reminisce about the beauty and taste of these fish which were never
again to be seen.
123
One notable exception here is Sinop where the special ecological conditions still make small-scale
purse seining for palamut a viable business. There are also many 12-16 m boats in Istanbul/Marmara in
the guise as purse seiners, which primarily operate as trawlers.
208 CHAPTER 6

The resource crisis in the beginning of the 1990s intensified the general structural
developments in the purse-seining sector. While the number of purse seiners in the district of
Çarşıbaşı has decreased from 14 to nine (see Appendix 4), the catch capacity has probably
increased due to more-large scale and efficient equipment. The most successful family
companies expanded by increasing the size and number of boats. In Çarşıbaşı Can Kardeşler
continued to expand, while many with a less solid footing, ran into great difficulties. Many
owners of purse seiners have been forced to sell out. Most of these are still in the fisheries
sector as owners of carriers, trawls or small boats, and as crew. The number of family
companies in Çarşıbaşı that possess purse seiners has decreased from twelve in 1990 to six in
1998! (See Appendix 4) Zekeria Ertuğrul’s son and Yılmaz Terzi have both encountered
severe financial problems and have been on the brink of bankruptcy. For a period they went
into partnership, using Ertuğrul’s boat as a carrier. Both are clearly on their way out of this
business.
A tendency towards concentration can be seen all along the Black Sea coast as well as
in Istanbul. Some of the larger family-run companies may employ as many as 200 men! This
development means that there is a growing gap between the owners of large purse-seining
companies and other fishermen. The aggregated effect of many, individually successful
careers in the history of fishery development in this region is tougher competition and limited
resources, implying that there has developed a new context that the individual units have to
adapt to. This has made mid-range technologies unprofitable, and after the end of the 1980s
trawling was no longer a feasible route for making the transition from a work-intensive small-
boat adaptation to a capital-intensive adaptation. Working your way up in the fisheries, as Can
Kardeşler once spectacularly did, is simply no longer possible.

Type 3: Organisation, business management and political entrepreneurship

It has been forcefully argued that anthropological understandings of fishing practices should
situate the fishermen in wider, on-shore, social contexts (Durrenberger & Pálsson 1987). My
itinerary throughout this dissertation - with the emphasis on consumption, state policies and
so on - can be read as a confirmation and exemplification of this view. There may be reason
to argue that, for the fishermen in the eastern Black Sea region of Turkey, the ‘onshore’ social
processes of the fisheries have increased in relative importance. Initially, fisheries along the
northern and western shores of Turkey were fairly local. Fishermen may have competed for
markets, but a dolphin shooter in Trabzon was barely affected by the Istanbul gırgır-fisheries
in the Sea of Marmara. Today, all teams and companies take part in the same national
fisheries, competing for fish, markets, crew, and credit. The resource crisis from 1989
onwards dramatically changed the context for the fishermen. They had to adapt to a new,
more challenging, situation. A change has occurred in the world, in the contexts, that the
fishermen ‘cast themselves into’ or ‘direct themselves towards’. In this situation, a new kind
of entrepreneur - the administrative and political entrepreneur - has emerged, contributing to
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 209

still further changes in the field and creating new kinds of linkages to other social spheres.
This change can be exemplified in a further elaboration of Can Kardeşler’s success.
They were one of the firms which managed to make a profit through the years of resource
crisis. They had the clout to exploit both well-known and new fields. In the autumn of 1990
the start of the hamsi-season was disappointing with small catches and, more seriously, fish
size mostly below the legal minimum (9 cm.). For a long time the authorities time refrained
from interfering, but eventually in the beginning of December, it was decided to put the foot
down. In protest at this decision, owners of big fishing boats and some fishmeal factories
went as a group, formally defined by the cooperative structure, to meet with bureaucrats and
politicians in Ankara. The elder brother of Can Kardeşler was widely held - also in statements
to the press - to be the initiator of this mobilisation. He was chairman of the cooperative at the
time, but privately he said: “The cooperative is not important, I go as a firm (Kooperativ
önemli değil, şirket olarak gidiyorum)”. In the deliberations they were supported by MPs
from the region. The authorities conceded to their request, reducing (temporarily) the legal
minimum size to 7.5 cm. This decision was given legitimacy by referring to scientists'
disagreement about the size of hamsi when it reaches the reproductive state. One scientist
believed that the hamsi reach maturity at 7 cm. Subsequently, the fishing of hamsi, even as
small as 5-6 cm, continued, though with small catches.
The persons and companies who led this political mobilisation were generally those
who were better placed technologically and organisationally to make a profit despite
dwindling resources. Can Kardeşler had, due to their reputation as one of the most profitable
firms, a full and well qualified crew. Furthermore, they possessed superior electronic
equipment and could deliver catches to their own factory. The two purse-seining teams of Can
Kardeşler travelled widely, cast their nets often and came out among the leading teams of the
season (90-91). Their sonars had a longer range than most others’ and they could therefore
pursue a more active fish-search strategy. They caught 3,500 tonnes of hamsi in all (10 % of
the total hamsi catches in the Black Sea that season!) and 3,500 cases of palamut (in the
Istanbul area). Profits amounted to US$ 600,000 and their crew received decent shares of US$
1600 to 2400. In addition, the company earned a considerable sum from hamsi processing in
their factory.
In comparison, Yılmaz Terzi and his brother, sons of Çelal Terzi, only caught 650
tonnes of hamsi and no palamut. The winter of 90/91 was so hard for them that in order to pay
the instalments on their loans, they had to sell half the value of their vessel and nets to a
businessman from Mersin (southeast). They sailed their boat all along the Turkish coast and
continued fishing in Mediterranean waters. While the Çelal Baba team was halted in it’s spiral
of growth, Can Kardeşler diversified their activities as they bought five to six lorries, invested
in some real estate and were, briefly, involved in the construction of a petrol station. They
also ventured (unsuccessfully) into fish farming. In the mid-1990s they extended the sterns of
their two main vessels and built new 42 m. purse seiners. The boats were formally to be used
on the open seas, in international waters. Both these expansions circumvented the 1991
210 CHAPTER 6

regulations that banned the construction of new vessels over 12 m. for use in national waters.
However, they managed to mobilise political support to put pressure upon the scientists to
confirm that their new vessels were suitable for ‘open sea’ fishing.
The continued success of Can Kardeşler is not only based on hard work and new
technology. They have also realised the importance of administration, politics and a wide web
of social relations. After Çelal Terzi retired, his sons both remained very interested in the
technological aspects of fishing and managed their business from the helm. In contrast, Can
Kardeşler’s business was administered from a central office. Yakup, the eldest of the brothers,
never participates in the fishing but coordinates their activities from their Çarşıbaşı office
where he is the undisputed leader. He is generally considered to be bright (kafası çalışıyor,
‘his head is working’), or even ‘cunning’ (kurnaz). He has substantial political influence,
having a wide network of contacts and holding the leading position in both the local ‘water
produce’ cooperative for a period and the influential district branch of the Welfare Party. He
is also active in the local branch of a religious brotherhood (Süleymancılar). I was told that
when the director of the Agricultural Bank in Trabzon refused to accept that their carrier
vessels be counted as net boats (which would allow them much more credit), Can Kardeşler
managed through their connections to remove the director from his chair. At that time the
Welfare Party had been in power nationally.
Of course this team is not the first to seek to influence bureaucratic decisions to their
advantage, but no one in Çarşıbaşı has ventured as far as they have. Nevertheless, there are
other very influential fishermen and factory owners in the region, some of whom were able to
mobilise local MPs to approach supervising bodies and effect the annulment of fines received
as a result of being caught with undersized hamsi. Such cases indicate the growing
importance of information, politics, and coordination and administration. Knowledge of laws,
regulations, standards for receiving credit, and so on is also essential. I was told that the Can
Kardeşler brothers, at the beginning of their career, put a lot of effort into learning all the
relevant laws. Thus, they started to relate more actively to the inscribed rules and procedures
of the state bureaucracy. This was knowledge they managed to become familiar with despite
their lack of formal schooling above the primary level. Paperwork, including writing formal
letters themselves, became increasingly important. Some of the skills required for this they, or
more accurately Yakup, developed themselves. However, they also hired an accountant to
assist them with the formal procedures and in contact with the bureaucracy. The office - with
its files, computer, telephone and reception hall - became the social centre of the business. It
is also interesting to note that while the fishermen relate very little to the technological and
bio-physical aspects of their adaptation by means of inscriptions such as texts and maps, their
relations with the larger organisational context are to a larger degree mediated by texts. Of
course a reason for this is the fact that this social context ‘already’ leans on textual means.
However, abilities and resources such as textual skills, a willingness to take risks,
economic clout, a wide network and access to information cannot replace skills in the more
practical aspects of fishing. In the beginning of the 1980s a rich and influential man in
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 211

Çarşıbaşı invested in a purse-seining team. He had no experience as a fisherman himself and

no brothers or sons to oversee the activities on the vessel. Since he never ventured out to sea
himself, he hired skipper and crew. It was generally acknowledged that the lack of family
control over operations at sea was the reason he made no profit and abandoned the business
after only a couple of seasons' operation. Can Kardeşler's achievement is a result of a
combination, within the same company, of a range of assets and kinds of competence and
knowledge. When asked, one of the brothers, a skipper, said he had no knowledge of the new
option of aquaculture. On the other hand, the company's trusted accountant had been to
Ankara where he attained first-hand information concerning subsidies and credit that would
enable them to have a go at this totally new business.

The social web

In this new situation both (1) a politics of knowledge (e.g. decision regarding the size of
hamsi when it reaches the reproductive stage) and (2) new kinds of skills in political and
bureaucratic manoeuvring have been brought to the forefront. In order to succeed, a company
should be on good terms with various influential persons. As indicated above, it is
increasingly important for the expanding units in the fisheries to have access to an extensive
web of social relations, especially in order to acquire information and influence decision-
making. This process may be understood more conventionally as social networking. Hannerz
(1992), although addressing the discourse on the concept of ‘culture’, claims that the concept
of network (and network of networks) can be employed to avoid the closedness of the simple
micro-macro schemata. Viewing the social world as the sum total of social relations, he
indicates some tendencies in the structure of the networks. Although networking is probably
an important aspect of social life world-wide, it may be more pronounced in Turkey (and
possibly other Middle Eastern and Mediterranean societies) due to a cultural privileging of
personal relationships over social groups124. It has become common to claim that networking
is a fundamental aspect of Turkish society and culture in general (see e.g. Stirling 1993,
White 1994). Networking, friendship relations, and especially patron-client relations are often
included in the ‘inventory’ list of the social characteristics of Mediterranean countries
(Boissevain 1974, Gellner and Waterbury 1977, Davies 1977).
However, I would add a note of caution here. In Western vocabulary, social
networking is often understood as social relations that exist in addition to and between formal
social organisations. Moreover, a lack of formal organisations - governmental, NGO or other -
is often seen as leaving a void which is filled by networks, family, tribes, ethnic corporations
and the like. To the vocabulary of social networks is also associated terms such as ‘patron-
client relations’ and ‘friendships’. The concept of ‘social networks’, therefore, easily falls
within an evolutionary and moral framework that may be expressed as follows: ‘since the

124
It may also be argued that economic and political processes of ‘forced’ marginalisation have
stimulated an elaboration of such codes and values (see e.g. Schneider & Schneider 1976).
212 CHAPTER 6

state is repressive and culture traditional, there has not yet developed a viable civil-society
sector and people still depend upon social networking in order to go about their business’.
‘Civil society’ is clearly a Western concept, developed within a European socio-philosophical
tradition, both as an ideal and as a description of aspects of European societies.
Anthropologists have recently come to criticise the universalistic definition and implicit
assumptions underlying the concept of civil society (see especially Hann & Dunn 1996).
Firstly, this critique warns against confusing organisational form (or label) with social
content. Sampson (1996), writing about his experiences as a development agent in Albania,
stresses that people easily adapt their self-presentation to fit the categories and ideals of the
Western consultants. The overt forms overlay resilient traditional practices. Yet, there is also
a deeper critique of the civil society concept. The fact that the formal structure of
organisational life may disguise qualitatively very different social processes does not
necessarily mean that the other actual forms are less representative, less desirable or less
‘mature’. The space between the individual and the state can surely take many other forms
than civic organisations such as NGOs. This space of “...ideas and practices through which
cooperation and trust are established in social life” (Hann 1996:22) may include informal
interpersonal ties as well as religious groupings and what is often regarded as pre-modern
primordial ties of family, kin, and clan. Accordingly, the Islamic revival in Turkey has to
some degree been interpreted as an awakening of civil society against the state (see Navaro
Yasin 1998). Such a stretching of the concept of civil society raises the question of the utility
of a concept that frames all kinds of non-state organisational activities.
Although the employment of social-science terms that have counterparts in the
discourses of the subjects of inquiry raises general epistemological questions, the challenge is
a special one in the ethnographic context of Turkey. Care must be taken in using vocabulary
derived from social scientific discourse, such as ‘civil society’, ‘traditional’ and so forth, since
by marking social life as structured by networks, patron client relations and so on, the
scholars position themselves within a ‘native’ Turkish discourse of societal development, and
implicitly bolster the authority of one position or interpretation. In a study that demonstrates
the ethnographic difficulty of clearly separating state and civil society (see also Chapter 3),
Navaro Yasin (1998:21) has noted that what has happened in Turkey during the 1980s and
1990s “is the incorporation of the terms of ‘civil society’ in discourses of power and not the
linear development of civil society”. As became evident in Chapter 3 and will be further
elaborated in Chapter 11, the Republican State adopted and stimulated a ‘scientific’ approach
to society. Partly through the work of the early 20th century ideologue Ziya Gökalp, the young
Republic’s elite of was very strongly influenced by current social science. Gökalp wanted to
replace local forms (‘communalism’) with more ‘societal’ forms (‘solidarism’) of solidarity,
in line with Durkheim’s image of the society. In this framework, patron-client relations and
networks based on friendship, as well as certain kinds of institutions that do no conform with
those forwarded by a social science inspired ideology easily come to be seen as ‘backward’ or
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 213

even ‘reactionary’125. The evolutionary social-scientific vocabulary is therefore very much

drawn into the vocabulary and model of Kemalist Turkish nationalism. It is not simply that
this evolutionary framework is implicated in social-science discourse; in Turkey the discourse
and practice of policy and politics draw heavily on such models. Especially the intellectuals
of the state (bureaucrats, scientists, and to a certain extent politicians) have articulated such
ideals and tried to implement policies in accordance with them. But this discourse has
penetrated and is widely employed in daily discourse, even in certain circles in Çarşıbaşı. For
instance, a ‘secular’ young woman (see Chapter 2) said that she disliked her native İskefiye
since there was no ‘modernisation’ there (modernleşme yok). Marine scientists often complain
about ‘rational decisions’ being overruled by ‘personal’ (kişisel) relations (see Chapters 8 and
12).
This ideology of modernisation implies that a history is constructed (of social
evolution) without being aware that the construction is itself historically constituted (cf.
Herzfeld 1987:6), just as the history of the Turkish nation was constructed. These two
elements (nation and solidarism/Western civilisation) were co-constructed, excluding both the
‘Istanbul experience’ and the ‘local Anatolian’. The question here is not what is true or false,
but what were the conditions under which these discursive figures emerged, and what have
the consequences been, for instance in the domain of knowledges. In a critical analysis of
Turkish social science, Mardin has recently claimed that, due to its special itinerary (see
Chapter 3), the language of intellectuals has given priority to a macro-sociology. In Indonesia,
sensitivity to cultural differences has legitimated in state discourse social science approaches
that are seen to address cultural issues. A Javanese peasant asked a colleague of mine what
kind of research he was doing. He told the peasant that he was an anthropologist, to which the
peasant immediately responded: ‘cultural or social anthropologist?’ (Eldar Bråten, personal
communication)126. In Turkey, on the other hand, people have become accustomed to the brief
visits of scientists and other state representatives in order to fill in some pre-designed forms,
which fits some macro-sociological design. As I myself experienced in the field, there was no
understanding of a social science that tried to understand everyday life, everyday interaction.
Mardin (1997a:66) claims that one effect of this ‘macro’ focus has been dismissal of
“…identity processes, the noninstitutional basis of religion, and personal histories as
‘colorings’ of social processes…” He calls for more micro-sociological studies along
phenomenological lines or inspired by themes such as ‘lifeworld’ and the ‘everyday’ in order
to link ‘micro’ and ‘macro’ (Mardin 1997a:72).
How then are we to understand interaction along lines of social networking? One
strategy, popular these days, is to elevate the networks to the status of ‘organisation’,
conceptualised as civil society. Along the lines of Hann’s (1996) discussion of civil society,
Jenny White (1996: 151-2) has claimed that in the case of Turkey, “...broadening the

125
Examples include religious institutions and the ‘feudal’ aga landowner-patrons that are important in
the social matrix of south-eastern Turkey.
126
I acknowledge that also the ‘culturalistic’ approach may be restricted to ‘surface mapping’.
214 CHAPTER 6

definition of associational life that makes up civil society to include reciprocal associations
would open up a wide range of activities previously overlooked in the [civil society] debates.”
Alexander (1997:166), in a study of the interaction between state representatives and village
producers in the social organisation of sugar production, notes that a codification as
‘informal’ is closely linked with the Enlightenment concept of the bounded individual and
“…being about personal relationships, may be equated with a free-wheeling, unfettered
modus operandi.” She claims that it is more appropriate to assume that “…different sets of
relations represent different structures…different sets of rules co-exist”. Thus she prefers to
term it ‘alternative’. I do not consider this ‘appropriation’ of interpersonal relations to civil
society or alternative organisations satisfactory. Putting the label ‘civil society’ on such
practices may imply rendering practices based upon ethical know-how as more rigid
structures based upon ethical know-that. Practice thereby easily becomes objectified into
structures, representations. This is the social interactions of others as seen from a distance. At
the phenomenal level, on the level of personal experience, I believe it is a mistake to regard
the social networking of the Black Sea fishermen as simply one alternative form for
organising social life. The social web is not experienced as an alternative to cooperatives,
political parties, or state institutions. Instead, social life is in the main perceived as a web of
personal relations, and organisational frames or structures are incorporated into this
understanding: organisations are nodes of resources and positions, but allegiance is still
vested in persons, not organisations. It is the person and the interpersonal relation that is
fetishised, not the group or organisation (save for the family). The social web is the social life
per se.
It is also interesting to see how people themselves verbalise this. It is common to talk
about a person’s çevre (surroundings, milieu, circle), especially when referring to influential
persons. Once when talking about a former ‘big man’ in Keremköy, my friends noted that he
was not very rich, but his çevre was wide (çevresi geniş). To have a wide social circle or web
is therefore seen to be a source of power in itself. Due to my activities as fieldworker I got to
know a lot of people in all walks of life and in most quarters and villages around İskefiye. My
friendships crossed conventional social borders both within villages/quarters and within
İskefiye/Çarşıbaşı. People took note of this and often mentioned that I knew such a lot of
people. Therefore, they joked, you will surely win if you stand for the election as muhtar in
Keremköy, and you may even become Head of the Municipality (Belediye Reis). To know
many means power.
In her study of women’s labour in petty commodity production in Istanbul, Jenny
White (1994) has highlighted the importance of the social web – the personal social relations,
often framed in a vocabulary of extended kinship, which through mutual indebtedness and
moral obligations constitute the social organisation of small-scale production in the urban
context. There are many striking parallels between the idioms and social organisation of the
urban dwellers that White has worked with and the rural and small town population in
Çarşıbaşı. However, caution must be shown in generalising from these two cases to all of
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 215

Turkish society. Ethnographically these two cases are more closely related than may be
supposed at first sight. The lower and middle-class workers who White studied were all recent
immigrants from the Black Sea region. It is to be expected that ‘family’, kinship and
friendship bonds may be configured in other ways in better educated and upper-class contexts.
Alexander has noted that in the context of state-sponsored factory work in Erzurum, the idiom
of imece (work party, communal work), which may represent more collectivist ethics than the
image of çevre, is much more frequently articulated as an ideal (Alexander 1997).

In a very fine study of ‘the construction of social relations’ in the Moroccan City of Sefrou,
Rosen describes social intercourse, along with the native idioms and models of intercourse, in
a way that comes very close to the character of social life that I am trying to convey here.

The central feature of social organization in Sefrou is the interpersonal contract. Since
corporate groups are virtually nonexistent, individuals forge personal bonds according to
conventions that are as well recognized as they are fraught with leeway for maneuvering. In
the formation of these dyadic bonds – whether between social equals or patrons and clients –
individual activity is not reducible to a set of rules but is informed by regularized procedures
through which the components of a culturally distinctive way of establishing ties may
facilitate a socially recognizable form of individual and collective action. …[A]t each point in
the social system it is not ongoing groups that are the locus of activity but those “action
groups” that individuals have managed to precipitate to their own advantage. … [W]hat the
people in Sefrou share…are the concepts and procedures by which relationships may
themselves be negotiated. It is in this process, more than in the arrangement of its resultant
forms, that we must seek the regularity and distinctiveness of Sefrou culture (Rosen 1984:164-
165,188).

This view certainly echoes my analysis of the ‘informal’ regulations in small-boat fishing, and
Rosen’s ‘action groups’ correspond closely to my ‘diffuse social clusters’. Social life is
constructed on the basis of relations between pairs of individuals that are bound to each other
through mutual indebtedness and trust. Success in life, a career, is first and foremost seen as a
result of manipulating social relations. Often, it seems, the inability to create a ‘personal’
relationship, a friendship, hinders the establishment of social relations and interaction.
Once, in 1991, when I visited the office of Can Kardeşler, they were trying to find the
telephone number of a potentially important contact in Istanbul, the friend of a friend. But on
failing to find his card in their collection or among receipts, they shelved the matter - for the
time being anyway. I asked them why they couldn't check in the telephone directory. Well,
they did not have one. “But the necessary directory must be at the PTT (post and telephone
office, just fifty metres down the street)”, I maintained. But no, they let the business rest
there127. Is it an alien idea to get in touch with complete strangers? Not completely, because if
individuals can, as White (1994) has so vividly demonstrated, trace some line of connecting

127
Their reluctance to look up their business contact in the telephone book may also be associated with
the fact that at that point the most recent edition of the Istanbul telephone book was published in 1987
and therefore likely outdated. However, the fact that no telephone book for Istanbul was published
between 1987 and 1996 (Keyder 1999:20) in itself indicates the importance of personal relations and
networks.
216 CHAPTER 6

relationships, if only at the outer fringes of their individual circles, a relationship may be
established. Crapanzano (1980) and Rosen (1984) have noted just the same tendency in
Morocco. An individual may occasionally contacts total strangers, but it is certainly not a
preferred and reliable relationship. People try to establish a link through a series of
intermediary face-to-face contacts. On one occasion an unknown captain operating near
Samsun called up the purse seiner Ergün Kardeşler from Çarşıbaşı on the radio to ask for
news. He had probably heard rumours about good catches near Hopa. Mahmut, the captain-
owner of the Ergün Kardeşler only gave inconsequential answers and quickly closed the
conversation. Afterwards, those present in the cabin criticised the caller severely for getting in
touch and requesting information without having an established bond or connection to them.
The effect of this relational mode is also reflected in the running of the cooperative. In
the mid-1980s The Çarşıbaşı cooperative invested in a fish-meal processing plant, but due to
internal bickering and the fact that many of the members chose to deliver their catches to
other factories, the plant was not profitable and was sold to a local (non-fisherman)
entrepreneur. In addition, a cold storage facility, which the cooperative built in the beginning
of the 1970s, has in practice been used by a private company for the last decade. Furthermore,
before the cooperative representatives go to Ankara there are seldom local cooperative
meetings, but rather informal consultations with some of the most powerful men. Recall the
case in which Yakup, the leader of Can Kardeşler and head of the Çarşıbaşı cooperative,
stated that for him it was the firm and not the cooperative that was important - even when he
was representing the cooperative. Of course the social web is also of great significance during
operations at sea. Exchange of information primarily takes place within one’s circle. The
inner circle of trusted and intimate (samimi) friends may consist of only a few other teams.
Conversations with acquaintances, those who are not samimi friends, take place over the open
channels and follow very stereotypical patterns. In order to avoid being overheard when
transmitting more accurate and important information, communication between close mates is
increasingly conducted on cellular phones.
Personal relations are most commonly articulated as ‘friendships’. Of course there are
different kinds of friends. First there are the intimate (samimi), long-term friends with whom
relations are very affectionate. Such friendships may be publicly expressed simply by
spending time together. Then there are other friends, co-villagers and others one meets from
time to time. In principle everyone is an arkadaş (friend); if approaching a stranger in the
street, it is usual to address him as arkadaş. Dost is an alternative term to denote fairly close
comradeship, but is (like arkadaş) also used for women that men have sexual relations with.
When addressing strangers, and sometimes established friends, kinship terms are frequently
used (kardeş/brother, ‘abi’/older brother, amca/(paternal) uncle, abla/older sister,
enişte/‘affinal’, etc.).
I touched upon this in the previous chapter. Herzfeld has noted that although kinship
often forms mutually exclusive pairs with friendship, “the moral expectation each side has of
other are predicated on kinship-like values of affect and respect” (1992:175). The tendency
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 217

for convergence of kinship and social webbing can be seen in the pursuit of politics through
large patronymic groups led by aghas, which is a ‘tradition’ in this region, although less
common today,. “The aghas [of Of] can be described as leaders of unstable and informal
alliances, whose composition is based largely, but not exclusively, on kinship ties, whose
purpose are mainly political, and whose cohesion is marginal and often fleeting” (Meeker
1972:245). Moreover, alliances between such groups are said to be ‘friendships’. In Çarşıbaşı
in the 1990s such large patronymic groups were not named and mobilised, although the
underlying ideas and practices were still there, evident in the tendency for ‘big men’ to have
reception rooms/kahve for visitors, for example. As Meeker himself indicates, the patronymic
groups lost some of their importance when big men increasingly sought sources of power and
wealth outside of the local community.
The model of society for most people in Çarşıbaşı is made up of three main levels: the
family, the çevre, and the state. It may be argued that villages, factions, and businesses can be
seen as intermediary levels between state and family. Although social webbing may be
perceived as the main way to relate to other people and the state, people on the periphery may
try to influence the central government through the mediation of local branches of political
parties. Also elections structure the interchange. But these two mechanisms, formal politics
and social webbing, are very much interwoven. Factionalism and patron-client relationships
tend to be important mobilising forces in elections. This implies that the opportunity to set
foot in important offices in Ankara is restricted to the rich and those with political
connections. Moreover, local political units may also be regarded as ‘clusters’ within the
social web - social circles that attain some degree of ‘we’ reference - or what Rosen would
call ‘action groups’. In the foregoing chapters I described how small-boat fishermen came
together in diffuse social clusters or action groups for special purposes, such as the regular
fishing at a certain whiting ada, or the spontaneous gathering of seasnail fishermen in the
local kahve, to wait for the suitable time to go dredging.
Although many may talk about ‘us’ and about becoming ‘one of us’, such social
clusters are often unnamed and their ‘membership’, or rather allegiance, diffuse and floating.
Groups are ‘minimally corporate’ (Crapanzano 1980). Keremköy is more readily identified as
a village social cluster than, say, Burunbaşı or Kaleköy. The reason for this is probably not
because the social border, or geographical border for that matter, is more clearly defined, but
because there are more important persons at its node, resulting in both a higher density of
relations within the ‘group’, and wider circles extending out from it, thereby giving it a
clearer identity. All the men in Keremköy are considered supporters of the Motherland Party
(although there have been defections both to the Islamists and the far right MHP lately). In
Keremköy men generally talk about the Motherland Party and its local branch as ‘our party’.
However, this does not define the diffuse social circle. The party label is only a surface
phenomenon. They talk about the pre-coup (1980), far right MHP as ‘our old/previous party’
(eski partimiz). Similar processes have been noted regarding the interface between patronage
218 CHAPTER 6

and political party branches other places in Turkey as well (Özbüdün 1981, Sayarı 1997,
Güneş-Ataya 1990, Kıray 1984).
Associated with the idioms and models of social webbing is also the powerful image
of torpils, literally ‘torpedoes’, people who have influential positions as bureaucrats or
politicians and can help arkadaş (or ‘clients’/’followers’) to cut through or side-step
bureaucratic procedures. The authority to appoint election candidates is vested in the party
leadership and not in the membership. Poor and ‘unimportant’ people must rely on the more
restricted strategy, cultivating relations to patrons in order to attain the services of torpils.
A man is regarded as well-connected if he has an adam (man) or dayı (maternal uncle) (both
euphemisms for torpil) in ‘Ankara’ (i.e. the central bureaucracy). With increasing power, a
person’s çevre tends to become wider and to be composed of more influential people since it
is possible to offer counter services and repay ‘debts’. Thus, access to torpils is also eased.
Torpils are extensions of a person’s çevre into the domains of bureaucracy and political
authority. I had the general impression that successful entrepreneurs and big men in Çarşıbaşı
- not only in the fishing business - all command a wide and influential çevre, with extensions
outside of Çarşıbaşı and Trabzon extending to Ankara, Istanbul, Izmir and beyond. To be in
the wrong faction, without contact in the central bureaucracy, may restrict access to
information and resources and limit one's influence. Elections and/or changes in the political
party in power may turn upside-down the relative power of local factions resulting in the
well-connected becoming unconnected.
However, ‘thrusting oneself into large-scale social webs’ entails moral and strategic
dilemmas. Diffuse ideas of local belonging continue to play an important role in the
construction of self and others. One of the most outstanding entrepreneurial aspects of Can
Kardeşler’s strategy is their readiness to violate the norms of local belonging. They cross a
moral boundary (Barth 1963, 1967) and are thereby in a position to profit economically. They
may, however, lose esteem in the local community. Firstly, they earned a reputation early on
for being stingy, giving little fish to neighbours and friends who lent them a hand.
Demonstrating ethical sensibility through sharing is important in maintaining a good
reputation locally. Secondly they do not conform to some of the more pervasive local ideals
of manhood and friendship. Men in the eastern Black Sea region are well-known for spending
an extraordinary amount of time in the all-male kahves. It is the main realm for expressing
and confirming local loyalty, friendship, and manhood. However, the Can Kardeşler brothers,
and in particular Yakup (the eldest of the brothers), hardly ever enter a kahve, adopting
instead an ideology of hard work and family values. To them, killing time in kahves is a
symbol of idleness and laziness. One co-villager commented upon the eldest son of Yakup,
that “he is like a woman, he never enters a kahve (karı gibi, kahveye çıkmaz)”. I do not think
that this critique about being ‘feminine’ hit very hard. Rather it indicates resentment of the
fact that the Can Kardeşler brothers do not share their lives with fellow villagers. This was
clearly demonstrated in the response of a poor shopkeeper in Keremköy when I, enjoying his
hospitality in his modest home, commented on a television program and said that wealth does
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 219

not necessarily bring happiness: “Although I worked six years with Can Kardeşler [as crew],
we never sat together at home like this and had a nice, friendly chat (…böyle evde oturarak
güzel muhabbet hiç etmedik)”.
Happiness is muhabbet (sweet, friendly conversation) and ‘sharing’ (paylaşma).
Indeed, muhabbet is one important way of sharing. Ideally it is not an expression of sharing,
but rather is, in itself, sharing. It means living, or doing, sharing through taking part in each
other’s lives and activities. Among fishermen as well as many other men in Çarşıbaşı physical
contact is also an important aspect of friendships. It is common for a man to rest a hand on a
mate’s knee during a conversation, or even to hold and stroke a samimi friend’s hand for half
an hour or more. Sharing and closeness – in all its manifestations, involving emotion, time,
ideas, money, cigarettes, allegiances, and so on - is the ultimate expression, or rather content
or being, of friendship. When important men are too busy or consider themselves to be too
important to hang around their local or village kahves and crack jokes with their mates, play
cards with their neighbours, be physically present and close, they estrange themselves from
their ‘original’ friends, their local following. It is a frequently heard complaint in the kahve;
‘he does not come here any longer’, ‘he does not greet us /say hello since he became
important’. One poor man commented in 1991, that if there had been more hamsi and Can
Kardeşler had caught more fish so that they could have repaid their debts, “they would have
become ‘big men’ and we could not have spoken to each other (…olsaydı büyük adamlar
olacaktı ve konuşamazdık)”. Higher education is also seen as creating a distance, since it
directs the educated into other life courses (urban, cultivated, wealthy) that separate them
from their original comrades.
Sharing is considered an ideal that is often difficult to live up to; it is perceived
increasingly as something out of the past, of the pre-corrupt bygone days. Now money has
distorted this; “money is the best friend (en büyük dost para)”. Personal relations and trust
become critical and problematic. Lack of confidence and trust between business partners
seems to be perceived as a pervasive problem and issue of concern in wide sectors of the
Turkish society. Stories of ‘tricksters’, ‘swindlers’, and ‘charlatans’ (dolancı, üçkağıtçı,
şarlatan) abound. While people in Çarşıbaşı primarily articulate the nostalgia for and loss of
sharing through lamenting about the corruption of friendships or personal relations, it is
interesting to note that this is not the only mode of expressing the loss (of
intimacy/trust/respect/morals) in Turkey. Villagers in Erzurum articulated a similar nostalgia
by referring to the dis-continuation of imece, and the break-up of families (Alexander
1997:209-10). I suspect that Erzurum is the special case, not Çarşıbaşı.
For Can Kardeşler and other successful companies there are alternative sets of values
that can be elaborated in place of local intimacy and sharing. These options include the
articulation of the prestige of material wealth, of technological superiority, or of learning and
cultivation. In the case of Can Kardeşler, their partial failure to conform to the local ethical
know-how is offset by a strong emphasis on the more universal and explicit (as well as
inscribed) moral rules and values prescribed by Islam, a set of ethical know-that. For
220 CHAPTER 6

example, the brothers have all been to Mecca at least once, take great care to perform their
daily prayers, are very strict with regard to the behaviour of female family members, have no
television, and emphasise rhetorically the importance of zakat (religious ‘tax’), prayer,
abstention from alcohol, and so on.
Precisely because the brothers are considered by many to live fairly strictly by Islamic
norms, they may be less exposed and vulnerable to accusations of corruption and violation of
the local bonds of sharing and solidarity. The moral force of Islam is attested to by the fact
that people seek Yakup’s advice in difficult times or about moral dilemmas. One day in
March 1991 I was hanging around in the office/reception room of Can Kardeşler. Yakup liked
me to come in and discuss religion. Unlike most other men, he and his brothers constantly
tried to convert me to Islam. Yakup always got very intense when the issue was Islam and
more distanced and calm, almost disinterested, when he was discussing fishing and business
matters. Ali Çete, the office manager of the cooperative, came in together with a middle-aged
owner of a purse seiner (at that time Yakup was leader of the cooperative). Prior to 1985 the
visiting boat owner had been superior to the Can Kardeşler in the fishing business. However,
the resource crisis had hit him hard and in the spring of 1991 he was on the brink of
bankruptcy and was in the process of selling his boat and seine. Actually, he had already sold
the seine. People had started to talk about him as ‘unsuccessful’ (başarısız).
He now gave the impression that he wanted advice about the sale of the boat. Yakup
told him that he thought that he should get the seine back and continue fishing, try to manage.
“If you don’t manage, you just leave it (the boat/seine) to me (bana bırakırssınız)”. Yakup
continued by criticising the boat owner and Ali (who was known to be a follower of Ecevit,
the leader of the leftist CHP) for being secular (laik). He also hinted at the possibility that
fishing was not going well for the visiting fisherman because of a lack of religious merit
(sevap). Ali, agitated and flushed, pointed at me and yelled that Norwegians are not Muslims,
but still catch a lot of fish. Yakup then pointed at the Koran, read a few paragraphs and asked
whether Ali accepted that. Ali responded by muttering “I do accept, Allah The
Compassionate, Allah The Compassionate (Kabul, Allah Rahman, Allah Rahman)”. Yakup
also criticised the boat owner for not paying zakat of his incomes from fishing and hazelnuts.
The visiting fisherman was not argumentative, simply bowed his head. Like most other men
(except the elderly) he generally attended only the Friday prayer (namaz). However, after this
meeting he often performed the namaz in Yakup’s office. He may have been particularly
humble and concerned about his religious ‘credentials’ during this period since the meeting
took place just before the start of the Ramadan.
Not all that goes into the local elaboration of what it means to be a Muslim is based
upon or refers directly to ethical know-that, to explicit rules. Many would include being
honest, hard working and modest, as well as many of the other values that I have earlier
described as ethical know-how, as qualities signifying a true Muslim. Likewise, although the
moral concerns connected to seafood consumption are based upon a fairly clearly inscribed
rule that banns the consumption of wine, the assessment of which contexts and meals are
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 221

acceptable or not rests upon largely unarticulated ethical know-how of appropriateness. There
is, of course, a kind of dialectic in Islam between objectified knowledge and moral rules on
one hand, and situated practice and ethical reasoning on the other. Within this heterogeneous
universe of Islam, the Can Kardeşler brothers choose to present a certain version, a certain
kind of Islam, that is often claimed to have become increasingly dominant in the public
discourse in/of/about Islam in Turkey since the early 1980’s: an orthodox Sunni Islam that is
often intermingled with a political agenda. But the Can Kardeşler brothers also emphasise less
formal rules of (Islamic) behaviour, for instance by placing hard work and family life before
the ‘idleness’ of kahve sociality. All in all, they articulate a kind of Islamic puritanism
reminiscent of the protestant ethic as described by Weber. They keep an overall focus on an
Islamic way of life and Islamic lifestyle, which is expressed in wider domains than
consumption. Indeed, this lifestyle harbours a special attitude in itself towards consumption:
consumption is legitimate (all four brothers drive fairly prestigious cars), but only when based
upon moral credentials and hard work.
Of course, many in Çarşıbaşı – especially those who lack influential ‘friends’ and/or
identify with a more social-liberal politics - criticise the role of the torpils and the corrupt
nature of politics. On one level, in explicit discourse, such practices are regretted by most.
However, most people try to activate torpil relations when necessary. In 1990 Sinan, a leftist
(solcu) ‘democrat’ from Kaleköy with some experience from construction work, was asked to
paint the house of the current ANAP MP from the ‘enemy’ village Keremköy. Sinan
mentioned to the MP that he wanted to obtain a job in the state Deniz Yolları (‘Sea Lines’).
He didn’t charge anything for the painting, thereby trying to establish a debt on the part of the
MP. However, when we discussed this almost a year after the job was complete, he had not
yet heard anything. Sinan never became a sailor.
When Sinan and others criticise influential men they articulate their critique in terms
of a highly standardised idiom, an eating analogy. “In Turkey everyone, from the politicians
downwards, ‘eats’ (yer). It is ‘power’ (güç), and especially money power, that counts.” The
critique against ‘eaters’ (yiyeci, corrupt ones, those taking more than their rightful share) can
be levelled against almost every ‘big man’. Politicians, businessmen, and – in the fisheries –
the owners (mal sahibi) are all accused of being yiyeci at times. During the latter part of the
1990s, when the Susurluk scandal128 and other revelations placed the issue of Mafia on the
national agenda, it also became more common locally to associate the worst yiyeci, the

128
“This scandal erupted in November 1996 as a consequence of a car accident near the small town of
Susurluk in which a former deputy chief of Istanbul’s state security department, an important Kurdish
tribal chief and DYP deputy, and a famous nationalist mafia killer sought by interpol were revealed to
have been in the same car. An attempt of the DYP minister of interior, Mehmet Ağar, to cover up failed
and led to his resignation and that of the head of the national state security department. Various
investigations undertaken into the scandal by a parliamentary commission, a special state prosecutor,
and journalists give strong support to the assumption that in the mid-19990s a network of leading
politicians, high-ranking state security officials, probably some high-ranking military, and nationalist
mafia killers had been established to get rid of persons who were regarded as supporters of the separatist
Kurdish forces but also to topple Azerbaijan's’president Haidar Aliyev” (Kramer 2000: 258).
222 CHAPTER 6

national politicians, with the Mafia and blame all kinds of problems on them. Politics and
money are what destroy friendships and good social relations.
Good personal relations, and personal qualities, are commonly evoked in verbal
discourse in Turkey by a set of metaphors of closeness, warmth and liveliness (yakın, sıcak,
canlı, etc.) These metaphors are central to the evaluation of persons, but separate from another
model which is more concerned with honour or moral standing (ayıp, namus, şeref, etc.).
There is a very elaborate terminology for this in Turkey, but a general model that emphasise
the value of interpersonal closeness and compassion is widely shared. Muhabbet entails
sharing, closeness and warmth. These are the kinds of personal and social qualities that should
be expressed in relations with family members and friends. It is noteworthy that enacting
ethical know-how, or moral reasoning in Mark Johnson’s (1993) terms, proceeds to a large
extent through metaphorical (or analogical) reasoning. People draw upon their experience
from similar situations and from other domains (heat, family relations) in order to evaluate the
actions of a ‘friend’. Such metaphorical usage also extends to patrons and the state: ‘NN did
us a lot of ‘fatherliness’ (babacılık)’, ‘The father state’ (devlet baba). These are not models
inscribed in texts, rules, or laws. Basic experiences of family relations, as well as general
models of family and kinship, are clearly important source domains for articulating other
kinds of ‘personal’ bonds.

Trust in the family

That so much is organised on the basis of personal relations, along lines of friendship, puts a
heavy burden on friendships. In this context partnerships between brothers or father/sons is
definitely seen as, and often demonstrated to be, the most stable unit for organising business
operations (Buğra 1994:207-218). The family business is generally regarded as the strongest
and most trustworthy business form. I have even seen it used in ads: ‘we are a family firm’.
In contrast, cooperatives - not only ‘water produce’ cooperatives - have become the victim of
widespread negative stereotypes (TKK 1997:53). As indicated above, the organisation of the
fishing firms is facilitated by family organisation, especially when there are many adult males
in the household. All small as well as large fishing companies along the Black Sea coast and
in Istanbul, including the most successful ones (e.g. Can Kardeşler, Kuloğlu, Akgün
Kardeşler, Aktaşlar, and Fatoğlu) are organised in this way. All other partnerships tend to be
volatile and short-lived. This would be even more apparent in a cooperative, as exemplified
by the members who delivered catches to plants other than their own cooperative's fish meal
plant.
Brother-brother/father-son relationships undoubtedly ensure more trust and obvious
lines of authority. As exemplified above, a breakdown of family relations, which certainly
does occur, will often also imply a break in the spiral of growth in the fisheries sector. Can
Kardeşler's continued success certainly depends upon continued good relations between the
brothers and - as their sons mature – their ability to integrate the next generation into the
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 223

business. Moreover, their ability to expand also hinges on the family structure since they
prefer that one of their own be in charge of each operational unit of the company. One large
and successful family-fishing company in Istanbul planned to expand into fish trading
(kabzımallık), but felt that they had to wait until the son of one of the brothers in charge
returned from military service to head an office in Kumkapı. The general process here seems
to be bound up with the household cycle. When the parental generation becomes too old to
participate in fishing and have set up separate households, sons may have received higher
education and take little interest in fishing (It remains to be seen whether Can Kardeşler will
be an exception to this pattern). Relations between patrilineal cousins when their fathers are
not active in the company usually seem to be insufficient to ensure a stable foundation for
managing a fishing business. There is no ‘natural’ authority (father or elder brother) and they
prefer to keep separate economies.
Analytically, families may be said to be at the core of or to constitute the basis for
social life. In contrast to the social webs, they are seen locally as ‘natural’ relations, relations
that one does not cultivate, but that one has a moral obligation to support and confirm
unconditionally. The family unit is considered to be qualitatively different from other units
and relations in the fisheries. To be more precise, the bonds between father and sons and /or
between brothers (including their sons) are expected to be stronger than other bonds between
men. Unlike friendship relations, such bonds do not need constant reaffirmation through
hanging out together. The bond is ‘already there’. Unlike the case of Neşat and Şaban (see
Chapter 5), brothers do not need to spend time together in kahves in order to be able to
cooperate in fishing.
Indeed, while most other social units are diffuse, the family is clearly experienced as
an economic, symbolic and moral unit. A display of bad morals or unethical behaviour by one
member of a family may reflect upon others in the family, as illustrated in the case in the
previous chapter where a small-boat fisherman did not speak to a cousin because the cousin’s
son had been accused of theft. The moral unity of the family is also demonstrated by the
following case. One day during the last days of Ramadan in 1991 I was sitting together with a
group of men – fishermen and others – on the sand between the small boats in the harbour
area of Çarşıbaşı. It was one of the first warm and sunny days of spring. Keremettin, a poor
man from Burunbaşı complained that for 15 years he had stuck to the word of the Koran; he
had given up drinking, “but where is the money? (ama hani para?)”. One of his friends
objected to this by indicating that he had seen that Keremettin’s (adult) son was not fasting.
Also the belief in the power of the evil eye (göz) is connected to an idea of the family
as a moral unit. If one of the parents does not fulfil an adak (vow to make an offering in order
to accomplish a task), misfortune may strike the children. Orhan had quarrelled with his
landlord and made an adak to build his own house. On the day they raised the ceiling he
slaughtered a lamb and distributed the meat among poor neighbours. If he had not done this,
he explained to me, the göz might have struck his children. Likewise, some believe that if one
eats fish which has been cut while alive (i.e. not left to die), the women of the family may
224 CHAPTER 6

give birth to deformed children (canlı canlı balık kesilirse çocuk sakat doğuyor). Thus,
misfortune, as well fortune (wealth is ideally shared within the family), is focused on and
distributed along lines of family membership. The son of one of the richest men in Çarşıbaşı
had just got a brand new car from his father. The very first evening he had an accident and a
teenager friend who was a passenger died. A friend of mine, who disliked the rich ‘big man’,
laconically commented that ‘big fish smell from the mouth’129. Friendship relations, or
kinship relations beyond the core family for that matter, are not sanctioned by this kind of
external forces, they are not ‘sacred’ like the family is.

Knowledges in large-scale social contexts

Thus family and social webbing are articulated in idioms that give them different
significance: the family as a moral unit, the personal relation as social intimacy. Yet, these are
not oppositions. In certain respects the ‘natural’ intimacy of family life may be a model for
friendship intimacy, as when addressing friends with terms such as ‘brother’. With regard to
the organisation of fishing, the family moral unit is usually mobilised to take care of the
internal, corporate units, while ‘external’ relations are handled by means of ‘friendships’
within the social web. It would be incorrect to portray social webbing as a social field with a
definite scale. It operates inside local communities, but is also the favoured strategy to relate
to extra-local social systems and individuals. The external is not alien, but is manifest in
personal social relations: with friends in the bureaucracy in Ankara, with comrades in the
Muslim brotherhood in the provincial or national capitals, with relatives in Germany. Thus,
‘locals’ are part of the large-scale social systems, and the macro forces are locally embedded.
While state penetration in peripheral areas increased after 1950 and made possible the
growth in the fisheries, local responses gave content to the development130. Since then, local
politicians and businessmen have increased their influence on state policy and enforcement of
rules. Knowledge of and power to influence the bureaucratic game has become more crucial
in maintaining a viable fishery business. The ensuing social webbing also stretches its
tentacles into governmental offices and the central bureaucracy, and is therefore indicative of
a growing interchange between localities and the state. Hann (1990) has mentioned similar
tendencies in the province of Rize where a regional lobby has been very effective in
influencing state policy on the cultivation and processing of tea. Important people in the
provinces not only manoeuvre to take advantage of resources available from a provident
‘father-state’ (devlet baba); they are also actively involved in trying to manipulate the quality
of the external world, for example by influencing the decisions of the central authorities.

129
‘Büyük balık baştan kokar’, ‘corruption starts at the top’, i.e. the father being morally responsible, or;
when those at the top are bad, those below will also turn out to be bad
130
Regional ‘notables’ even tried to influence state policy directly. The 1969 report on Black Sea
Fisheries (Çakıroğlu 1969), for instance, was allegedly commissioned by the fishery cooperatives in the
province of Trabzon.
 BIG-BOAT FISHING 225

This engagement takes place not by conforming to the official, formal system, but
rather by building on existing ‘local’ idioms and practices. The Turkish state’s attempt to
design a formal organisational structure through which relations between fishermen and the
state can be managed has largely been unsuccessful (see Chapter 11 on cooperatives). In
large-scale capitalistic fisheries in the North Atlantic region powerful fishermen’s
organisations in countries such as Norway (Hoel, Jentoft & Mikaelsen 1991), Iceland (Pálsson
1991:134-136) and Canada (Finlayson 1994) are involved in formal systems of ‘consultative
management’ (McGoodwin 1990:191) and sometimes have important positions in decision
making bodies131. In Turkey institutionalised social bodies with rules for membership and
operation are less active in shaping fisheries management policies. Thus, to the knowledge of
formal rules and laws of the state’s making must be added the much more important skill of
social and political manoeuvring through personal relations (which is not irrelevant in the
North Atlantic context either).
Rosen (1984:192) also stresses the negotiable and interpretative over the normative.
“Faced…by a world threatened by chaos yet ordered by the customs through which
relationships may be formed, the Sefrawi must acquire knowledge not of rules but of cases, a
synoptic view, an overview, of the range of combinations in which persons, situation,
background, and nature may cohere into discrete instances”. Thus, what an individual must
possess is ethical sensibilities which are embedded in custom, rather than a sterile set of
ethical know-that rules. This posits a complex relationship between knowledge and power:
knowledge is not only a stock of information to draw upon on occasion: knowledge builds
power and power invests the actor with knowledge. The social skills that are involved in
fishing imply managing social relations by balancing ethical considerations with economic
and political profit. To be a skilled fisherman, or a successful company, it is necessary to keep
this balance, and at the same time command the practical and strategic skills (technique) of
handling boat and gear. Skill in fishing is now more than reislik, but these skills are often
differently distributed within a family company. Moreover, while fishing was once a survival
strategy, it has increasingly become the economic backbone of projects with broader aims.
Earlier politics was primarily involved in order to fish successfully, whereas now fishing
gives resources for political projects, for some companies at least. There has been a change in
emphasis. But, however politically influential some fishermen and factory owners have
become, the state tries to keep the initiative by, among other things, stimulating ‘rational’
management through the expansion of the ‘water produce’ sciences.

131
The Regulatory Council that decides catch quotas (but can be overruled by the ministry) is composed
by five representatives from the Norwegian Fishermen’s Union as well as four others from the fisheries
or fish industry sectors. The state is represented by four members, only one of whom represents a
scientific institution (Hoel, Jentoft & Mikaelsen 1991:16).
7 SCIENTIST’S KNOWLEDGES

In this chapter I discuss the kinds of knowledges and skills that are, from an anthropological
standpoint, involved in scientific practice, and what is accepted as knowledge among
scientists. What is the degree of objectification? What is the role of inscriptions? What are the
models involved? More ‘basically’, what is the character of scientific practices? How much of
the ‘knowledge difference’ and lack of communication and understanding between scientists
and fishermen can be attributed to different ‘ways of knowing’? Thus, I work towards an
understanding of the ‘difference that makes a difference’, using Latour’s framework (Chapter
4). Here I will focus partly on knowledges that will facilitate a direct comparison with
fishermen’s knowledges. This chapter is thereby a companion to Chapter 4. My fieldwork
experience does not permit as detailed an analysis of scientists’ practices as of fishermen’s
practices. But I believe that I will illuminate some important similarities and differences
between fishermen’s and scientists’ ‘ways of knowing’. As for fishermen’s knowledges, I
begin with describing scientists’ activity at sea. In order, however, to appreciate some of the
basic characteristics of the scientists’ approach, it is necessary to discuss more uniquely
scientific concerns such as bio-economic (mathematical) models. Chapter 8 will give a fuller
account of the life and politics of science while Chapters 9 and 10, focusing especially on the
sonar, will bring out further aspects of scientists’ knowledges and more explicitly compare
them to fishermen’s knowledges.

Knowledge practices

A research cruise
Researchers at Trabzon WPRI have been running a project that aims to build capacity for the
fertilisation and rearing of turbot, thereby making it available for commercial fish farming.
The project is managed jointly by Trabzon WPRI and the Japan International Cooperation
Agency (JICA), but is financed and headed by JICA. Several Japanese scientists are working
long-term at the institute. In order to obtain fish for their experiments and build a knowledge
base of turbots in their natural habitat, the institute’s research vessel was fairly often assigned
the task of trawling for turbot. Institute work hours (mesai) begin at nine am. The day I had
planned to join the cruise preparations had to be made and we did not leave for the nearby
harbour until around ten am. The vessel was staffed by two of the institute’s junior researches,

226
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 227

a diver, and a crew of five. The junior researches were trained at Sürmene MSF, which
included a captain-course that made them eligible to captain the boat.
We trawled close to the Research Institute in a seascape known well by the captains.
For them and the crew this was routine work. Five separate hauls were made: four with wide
meshed turbot trawl purses and one with regular purse (small meshed used primarily to catch
smaller fish such as barbunya and whiting for personal consumption). The main bulk of each
catch consisted of used tyres and vatoz (skate). The few turbots caught were put in a container
with fresh, running water in order to transport them live to the institute. For each haul the
captains noted where, when, who, and why in the vessel’s logbook. Separately, on specially
designed forms, they wrote data for each haul: time of towing, depth, temperature, locality
(from where to where), and fish caught (number of turbot, occurrence of other kinds of fish).
Moreover, all turbots (totalling only approximately ten individuals on this cruise) were put on
a wooden plate, a simple design intended for the measurement of turbots. The researchers
measured the length and maximum width of the fish within an accuracy of one mm. These
numbers were inscribed on the forms. They also took water samples from the bottom in order
to get data on water temperature.
The forms were designed by the Japanese and the captains did not know how the data
were to be applied. I noted that especially the measurement of the width of the fish was not
straightforward as it was not obvious where the fish was broadest, and the elasticity of the fins
made the fish ‘plastic’. With regard to depth of trawling, the inscribed data was clearly a
simplification of the actual observations of the depths shown on the echo sounder. As this was
bottom trawling, the echo sounder’s display of bottom depth simultaneously showed the depth
of the trawl. During the first haul the echo sounder showed 18-20m and only a short time 15
m, while they had been instructed to trawl at 10-15 m depth. The captains decided to write ‘15
m’ in the form. Finally, towards the end of the trip the captains compiled a separate ‘report’ to
the institute of the day’s activities. We were back at the offices by four p.m. Crew and
captains rounded off the day’s duties (transferring the live turbots to larger tanks etc.) and the
captains delivered the forms. By five p.m. all were ready to leave with the institute’s special
bus service heading for Trabzon city-centre. Most crew and several others at the Institute
brought along a small plastic bag with fish from the day’s small meshed trawl haul.

Bringing information home

Already we can glean many things that differentiate this ‘cruise’ from an otherwise similar
trawl operation by fishermen. First, the scientists are not very concerned about the economic
value of the catch. Moreover, their activity at sea is clearly framed by their position in life:
they are employed by the state to undertake tasks assigned to them, and they work according
to settled arrangements such as fixed salary and work hours. Within this framework, their
‘success’ at sea is not critical to their position. Promotion does not depend upon catch. I
generally found scientists at sea much less attentive, much less directed towards the boat, sea,
and fish, than the fishermen. They were not so engaged or involved in the ‘maritime’ aspects
228 CHAPTER 7

of the practice as the fishermen. Neither did the scientists talk much about their experiences at
sea.
So, what makes their practice ‘scientific’? That which most clearly stands out as
different from fishermen’s practices are all the records made concerning a wide range of
factors, together with the files of notes created. There are the measurements and quantified
data that are inscribed into pre-designed forms. There is the log of the where/when/how.
Latour defines knowledge as the ability to be ‘familiar with things, people and events, which
are distant’ (Latour 1987:220). By this definition, only what is left from the cruise after the
fact, after the action at sea, counts in the construction of knowledge. What is left? - the notes
in the logs, reports and forms, and the turbots. Of course, the turbot remains only a potential
at this stage; it must be worked upon and transformed into various inscriptions. The scientists
does not need to know the temperature of the water for the ‘here and now’ as the fishermen do
(see Chapter 4). The water temperature must be made transportable in order to gain relevance
in the turbot project.
In the daily activities of the scientists there is a fundamental separation between office
life and ‘data collecting’ activities. The formal attire of office life (including the tie and jacket
prescribed by a very strict dress code) is changed for more convenient clothes when one goes
to the field. All visits to the field are structured by a purpose and regulated in time and space.
The ‘undifferentiated’ world ‘out there’ from where they are to collect their material and data
is usually framed, limited, and circumscribed by the term ‘station’ (istasyon). Thus, most
projects seem to identify one or more geographically specific stations where one goes to
gather material/data at certain intervals. Stations and specific dates (day/month, etc.) therefore
enable the scientists to create identifiable points in space-time. The methodological focus on
station has a long tradition in Turkish marine science132 and probably deviates little from
common practice among marine scientists in other countries. Some scientists in Trabzon
spoke of Çarşıbaşı as my station.
At a station the scientists usually gather a limited amount of information/material.
They concentrate on certain variables deemed relevant more or less a-priori. All in all, this
means that most marine scientists in Trabzon receive only very limited and not continuous
experience at sea. Unlike the fishermen who daily haul and set their whiting nets on ada or
Nailon putting out his turbot nets, they do not establish any intimate knowledge of a particular
seascape, its topography, currents, weather, night/day and seasonal changes, and so forth.
True, they repeatedly trawl the same banks for turbot and gain some familiarity with the
seascape, but not to the degree the fishermen do. Moreover, their experience will often be
very focused. They attend to a limited number of aspects within a context, aspects usually
pre-defined as relevant by theory/hypothesis. The sea is for most marine scientists in Trabzon
not a place where they spend much time. They do not live on the sea. One reason for the
limited time spent at sea is lack of resources. In general, marine scientists in Trabzon,
especially at Sürmene MSF, find it particularly challenging to organise and undertake data

132
Istasyon/station is mentioned by both Kosswig (1953) and Aasen and Akyüz (1956).
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 229

collection. One must, for example, have permission (izin) from the administrative leader of
the Faculty (dekan) or Institute (director) in order to buy fuel and use the research vessel. Not
being able to go to the station and gather the necessary information severely restricts ongoing
research. One researcher came all the way from Rize to Sürmene MSF to join a research
cruise. Lack of time and fuel, however, limited time at sea to only one and a half-hours and
the collection of material to one station (for one of his colleagues). The man from Rize spent a
whole day on ‘nothing’.
Fishermen and scientists attend to and perceive different dimensions of the marine
environment. For scientists taxonomy can be an independent project or motive, a practice in
itself, while fishermen’s classification efforts are part of their workaday environment or aids
in a practice subjected to other aims. It was indicative of this difference that one of the
scientist-captains that brought me on the research ‘cruise’ was unable to identify one of the
most common kinds of seabirds. Upon observing some birds swimming within the harbour
area, I asked casually what kind of birds they were. One of the crew, who had earlier worked
as a fisherman, believed them to be deretavuğu (‘river chicken’, coot?). The senior captain
cast a disinterested glance towards the birds and said they were karabatak (‘blackdiver’,
cormorant). These, especially the karabatak, are very common birds along the coast and most
children living along the seaside would be able to identify them. The two kinds of birds
hardly resemble one other. It would be surprising for a fisherman not to know the difference.
On the other hand, one of the researchers was collecting, for fun he said, gobies (kovit) about
which he determined the species and noted (inscribed) a range of variables. He indicated that
he might use these data in a potential PhD project. He emphasised that there are eleven
species of gobies in the Black Sea. Fishermen generally do not differentiate these and identify
them as one kind of fish (kovit or kayabalığı).
We have seen that the scientists transform and inscribe almost all observations into
quantities, in other words digital codes. This, according to Shore (1996:339), eases
‘information processing’. Yet, once analysed or ‘processed’, information is often transformed
again, for presentation and interpretation, into analogic codes in the form of graphs and
diagrams (see e.g. MSY visualisation, figure 21). Analogic codes ease understanding or
‘meaning construction’ (Shore 1996:339). Since we generally take our basic level perception
to be unshakeable, the visual analogic representations are usually more readily accepted as
‘real’ knowledge of primary data (Lakoff 1987:298). Thus, what counts is not to have ‘been
there’ or ‘done it’, but the production of inscribed forms of knowledge that in so far as
possible conform to scientifically accepted norms and standards for logic, language,
presentation, and so forth. The ‘transformation’ process becomes crucial. Compared with the
fishermen’s externalisations and objectifications, scientists’ inscribed externalisations (text,
numbers, diagrams and figures, maps) conform to a much higher degree to prescribed criteria.
The attention to the station and experiment, deney, and the inscription into forms, are
tools for circumscribing the ‘world’ and making it amenable to the scientific process,
contributing to the ‘mobility, stability and combinability’ of the findings. It makes possible
230 CHAPTER 7

transport of knowledge in time and space beyond the local and the situational, and facilitate
seeing and action at a distance (Latour 1987:cpt.6). This process can be said to
decontextualise information: it is no longer embedded in a specific time/place. On the other
hand, the data only has meaning within another context, a context over which the scientist
ideally has full control. A team of scientists at Trabzon WPRI visited eleven stations four
times a year, seasonally, along the Black Sea coast. The framework of their project was to
define the impact of fishing effort on stocks of demersal fish. The team used a standardised
form. Çarşıbaşı was one of their stations. The information gathered at the seasonal visits to
the stations only make sense within the context of the research project.
In a similar project the institute collected monthly samples over the years 1990-1995
from the main fish markets along the Black Sea coast in order to gain information about the
structure of catches. Here the data were inscribed on standardised forms. Interestingly, this
was not a form designed for the study, but rather a standard form (‘Fish market sample
questionnaire’) designed by the FAO (Zengin, Genç & Düzgüneş 1998, Zengin, Genç &
Tabak 1998). Neither of these two studies involved much activity at sea; rather information
and ‘material’ (fish samples) were collected from the fishermen/markets, underwent
measurement/counting in the institute’s laboratory, and were subsequently inscribed into
Excel and similar computer programs. On the forms the researchers recorded (inscribed) data
such as “…total length (0.1 cm.), total weight (0.1 g.), daily catch amount (kg.), date of catch,
catch area, and catch technique…” (Zengin, Genç & Tabak 1998:10). The findings (bulgular)
of fish length were compared with results from various scientific ‘literature and research’. The
primary observations have been inscribed, ‘processed’, and re-contextualised within the
framework of standards of international science. The general ‘indigenous’ model of how
knowledge comes into being (figure 20a) may possibly draw on analogical extension from a
more widespread instituted cultural model (figure 20b).

Method
Method
a) Material Results
Instruments

Processing
b) Raw materials Products
Factory

Figure 20 Scientific model for ‘production’ of knowledge.

The products then proceed to ‘consumption’, results are ‘consumed’ in theory or in

implementation/use (uygulama).
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 231

Are practical skills knowledge?

We have seen that the scientists distinguish - as is common in science internationally -
between material, method and results, station as part of the methodological design, and the
results contributing, by comparison and design of models and theories, to knowledge proper,
the bilgi. Despite, however, all the fuss about inscriptions, the research cruise relied on
practices that are fairly similar to the fishing practices. In order to be able to make the
inscriptions in the first place, the cruise depends on routine skills of navigating the boat (done
by the researchers), using the trawls (done by the crew, but assisted by the researchers),
interpreting the echo sounder display (done by the researchers), and so forth. These are
primarily embodied skills, know-how, that are not inscribed or otherwise
externalised/objectified during or after operations, but nonetheless a part of and even a
prerequisite for this science. However, among the marine scientists such ‘hands on’ skills are
generally not regarded as scientific knowledge, not even general knowledge (bilgi), but rather
as tecrübe (experience).
Must, then, knowledge be inscribed to be accepted as scientific knowledge? Yes and
no. The formal criteria for receiving degrees and academic position certainly require
publications. And only knowledge that is manifest in the form of text, graphs, or photographs
is accepted as ‘scientific’ knowledge. However, at a more informal level, scientists do accept
that science involves practical skills. For instance, one researcher who had yet to finish his
doctoral degree and had few publications emphasised that he had extensive field experience
(alan tecrübe). He was also a local authority in computer use (an increasingly important
instrument of inscription and ‘treatment’); many turned to him for assistance and advice. In
this case computerised data processing know-how and familiarity with various programs are
other important ‘hands on’ skills.
Moreover, much data ‘collection’ implies interaction with fishermen and others
through interviews about catches or requests for samples. This requires social skills, ethical
know-how, that to a lesser degree are explicitly acknowledged among the marine scientists in
Trabzon. Privately they may relate that they have developed personal strategies (and thereby
competence or skills) for such encounters, but is not something raised to the level of explicit
discourse and objectified. Social skills are not included in the researchers’ training. When it
comes to the fields of knowledge that they are directly trained for, such as navigation at the
Sürmene MSF’s ‘coastal captain’ courses, they find that they are well qualified in the
theoretical aspects of navigation, but have had too little practice. They have “sufficient
knowledge, but insufficient experience (bilgi yeterli, tecrübe yetersiz)”.
A critical skill that is formally acknowledged is competence in the English language,
which is a formalised criterion for receiving research degrees in Turkey. In order to be
entitled to a doctorate one must pass a centrally organised (i.e. by the ‘Ankara’ bureaucracy)
English exam. Even though many manage to pass this exam (‘American’ style multiple
choice), they may still lack communication skills in English. Lack of opportunities for
practice limits the possibility of developing and sustaining their skills. I observed during the
232 CHAPTER 7

FISHECO’98 conference in Trabzon that this lack of English skills seriously inhibited
theoretical and epistemological discussions (around 90% of the participants came from
Turkey and other Black Sea countries). Scientific interchange was limited primarily to the
formal presentations of papers and sometimes discussions about details in the material.
Increasingly, competence in English is a prerequisite for participation in the scientific world
and is, therefore, an important concern for many of the marine scientists in Trabzon. Those
who have spent some years abroad (for their master and/or doctoral degrees) or have attended
English language school and university in Turkey, usually read, write, and speak English
well. At Sürmene MSF quite a few do have this competence, while at Trabzon WPRI only a
few are fairly competent in English. Communication with Trabzon WPRI’s Japanese partners
is usually accomplished through interpreters.
Thus, the importance of some of the ‘practical’ skills (tecrübe) is formally or
informally acknowledged. In many contexts the researchers actually prefer the term uygulama
(putting into practice) to tecrübe for such practical skills. This terminology draws on a model
which considers practice as the execution of theoretical knowledge, the latter being prior and
primary. Science orders them hierarchically, placing ‘technology’ over ‘technique’ (Ingold
1993). This is a reflection of the language-based knowledge concept (langue as the basis for
parole) that I criticised in Chapter 4. The occasional use among Turkish scientists of the
Arabic term nazari for theoretical knowledge indicates that these scientists have not simply
adopted a ‘Western’ approach, but that there is convergence between the ‘Islamic’ and
‘Western’ literary high cultures. With its meaning of ‘seeing’, nazari connotes an outside
perspective, a ‘seeing as’. Thus, at least within science, a theoretical/technological definition
of knowledge has become hegemonic.
Accordingly, while competence in English and computer use as well as ‘field skills’ –
handling the instruments at the station, making inscriptions on the forms, and so on - are
informally regarded as critical to good science, these skills do not in themselves represent
‘scientific knowledge’. For the fishermen, on the other hand, knowledge is what it takes to
successfully catch fish, and they explicitly regard the ‘being at sea’ skills as knowledge
(bilgi). For the scientists, bilgi is the output, the product, of the process. Observations and
experiences only become knowledge when it can be transported, manipulated, and
accumulated, when it by being inscribed becomes separate from any individual possessor. The
observation of a new species is, for instance, not considered scientific knowledge until
published in a generally accessible book or peer-reviewed periodical, with a recognisable
description of the animal, and a name accepted by the International Commission on
Zoological Nomenclature (see below). It is not scientific knowledge if left unpublished.
The separation between scientific process and the knowledge produced is often made
explicit in scientific publications where a distinction between ‘material and method’ and
‘results’ is strictly adhered to. Scientific ‘knowledge’ is a great stock of accumulated results
and models for organising the results that scientists draw on and make small additions to. It is
only when all the fish are measured and the numbers put into a computer that ‘processes’ the
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 233

data that researchers achieve ‘results’ or ‘findings’ (bulgular) that are transportable. Once the
mean length for istavrit is established for each year it can be compared with other findings in
the literature. Only then can the researchers, for example, conclude in a report that ‘the mean
length has decreased (from 14.4, 15.2, 14.3 and 14.1 cm. in the other studies to 13.1 –
12.1.cm. in the current study)’, and that ‘too much fish is caught before it reaches maturity’
(Zengin, Genç & Tabak 1998). Thus, by comparing their own ‘results/bulgular’ with the
‘results’ of others, the authors of this study can claim to ‘know’ that “…the istavrit stocks
have collapsed (yıpratılmış) as a result of too high catch pressure (aşırı av baskısı)” (Zengin
Genç & Tabak 1998:32-3).
The primary inscriptions (all those numbers entered in the forms and computers) and
universal models (the same species Trachurus mediterraneus ponticus, established length at
maturation, standard equations employed for calculations, etc.) set the data to work. This
enable the scientists to mobilise observations they did not themselves make, integrate them
with their own observations, and thereupon speak with greater authority and act at a distance,
for example about fishing pressure in the Black Sea (Latour 1987:Chapter 6). However,
results are meaningless without a context. Results must be processed by means of established
models in order to have meaning and be accepted as ‘knowledge’. Below I focus on three
different sets of models or frameworks for organising scientific knowledge of the marine
scientists in Trabzon: fish behaviour/hamsi migrations, taxonomy, and bio-economic models.

Hamsi migrations

In outlining hamsi behaviour, with its seasonal migrations, fishermen emphasise the
importance of weather and temperature. They usually try to convey the significance of this by
using human body analogies. How does Yilmaz Terzi’s hamsi narrative (see Chapter 4)
compare with the scientific ‘hamsi narrative’? I have excerpted and translated the following
text from the proceedings of a seminar concerning hamsi fisheries, organised by the
‘Foundation for Economic Research’ (İktisadi Araştırmalar Vakfı 1988). Professor Çelikkale,
who was then director of Sürmene MSF, gave a talk about the hamsi for the assembly of
bureaucrats, scientists, businessmen, and some fishermen. The talk covered a wide range of
issues relating to the hamsi and its fishery. After having identified four different kinds of
hamsi (Mediterranean species, Black Sea species (with two subspecies), and the Azov
species) and outlined their main biological characters (size, life span, spawning area and
temperature, eggs - larvae, number of eggs, etc.) he also briefly surveyed the hamsi
migrations. The text is supplemented with two maps that show the seasonal distribution and
migration of Black Sea and Azov hamsi respectively. (In order to simplify the narrative and
make it more directly comparable with Yılmaz Terzi’s narrative, I have here omitted those
paragraphs that pertain to the Marmara and Azov species).
234 CHAPTER 7

The catch capacity of hamsi, which in the Black Sea generally is caught between the
beginning of November and the start of April, is strongly related to atmospheric conditions
(atmosfer koşulları). In particular, the formation of shoals (sürü) is connected to water
temperature. The hamsi migration is undoubtedly the fundamental component in this fishery.
In March and especially from April-May towards July the hamsi moves towards the upper
water layers. During the summer months it approaches shallow waters, dalyans and bays, and
even enters lagoons (sahil gölleri). In the autumn, from September until January, it stays at
deep and warm waters. It has been established that in the Black Sea the hamsi stays at a depth
of 70-150 metres at a temperature of 8°C. In the eastern Black Sea hamsi primarily winters
along the Caucasian shores. In the spring it migrates northwards and spreads out all over the
Black Sea. In the summer the hamsi is found above the thermocline stratum. The wintering
areas are limited to special depth conditions; to underwater valleys (vadi) that cross the
shallow waters (20-30 metres) on the continental shelf. Streams are slow in the valleys where
the hamsi gather. The size of the shoals (sürü) changes continuously. Hamsi is found at 45-
55metres depth during daytime and at 20-25 metres during the night. Many such wintering
areas have been identified (tespit edilmiş) in the Turkish territorial waters, e.g.; the Bay of
Fatsa. (Çelikkale 1988a:27-29).

The main focus of this narrative is largely congruent with Yılmaz’s narrative: weather and
water temperature as ‘movers’, seasonal changes, and the importance of water depths and
bottom conditions, such as underwater valleys. What separates the two narratives? First, the
vocabulary and tone are significantly different. Scientific words such as atmosfer and
termoklin readily find place in Çelikkale’s text, and he does not use the fishermen’s term
(kuyu) for the underwater valleys. Although Yılmaz tries to quantify things, there is clearly a
greater degree of quantification in the scientific text (especially in the discussion of life span,
spawning, etc.). Other more purely scientific descriptions of the hamsi migrations are more
quantitative than the one above, and include variables that are not at issue in Yilmaz’ and
Çelikkale’s narratives. One scientific text discusses topics such as degree of phytoplankton in
the food of anchovy, its salinity limits, and density during daytime/night-time
(individuals/m3) (GEF-BSEP 1997:3).
It must also be borne in mind that Yılmaz’s narrative is oral whereas Çelikkale’s is
written (although presented orally, it was probably inscribed beforehand in a written
document). Thus, the text lacks the life and vocal techniques of the oral tale (Ouuuut..).
However, the significant lack of human body analogies in the scientists’ text is not prescribed
by the kind of articulation (text, not oral). The reason fishermen so readily employ human
body analogies to explain fish behaviour is, among other things, to be found in an underlying
model of ‘fish always seek warm water; they gather when water is cold, and spawn in warm
shallow waters during the spring’ (see Chapter 4). The marine scientists in Trabzon do not
share this model, but rather hold that each species has their optimum temperature. When I tell
them about the fishermen’s model, they hastily explain temperature differences between
different depths in terms of ‘thermocline’ (temperature gradient in a thermally stratified body
of water, see figure 23).
If Yılmaz’ use of analogies is a technique to situate himself in the narrative and make
it experientially real, one may counter that Çelikkale probably had neither need nor desire to
make himself part of the story. As a scientist he would wish to ‘keep a distance’.
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 235

Interestingly, the maps and the literature list of Çelikkale’s text (1988a) show that the major
sources of information about the hamsi come from Soviet Union or Eastern Europe
publications (translated into Turkish) from the 1950s. Despite differences, the main contours
of the narrative are recognisable, even in the more purely scientific texts. All stories, be it
fishermen’s or scientist’s, are versions of one shared model of seasonal hamsi movements.
One reason for this may be that there has probably existed such a model among fishermen
long before the scientists came on the scene. Scientists may partly have adopted the basic
outlines of the model from the fishermen. Moreover, the hamsi migration itself probably show
a high degree of regularity, especially at the interface of fish occurrence/season/weather. But,
whereas there seems to be a high degree of convergence in fishermen’s and scientists
knowledges of hamsi migrations, when it comes to categorisation and taxonomy the
differences between the fishermen and scientists are more pronounced.

Classification and taxonomy: istavrit species

Among fishermen, istavrit is one of the kinds of fish about which there is little agreement
concerning classification. This is reflected in the general population in the region. Many
believe that kıraca and istavrit are different fish (species), others that the kıraca is only young
istavrit. For the study I conducted for the Black Sea Environmental Programme (BSEP) I
organised a questionnaire survey of pupils in Çarşıbaşı (and Istanbul). To the question ‘what
are the five most important commercial species in the Black Sea’, many entered both istavrit
and kıraca (Knudsen 1997:47). Some fishermen, such as Yilmaz Terzi, may list as many as
four different kinds of istavrit (see Chapter 4). How do scientists see the istavrits? First of all,
it is not usually an issue of contention. Zengin, Genç & Tabak (1998) plainly state that the
fish they studied (profile of landed catches of eight species) were so and so, with Latin names
in parentheses, for example “Istavrit (Trachurus mediterraneus ponticus)”.
However, it was not always so straightforward in Turkish marine sciences. In an early
discussion of the istavrits, the German Professor Kosswig of the Istanbul Hydrobiological
Institute held that the small istavrit in the Marmara, Bosporus, and the Black Sea and the very
large istavrit in the eastern Black Sea were, contrary to the fishermen’s opinion, not two
different types (tip). He found that both were Trachurus mediterraneus. “There is not a single
characteristic (karakter) that can show a race (ırk) difference. The istavrit in the eastern Black
Sea are bigger simply because they are older” (Kosswig 1953:8). However, he draws attention
to a distinction that (he claims) the fishermen do not make, namely between the Trachurus
trachurus and Tr. Mediterraneus. He refers to and supports various studies that conclude that
these are not simply two varieties (variant) of the same species, but systematically distinct
units (ayrı sistematik birlik) (ibid.). In another study from the 1950s, this time by the EBK
Fishery Research Centre, an analysis is given of catches of (large) eastern Black Sea istavrit.
The authors discuss differences between this ‘stock’ and the ‘Bosporus istavrit’ in terms of
number of pectoral fin rays (Aasen and Akyüz 1956). No Latin names are supplied.
236 CHAPTER 7

Interestingly, there seems to be no formal criteria in science for what is required to get
acceptance for the ‘discovery’, or ‘creation’, of a new species. Acceptance of a publication is
not quite enough. A new species only becomes established, or stabilised (Latour 1987), with
time as other scientists neither oppose the finding nor claim that the same finding has been
published elsewhere (and therefore is already an established species133). It is a gradual process
that involves the scientific community in rather informal processes that contribute to the
general knowledge. With regard to istavrits, classification and taxonomy of the Black
Sea/Marmara istavrits seems to have become more or less stabilised internationally by the
early 1970s. Various manuals that aim at aiding scientists and others in identifying various
fish species represent the present taxonomic status of the ‘stabilised’ species. Thus, the
dynamic knowledge of taxonomy is periodically frozen into collections that operate as
reference sources for field biologists and others. One of the more important of these is the
UNESCO ‘CLOFNAM’ Check-list of the fish of the north-eastern Atlantic and of the
Mediterranean (Hureau and Monod 1973), which sets up the following taxonomy of
trachurus fish:

the genus ‘TRACHURUS Rafinesque, 1810’ which contains 6 species, among which are:

‘Trachurus trachurus (Linneaus, 1758)’, and the two subspecies

‘Trachurus mediterraneus mediterraneus (Steindachner, 1868)’

‘Trachurus mediterraneus ponticus Aleev 1956’

The two subspecies (T.m. mediterraneus and T.m. ponticus) are together presented as
one species, which is not represented by one ‘pure’ species. The manual lists primary
scientific contributions to the history and current status of the discussion and attempts to
define the species and aims at giving a ‘definite nomenclature’ for the fish in the region. The
process of creating this catalogue took eight years and involved many meetings among top
scientists in this field (Hureau and Monod 1973:preface). The agreed-upon taxonomy and
nomenclature is followed both in subsequent manuals (e.g. Whitehead et al 1986:841-3) and
in more popular writings, by for instance, Davidson in his detailed book of fish and seafood
(1981: 101). In addition to such manuals, the work of the International Commission on
Zoological Nomenclature (ICZN) contributes to upholding a common framework and to
stabilisation of individual taxon. Established in 1895 and being a not-for-profit organisation
controlled by academic bodies, ICZN “…provides and regulates a uniform system of
zoological nomenclature ensuring that every animal has a unique and universally accepted
scientific name…It is not the role of the Commission to become involved in taxonomic
issues…” (http://www.iczn.org/iczn.htm).

133
Subsequent publications may conclude that independent claims to description of new species,
coining different names, may concern the same species. There may for some time exist competing
names for the new species.
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 237

Marine scientists in Turkey seem to have adopted the international taxonomy and
nomenclature as well. The ‘Turkish Atlas of Marine Fish’ (Mater et al 1989) refers to, among
others, the CLOFNAM checklist. However, with regard to the İstavrit fish: (ibid.:41-42), it
simplifies the issue and lists two species to be found in Turkish waters:

• “Trachurus trachurus (Linneaus, 1758), (İstavrit), max. 30 cm.”, and

• “Trachurus mediterraneus mediterraneus (Steindachner, 1868), (Karagöz istavrit),
max. 50 cm.”

Research reports from the Trabzon WPRI (Zengin, Genç & Tabak 1998:31) and scientific
papers of researchers at both Sürmene MSF and Trabzon WPRI employ these categories,
identifying the istavrit in the Black Sea as either Trachurus mediterraneus or Trachurus
mediterraneus ponticus (Düzgüneş & Karaçam 1991a, Yücel 1997, Şahin et al 1997)134. Thus,
what was yet undecided, a non-stabilised species, a controversy not yet closed for scientists
working in Turkish marine research institutions in the 1950s, has seemingly become
increasingly black boxed. A complex phenomenon with many elements is made to act as one
single automaton (i.e. the species) that can easily be transported without questioning its
content (Latour 1987:131). International organisations (especially UNESCO and FAO) have
played important roles in organising and giving authority to documents that can ‘close the
controversies’.
Whether an issue is settled or not depends on one’s position within the scientific
community. The scientific community is not homogenous. For the scientists in Trabzon there
may be no controversy over istavrits. However for the elite scientists selected to write up a
recent FAO/BSEP study on fisheries in the Black Sea (Prodanov et al 1997), this is certainly
an unsettled issue. İstavrit species are, for them, not stabilised. They basically subscribe to the
identification of T.m. ponticus, but cite various studies that raise questions about the existence
of one or several ‘stocks’ or ‘populations’ of istavrit in the Black Sea. Referring mainly to
studies of East European and Russian scientists they survey the various positions (over a
whole page), using concepts such as ‘subspecies’ (the ponticus one), ‘subpopulations’,
‘group’, and ‘stock’. For instance, one scientist suggests that the large istavrit found in the
eastern Black Sea basin during the 1950s and 1960s may have been a sterile hybrid (‘heterosis
effect’) between the Trachurus mediterraneus mediterraneus and the Trachurus
mediterraneus ponticus. In the same vein, the same report suggests that “[r]ecently the Black
Sea anchovy [Engraulis encrasicolus ponticus Alexandrov] has been considered one of the
populations of the European anchovy, Engraulis encrasicolus Linneaus, by some authors
(…), while others consider it a distinct subspecies (…)” (Prodanov et al 1997:39).

134
However, in the ‘material’ section in a study of the effect of sonars on fish, the istavrit/kraça is
identified as Trachurus trachurus (Çelikkale 1988b) even though the authors would probably claim that
the fish referred to in these four different studies are of the same species/subspecies. My guess is that
they generally think that there is one kind of istavrit in the Black sea, and pick one of the available Latin
names to identify it (the identification as Trachurus trachurus may simply be a result of poor
knowledge of current scientific position on this issue).
238 CHAPTER 7

Having surveyed the literature, I am more confused than ever about the scientific
position on what kinds of istavrit (or hamsi, for that matter) are to be found in the Black Sea
and Sea of Marmara. The crux of the matter may stem partly from an inherent ambiguity in
the scientific approach to the concept of species. On the one hand, efforts to elaborate rigid
taxonomies presuppose well-defined and separate species (as well as other taxonomic levels,
from Regnum/Kingdom (e.g. Animalia) and downwards, all together eleven taxon). On the
other hand, the species concept is intrinsically difficult to define, and detailed studies of
observable life forms seem to dissolve definitive borders between different species and taxon.
The inherent difficulty in defining species is actually textbook knowledge common to
introductory courses in Biology135. There is, for example, disagreement over which criteria to
use when identifying and differentiating species or other taxon (levels). “Application of
species concept based either on interbreeding [reproductive isolation] or common descent
[monophyly] can give conflicting results”136. Holcik and Jedlicka (1994:abstract) assert that
“...the concept of subspecies and trinominal nomenclature [‘three names’, e.g. Trachurus
mediterraneus ponticus] is inefficient, superfluous and misleading, and should be excluded
from taxonomy, nomenclature and ecology”.
The widespread use of ‘subspecies’ and trinomial nomenclature may in itself be
indicative of the lack of clarity inherent in the species concept. We may conclude that at
certain levels of science, not even the species concept, such a hard fact for most applied
science, is stabilised and black boxed. Lakoff has emphasised that the species concept, as
defined in modern biology, is not a ‘classical category’, one for which there are clear
boundaries, homogenous internal structure, and the possibility of definition by reference to
itself (Lakoff 1987). Thus, while there may at more theoretical scientific levels be an
awareness of the problems inherent in the species concept, a more rigid idea of species, more
akin to ‘natural kinds’, seems to prevail in more operative/applied and/or peripheral science.
This also indicates that what is ‘good’ science varies among different domains or levels
within the scientific community.
Science is practised by localised, situated humans with particular strategies and aims.
At one level, for example among the marine scientists in Trabzon, to be scientific, to produce
good science, may be to identify ‘correctly’ - according to the international scientific
taxonomic system - the different fish discussed in a text which addresses more immediate
concerns such as structure of catches or status of stocks. This means not only finding the
correct scientific Latin name, but often also includes listing the whole taxonomic position of a

135
See for example Wallace et al 1986. The case of the salamander (Ensatina eschscholtzi) subspecies
that live in separate but overlapping groups around a mountain range is instructive. At all points where
two subspecies overlap they interbreed (i.e. they are of the same species), except for where the ends of
the continuum meet at one point in the salamander’s habitat around the mountain range: there the two
varieties do not interbreed. “…are the two of the same species? Many scientists disagree on this issue;
others believe the question to be meaningless, arguing that the species concept itself is
invalid”(ibid:397).
136
Ronald Sluys, Bibliographical
Services,http://www.imbc.gr/biblio_serv/systematics/X0030_2.10.html
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 239

species. This particular scientific milieu, this community of practitioners, relies almost
exclusively on classification efforts undertaken by others and accepted in the larger scientific
community. This is often made explicit, as is a common and accepted technique in biology,
and seen in numerous examples throughout this text, by adding the name of the ‘discoverer’
of the species (i.e. the scientist who is accepted as the first to publish a description of the
species) after the Latin name, often together with the year of scientific publication of the
‘finding’. Thus, Turkish scientists often record one of the istavrit species as: “Trachurus
mediterraneus mediterraneus (Steindachner 1868)”, ‘Steindachner’ being the ‘discover’ and
‘1868’ the year of the (publication of the) ‘discovery’.
Turkish marine scientists and biologists adopt the general taxonomic framework for
fish. Thus, the subphylum ‘Pisces’ is divided into the classes Selachii/Chondricthues (sharks,
etc.) and Osteichthyes (bony fish), each subdivided accordingly into progressively lower
taxon: subclassis, ordo, subordo, familia, and species. In the Turkish ‘Fish Atlas’ (Mater et al
1989) there is no place for mammals (e.g. dolphins), molluscs and crustaceans since they do
not belong to the subphylum Pisces (fish). Local scientists would often correct me when I,
adopting the fishermen’s convention, spoke of the ‘dolphin fish’ (yunus balığı). Unlike the
fishermen’s concept of ‘fish’ (balık), it is impossible to ‘stretch’ the scientific concept to
include, for example, prawns. At this ‘applied’ level, the concepts (especially ‘species’) used
by the scientists are less radial than the fishermen’s concepts. Identifying a fish is, for a
scientist, to put it into the right slot in the taxonomic system. Unlike in fishing, identification
is classification.
The marine scientists in Trabzon have a primarily applied focus (e.g. establishing
population parameters for different species) and few international publications. My own
empirical conclusion is that they participate only to a very limited extent in the ‘higher’, more
theoretical levels of scientific inquiry. In a Turkish report intended for non-scientists,
primarily Turkish businesspeople and bureaucrats, the mere presence of Latin nomenclature
would make the text appear scientific. At other levels in the Turkish scientific community,
problematising and revising the atlas of species and taxon may be seen as an appropriate
challenge, while at still other levels in the larger scientific community, the species concept
may be the object of reflection.
The local credibility of science is not demonstrated by questioning the species
concept, but rather by fetishsising the taxonomic system and Latin nomenclature. In order to
present themselves as a credible and good scientists at the local level, marine scientists in
Trabzon depend upon ‘logging-on’ to the ‘global’ scientific community. The international
body of scientific knowledge is so interwoven within the local scientists’ knowledge that it is
almost impossible to envisage a purely local science. It is the local scientists’ ability to
communicate with the larger scientific community that gives them authority locally. In that
respect they are not so different from Islamic scholars who depend on international science
(or Islam). Without the possibility to connect with it they would hardly be scholars
themselves. This dependence is all-encompassing, and is, in addition to taxonomy and other
240 CHAPTER 7

scientific models, manifest in instruments, procedures, methods, and a general outlook

(which, however, has it own local character, being excessively positivist). But, as I shall
discuss in Chapter 9, local conditions, issues, and controversies continue to shape the agenda
and aims of science.
In Chapter 4 I noted a high degree of overlap and lack of rigid criteria in fishermen’s
use of terms and categories for distinguishing fish. As can be expected, scientists generally
apply a more clearly defined system, organised into taxon (taxonomic levels). Taxonomy is
evidently one of the primary grids that make ‘transportation’ possible within biological
science. It is a framework for translation, identification, combinability and so on (Latour
1987). The scientists try to use concepts more stringently than the fishermen; they are more
concerned about ‘defending’ the absolute boundaries between the ‘species’ and among the
various taxon. It is truly taken as the responsibility of science to know. Paradoxically, the
ambiguities in fishermen’s classification of ‘istavrits’ is mirrored by the ‘higher level’
scientific speculations about species concept. This should not lead one to conclude that the
fishermen, after all, are ‘right’, but that there is a certain degree of convergence.
In identifying and differentiating different kinds of fish, both fishermen and local
scientists focus primarily on morphological features and behavioural characteristics (e.g. both
Kosswig and Aasen/Akyüz). However, more detailed studies of species differentiation relate
primarily to the main definitions of the species concept: reproductive isolation, monophyly,
or, more recently, genetic variation137. Science gives the taxonomic system so much weight
and authority in itself that it constitutes an independent field of enquiry. But, for peripheral
science it is simply a resource to be drawn upon in practice. Thus, the extension of the
‘networks’ (cf. Latour 1993) (e.g. of the taxonomic systems) is facilitated by the
homogenisation of instruments: scientists in Trabzon have learned to use the same books,
methods, vocabulary, and apparatuses as their foreign colleagues. Yes, the taxonomic system
is a hard-coded, inscribed, and instituted cultural model, but one that depends upon a
standardisation that facilitates acceptance and understanding of the inscriptions. What would
Trachurus mediterraneus ponticus be without that standardisation? In contrast to fishermen’s
knowledge (see Chapter 4), eclectic mix of many models cannot be accept in scientific
knowledge. Moreover, possibly because they relate mostly to captured fish, often to dead fish,
the behavioural characteristics of fish are often outside the interest or experience of the
scientists (however, they may be interested in culinary quality!).
Both the fishermen’s and scientists’ approach to classification comprise an oscillation
between the poles of clear categories and ambiguity. Although a certain degree of
convergence occurs in their classification efforts, the actual meeting of the two approaches
produces confusing results. In most cases the fishermen’s categories for fish correspond with
scientific species. There are, however, some interesting exceptions. Palamut and torik, for
instance, are regarded both in the market and by the fishermen, as different kinds of fish,

137
In practice, however, morphology is still in many instances the only realistic criteria for establishing
differences between species.
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 241

although scientists see them as belonging to the same species (see e.g. Mater et al 1989). The
same is true in the even more refined differentiation of the lüfer (çinakup, sarıkanat, lüfer,
kofana). But, as we have seen, that fishermen regard fish as being different does not
necessarily imply that they make ‘species’ distinctions. Istavrit and kefal, even hamsi, are
other fish differently classified by fishermen and scientists.
The scientists’ and fishermen’s classifications come together in a text by Sıtkı Üner,
an Istanbul bureaucrat who as a passionate hobby fisherman has written extensively on the
issue. While familiar with fishermen’s classifications, he tries in his book on ‘Fish hunting
and Food’ (Üner 1992) to correlate them with scientific ‘standards’. To do so he differentiates
between the two species (tür) karagöz istavriti and sarıkanat istavriti, both belonging to the
‘trachuridade family’; the smaller of both of these he names kraça. In addition he mentions
the ‘Black Sea istavrit’ (large), to which he gives the Latin name Trachurus mediterraneus.
Üner introduces three different schemes of classification; one scientific taxonomy, the two
others more akin to fishermen’s approach: shape (şekil), and locals/wanderers/passers by
(yerli, gezici, and geçici). But, unlike the fishermen, he has formalised the attention to shape
into eight named categories (e.g. ‘rocket’, conic, flat upper part). This blending of the two
approaches conforms neither to the scientific nor the ‘folk’ approach.
Another meeting point between science and the fisheries, namely the fishery statistics,
‘muddles’ things when it distinguishes between ‘İstavrit (Kraça, Horse Mackerel)’ and
‘İstavrit (Karagöz, Scad)’ (no Latin names are given). Palamut and torik are also listed
separately in the fishery statistics. Furthermore, scientists have partly adopted the Istanbul
fishermen's differentiation of fish into yerli, göçmen and gezici. And then there is the seasnail,
which is named differently in each of three different traditions. (1) Scientists name the Black
Sea seasnail either Rapana venosa or Rapana thomasiana (not yet settled, they agree that it is
the same species, but both names are still used). Then there is (2) the market name deniz
salyangozu (seasnail), used by bureaucrats and those in the business (except the fishermen,
unless dealing with traders), and finally (3) various local names used by the fishermen (see
towards end of Chapter 4). While both the scientific and local names are regarded as
synonymous with deniz salyangozu, they are not interchangeable with each other. A scientist
would misunderstand the word midye (he would probably think of kara midyesi, black
mussel), and fishermen generally do not know that Latin names exist. Both sides typically
acknowledge the other’s ignorance and tend to use the neutral deniz salyangozu in
interchanges between them. They meet in a common language of market names.

From ‘production’ to population dynamics, MSY and quotas

In the early years of Turkish marine science the main goal seems to have been to establish and
disseminate information about fish species and the production, conservation, and processing
technology that could help increase the production of ‘water produce’ (see Chapter 3). Early
studies (e.g. the EBK series) explored primarily the distribution of fish and the feasibility of
242 CHAPTER 7

using various new kinds of gear and boats. Since the end of the 1980s the focus has shifted
towards a concern about the ‘rational’ exploitation of the stocks, using key terms and models
such as MSY (Maximum Sustainable Yield) and TAC (Total Allowable Catch). New Turkish
textbooks in basic marine and fisheries science concentrate on population dynamics and
MSY. For instance, two new Turkish textbooks have the (same) title: ‘Fishery Biology and
Population Dynamics’ (Avşar 1998, Evkoyunca 1995). Both make extensive use of the
Beverton-Holt (population dynamics) and Gulland (stock assessment) models. Turkish
scientific articles increasingly cite these authors. They also cite Schaefer, who developed a
rigorous mathematical framework for explaining the relationship between fishing effort and
catch (McGoodwin 1990:69-70).
Gulland, Beverton, Holt and Schaefer are internationally acknowledged as the
formulators of the basic models of fish population dynamics and the effect of catch upon the
stocks. They constitute some of the critical levels in the genealogy of research leading up to
the powerful idea of Maximum Sustainable Yield (MSY) and related concepts. The foreword
and preface to a recent edition of Beverton and Holt’s classical study (1993 [1957]) relates
how fishery science emerged as a distinct discipline of natural history sometime in the second
half of the 19th century. It was from the beginning concerned with the composition of the fish
stocks, but two different directions emphasised fishing and environment respectively as the
main effect upon the stocks. The salience in Beverton and Holt’s approach lay in combining
these two approaches of fishery science into one ‘comprehensive equation’ that considers ‘all
factors’. “In essence, the aim of all these formulations is to determine equilibrium levels
between a fishery’s biological productivity, the level of fishing effort, and the rate of fish
mortality” (McGoodwin 1990:69). Marine scientists consider it feasible to determine MSY
with the aid of a rigorous mathematical framework and thereby facilitate ‘rational
management’ of the resources. Such models have been widely applied in the management of
many large-scale fisheries, especially in the North Atlantic since the mid-1970s. Estimation of
size and composition of stock has become the main challenge and task of the fishery
biologists in the North Atlantic region. The development of the models was stimulated by the
perceived need for more ‘rational’ management in a sector that was regarded as being plagued
by the free-reigning activities of independent fishers. Managers and scientists ostensibly
hoped to avoid a ‘tragedy of the commons’ (Hardin’s 1968).
In Canada the actual impetus for the ‘promotion’ of these bioeconomic models came
from a drive to ‘nationalise’ stocks (Finlayson 1994). Such ‘nationalisation’ could only be
seen as ‘rational’ if it were possible to quantify the stocks. But where fishery managers have
based decisions on MSY and similar models for some time, there has been scientific
disagreement and intense political wrangling over the methodologies of data collection and
the interpretation of the data. Scientists’ initial estimates have in retrospect often been
criticised and adjusted dramatically and. In addition, the theoretical foundation of these
models has been severely criticised. Some scholars have pointed out that, in light of chaos
theory, the assumptions of the bio-economic paradigm simply do not hold. Chaos theory has
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 243

inspired scientific understanding of marine resources bringing it often closer to the folk
conceptions of the environment (see e.g. Acheson & Wilson 1996, McGoodwin 1990:73-77,
Smith 1991). Further, the quota system promoted by the bio-economists and implemented in
many of the world’s fisheries (Iceland, New Zealand, and Canada to name a few) may have
very adverse socio-economic effects. Especially where quotas are made fully transferable, as
in Iceland since 1990 (Pálsson & Helgason 1995), they can result in a dramatic concentration
of ownership and power.
These issues are beyond the scope of this thesis. Rather, my concern here is the extent
to which Turkish marine scientists rather swiftly adopted these external models during the
1990s. Since then, these models have increasingly governed their view of the ideal research
and management of the fisheries. Significantly, despite the problems and critiques such
models have met in other countries, many Turkish scientists and bureaucrats believe that
knowledge of stocks and calculation of MSY could facilitate a change towards a more
‘rational’ management system. Such a system, they contend, would adjust fishing effort
according to scientific models and allow the possibility for establishment of a quota (kota)
system based upon on TAC, Total Allowable Catch. Turkish scientists have during the 1990s
made recommendations about fishing effort that are based upon Schafer and/or MSY
calculations.
One young scientist wrote a paper on ‘Estimation of the optimum fishing capacity (av
gücü) in the processing of Turkish marine fish stocks’ (Özdamar 1996). He employs both the
Schaefer model and a similar model (Fox) to calculate MSY and fishing effort (avlanma
çabası) values138. He calculates the optimum MSY/fishing effort in terms of gross tonnage,
total length of vessels, and aggregated engine power of the fishing fleet. This he compares
with the actual landings as recorded in the fishery statistics (see figure 21) and finds that the
current (1993) fishing effort was 60% higher than the optimum values. He concludes that,
“…in place of striving for increased fishing effort in the Turkish fisheries, one should rather
ensure the sustainability (devamlılığı, continuation) of the marine resources by keeping
fishing effort at an optimum level” (Özdamar 1996:17). He goes on to propose a whole range
of measures that should be taken to limit fishing effort.
The Özdamar and similar papers contain visual demonstrations of the findings that
make it easy to perceive the difference between the ideal and the actual (see figure 21).
Highly digitised information processing, using computer, is followed by a transcription into
analogic codes that facilitate meaning construction (cf. Shore 1996). The figure is more
convincing than the numbers alone because the reader must supply the conclusion (‘see the
gap’) herself. It is possible to ‘read’ the figure, to extract meaning from it, without
understanding the underlying models and assumptions. Even a lay person, such as the
anthropologist, may ‘understand’ the result when it is presented this way. The figure purports
to be a representation of the ‘world out there’, while it is, to write in ‘latourian’ mode, a
construction, a relatively stable collective, which has only recently become possible to design

138
Note that this calculation does not seem to presuppose any knowledge of the stocks.
244 CHAPTER 7

in Turkey since the spokesperson (the author of the paper) could draw on actants - resources
such as his own mastery of the models, as well as the computerised information processing
capacity - to build a wider network than previously possible.
Bio-economic models of fish stocks and fishing have been on the scientific and
managerial agenda for many decades in the West - the ‘model’ countries of the Turkish
sciences. But, with regard to Turkey I can see no trace of scientists and bureaucrats worrying
about catch effort, stocks, population dynamics, MSY, and so forth before the end of the
1980s in the various long term plans and seminar reports on the ‘Water Produce Sector’ (e.g.
MFAS 1974, Agricultural Bank 1982, Agricultural Bank 1984). For instance, the IV Five
Year Development Plan (1979-83) states that stock assessments will be undertaken, especially
in the Black Sea, with the goal of a annual production increase of 7.7% (Sarıkaya 1980:26). A
few years later, in lengthy paper entitled the ‘Turkish water produce production, potential,
gear and equipment (av araç gereçleri), problems, bottlenecks and suggestions for solutions
[sic.]’, a top bureaucrat (also a marine scientist) did not (in the section on ‘Problems,
bottlenecks and suggestions for solutions’) address the potential of catch capacity becoming
to high, of over-fishing, and the like. Rather, it was seen as a primary challenge to ‘increase
production of water produce’ (Şahin 1984:49-50).

Figure 21 Analogical models for articulating MSY and catch effort

These figures are excerpted from Özdamar 1996. The article includes all together six figures of MSY similar to
the one above. Ürün = production, avlama çabası = fishing effort, deniz balıkları av miktarı = catch of sea fish,
av miktarı = catch, uzunluk = length, motor gücü = engine power.
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 245

Towards the end of the 1980s new concerns arose and since at least 1988 the marine scientists
in Trabzon have recommended estimation of and management in accordance with total
allowable catch (TAC). In his talk to a seminar organised by the ‘Foundation for Economic
Research’ Çelikkale noted that “…science and research institutions should estimate stocks
and determine annual catch size” (Çelikkale 1988a:36). By the end of the 1990s calls for
monitoring of stocks and quota regulations became more widespread in academic publications
(e.g. Çelikkale et al 1998, Zengin, Genç & Düzgüneş 1998). Indeed, Zengin, Genç &
Düzgüneş (1998:98) states that “[q]uota applications are strongly recommended”. Likewise, a
1998 report (delivered to the Ministry) by the Trabzon WPRI on the economically important
fish species of the Black Sea recommends that, “in order to ensure the long term optimum
yield (verim) of each stock, catch amount should be designated by using analytic stock
models; depending on the condition of the stock annual quotas should be determined and
permission (izin) to catch more than this amount should not be given ” (Zengin, Genç &
Tabak 1998:47).
A survey of the 700 publications, mostly by Turkish authors, that are listed in the
Turkish Black Sea Bibliography (Öztürk 1998), shows dramatic increase in publications
dealing with population dynamics, stocks, and fishing effort from 1989 onwards. While only
two or three publications dealt with such issues before 1989 (notably Kara 1973 and 1975, an
expert who early on worked closely with FAO), as many as 35 works address such issues in
the years 1989-97. Also in conversation, scientists, bureaucrats and fishermen alike frequently
call for knowledge of the stock so that quota regulations can be applied to the fisheries. When
I spoke with the head of the ‘Water Produce Control and Protection’ Section (central
bureaucracy, Ankara) in 1990, she emphasised that they want to introduce quota regulations,
but that they were not able to do so since research was insufficient (araştırma yetersiz). But,
she added, the goal of newly initiated research funded by NATO and conducted by METU
and Trabzon WPRI was to establish the necessary knowledge of stocks of approximately ten
species. Eight years later some of the Turkish scientists that work on population dynamics and
population estimates claimed that they would soon possess enough knowledge of stocks to
enable quota regulations and limitation of fishing effort139. Regrettably, there is – as far as I
know –no discussion to date of what kind of quota system that would be, whether it would
work, and what the social consequences would be140.
Several different, but interrelated processes may have stimulated this change away
from the ‘agriculturist’ approach towards concerns that are shared in the international
scientific discourse on fisheries. First, the collapse in the Black Sea fisheries during 1989-92
probably opened the eyes of scientists and bureaucrats alike. The resource crisis pushed the
domestic and international discourse towards these issues. At the same time international
research bodies ‘discovered’ the Black Sea and it became easier to fund courses and

139
Ukrainian scientists claim to possess sufficient knowledge already (personal communication March
1997, Prof. Schulman, Institute of Southern Seas, Sevastopol).
140
See Knudsen 1997 for a brief discussion of this
246 CHAPTER 7

scholarships for Turkish Marine scientists. Turkish scientists received training under, among
others, the auspices of FAO in stock management, MSY, and the like. For instance, in the
early and mid-1990s several of the researchers at Trabzon WPRI whose basic training is
agricultural engineering received training in stock management by the FAO.
The year 1989 was an important turning point in international politics, and the
strategic interests of USA/NATO may have played a role in the design of research
programmes. From 1989 onwards NATO initiated and funded stock assessment studies in the
Black Sea (State Planning Organisation 1989:7). Although the METU’s Institute of Marine
Sciences in Erdemli received the bulk of these funds, the projects also involved some
scientists in Trabzon through joint research. The researchers of Trabzon WPRI were
responsible for studies of demersal stocks and those of the METU Institute for pelagic stocks.
The NATO research in the Black Sea has continued throughout the 1990s. By the turn of the
Millennium, seven out of ten projects supported by international agencies at the METU
Institute focus on the Black Sea. Six of these seven are funded by NATO or institutions in the
USA (NSF, NASA) (Http:/www.metu. edu.tr/home/wwwdbe/reserch.htm). NATO also funds
research in other Black Sea countries. Some of the NATO projects involve partners from all
around the Black Sea and several research institutions in the USA. The METU Institute has
the role of coordinating this collaborative effort (http://www.ibss.ifu.net/links/nato/tubs.html).
Not all NATO projects address population dynamics (some focus on general ecology, micro-
organisms or oceanography), but the NATO studies are clearly seen as an initiative in
building up a knowledge base that can in the long run facilitate use of bio-economic models in
marine resource management. One of the NATO publications resulting from the studies is
tellingly titled NATO TU-Black Sea Project: Ecosystem Modelling as a Management Tool for
the Black Sea (Ivanov and Oğuz 1998).
Although I cannot draw firm conclusions, there are good reasons to believe that the
increase in computing power at the research institutions has facilitated the use of bio-
economical models. When I visited Trabzon WPRI in 1990-91 they had very few computers.
By 1998 many of the staff had at their disposal up-to-date computers capable of running
advanced programmes. One of the staff had in 1998 a new PC with CD-ROM, printer,
scanner, a laptop, as well as a home PC. The Institute had also established a computer room,
were working on getting connected to the Web, and by 1999 designed a bilingual home page
for the Institute (http://www.trabzon.tagem.gov.tr). The investment in this new technology has
been facilitated in part by project support from the World Bank. Sürmene MSF seems to have
enjoyed similar developments. In addition to a computer room that is accessible to graduate
students, most tenured staff have their own computer, and PhD students share, one in a room
of three students.
Thus, a lot of the research now consists of, for example, making population estimates
by plotting field data into either plain Excel spreadsheets or into pre-designed ‘forms’ of some
specific program that according to an established equation will ‘automatically’ ‘process’ the
‘material’ and generate some ‘findings’. The use of computerised programmes that will
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 247

process some data according to an equation and generate the ‘results’ implies that not only the
model, but also the ‘processing’ becomes black boxed. The importance of such black boxed
models is indeed very great, as is exemplified by an excerpt from a paper by Sürmene MSF
scientists on population dynamics of anchovy. Towards the end of the section on ‘Materials
and Methods’ the authors write:

Growth was determined as length and weight by absolute values and rates (Beverton and Holt,
1957). The length-weight relationship was derived using the formula given by Pauly (1983).
Fulton’s condition factor was calculated according to Ricker (1975). Von Bertalaffy growth
equation for length and weight at a given age were determined (Ricker, 1975). Survival rate
from age series was used for calculations of the instantaneous total mortality coefficient (Z)
(Nikolsky, 1965; Gulland 1969). The instantaneous natural mortality rate (M) was calculated
with the formula given by Ursin (1967). (Düzgüneş et al 1995:60)

It can be concluded that the marine sciences have somewhat shifted focus from ‘production’
towards calculations of stocks, sustainable yield, and fishing effort. The former focus was
very much in accordance with the ‘agriculturist’ concerns of the bureaucracy. The new focus
is stimulated by the perceived resource crisis and a closer interaction with international
science, and facilitated by an increased information processing capacity. The new research
agenda is typically moved forward by a new generation of young scientists who are trained
not as agricultural engineers, but as ‘water produce engineers’, a development facilitated by,
and being a product of, the expansion of the water produce sciences during the 1980s and
1990s. Marine sciences in Trabzon may now be more influenced by imported scientific
models than state agendas. But these ‘external’ models that the Trabzon scientists lean on and
draw on have attained such a degree of sophistication that for the most part local sciences in
Trabzon lack the capacity (human and technical resources) to challenge or adjust their basic
premises or design. There is, as I have mentioned briefly, internationally some debate over the
usefulness of such models, and internationally renown research colleagues on the northern
and western shores of the Black Sea critically discuss the MSY, review the current debate
about the models, and suggest adjustments to the models themselves (see e.g. Prodanov et al
1997:141, Prodanov et al 1998). But the Trabzon scientists seem to accept these models
uncritically.
As I observed for the classifications of istavrit, the content of science may be more
black boxed at this peripheral level than in the frontier of science. Indeed, the very complexity
and the advanced mathematics of these models make it very ‘costly’ to critically assess them.
The fairly new and small institutions in Trabzon certainly do not have the resources that could
enable the staff to embark upon such an effort. Thus, the increased complexity of bio-
economic models also makes peripheral science increasingly dependent upon models that are
designed in the scientific metropoles. Compared to the marine sciences in Russia, Ukraine and
Bulgaria, Turkish marine science is very young. For instance, the Institute of the Southern
Seas in Sevastopol in Crimea, Ukraine, was established as a biological station in 1871. It
boasts an impressive library that stocks 150,000 titles, half of them in foreign languages. It
also includes a public aquarium that was opened more than 100 years ago
248 CHAPTER 7

(http://www.ibss.ifu.net/common/history.html). In 1997 I visited this institution and was

immediately struck by the abundance of maps, collections of animals, equipment, books, and
other scientific paraphernalia in all rooms, giving an impression of both activity and history.
This contrasts starkly with the generally spacious, but often rather empty and sterile offices
and laboratories at the marine research institutions in Trabzon. There is as yet no ‘history that
sits in the walls’. But the research institutions in the former communist countries have had
severe economical hardship. It seems that only opportunities such as joint NATO projects and
the like secure the possibility for some to stay at the forefront of research.

Conclusion

I started out this chapter by noting that already ‘in the field’ the scientist starts to distillate
knowledge/information from a complex practice. Non-inscribed practice and experience
remains out of sight, it cannot become bilgi, but is merely a general background landscape as
tecrübe. Some kinds of tecrübe may still become objectified, brought to the foreground,
without being incorporated into ‘science’. This pertains especially to skills that can be
associated with ‘education’ and ‘cultivation’, such as knowledge of foreign language and
computer use. The increasing complexity and authority of the taxonomic system and the
advent of bio-economic models has increasingly distanced scientists’ models from
fishermen’s models. Pálsson has noted a similar change in the Icelandic case with the
scientists’ shift to a modernist paradigm with bio-economic models (Pálsson 1998). In the
Turkish case, increased access to a new inscription and processing device, the new data
processing technology, has to a large extent stimulated this development.
Although scientists now rely more on bio-economic models than ‘production’ models
to understand the dynamics of ecology and fishing, the overall framework of rational
exploitation and the important role of the sciences remain intact. The new models advocated
by the scientists may even accord them a greater role in the fisheries than before. Scientists
become more important as policy advisors, and can subsequently argue for resources as the
new models require greater research efforts (especially population dynamics).
Marine sciences are clearly more than tradition(s) of knowledge, they are also
disciplines. Here I have glossed over the differences among different disciplines and the
dynamics among them: there are biologists, economists, agricultural engineers, and chemists
among the marine scientists in Trabzon. Yet, the institutionalisation into Marine Sciences
Faculty and Institute of ‘Water Produce’ respectively, gives a certain disciplinary structure to
a fairly new tradition of knowledge in this local context (see next chapter). Marine scientists
in Trabzon build their own very local networks to support their knowledges and must
therefore not be understood as yet another permutation of international/universal science.
They constitute a community of practitioners that addresses first and foremost local concerns.
There are differences within the larger scientific community with regard to how the
knowledge practitioners draw on and contribute to scientific knowledge. What is good
 SCIENTISTS’ KNOWLEDGES 249

knowledge in Trabzon, may be bad science in a laboratory in Japan, and what can be
challenging problems for marine scientists in Tokyo may be totally irrelevant for marine
scientists in Trabzon.
Despite processes of inscription and the like in science, which at the very outset so
much differentiates the fishermen’s and the scientist’s practice at sea, there is clearly
convergence in some kinds of knowledge, such as the model of hamsi migration, and possibly
in a shared impulse to think of kinds of fish/species as basic categories. Initially, fishery
science may even have built upon, systematised and extended fishermen’s knowledges.
Kosswig (see Chapter 3) clearly gathered much of his information directly from fishermen
when he wrote ‘The calendar of fishing in the Turkish Seas’ (Kosswig & Türkmen 1955). But
unlike fishing, in a scientific project it is an end in itself to construct collectives that are as
stable as possible and ensure that they can easily be combined, transported and mobilised.
That is what makes knowledge ‘knowledge’, and that is what science is about. Knowledge is
the product of science. But fish are the product of fishermen, and knowledge is not what their
project is about. This is rather self evident, but has far-reaching implications. Fishermen do
not strive to build stable collectives. Rather, their situated ‘technique’ should precisely be
unstable, undecided, and elusive in order to be useful. To catalogue it, freeze it, would be to
remove the dynamism and situatedness.
Thus, one of the primary differences between fishermen’s and scientists knowledges
may inhere in the very definition of knowledge that Latour supplies: ‘to be familiar with
things distant’. Such is the aim of science, not of fishing. Although fishermen may know
‘things at a distance’, more important is familiarity with the immediate. A ‘latourian’ analysis,
as has been pursued in this chapter, with a focus on the ‘facts’ themselves, may be a feasible
approach in studies of scientific practice. But Latour, as Lambek, focuses primarily on social
traditions that look upon themselves as traditions of knowledge, where knowledge is already
to some extent objectified. Latour describes the work to establish stable collectives, hard
facts. That is not the work of fishermen. Thus, a ‘latourian’ approach cannot facilitate
exhaustive analyses of non-scientific traditions of knowledge. Is it insufficient also for
analyses of science? Perhaps there is a need to balance the analyses of the ‘life of the facts’
with an analysis of the ‘life of the scientists’? This is the topic of the next chapter.
250 CHAPTER 8

8 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE,

AND POLITICS

Young men in Keremköy say that to be successful in Turkey one must ‘have a diploma from a
university, [know] a foreign language, have a PC, and an ‘uncle’ [‘good connections’]
(diploma, yabancı dil, bilgisayer ve dayı)’ 141. People with higher education are deemed
qualified for a range of positions with the state and increasingly find attractive positions in the
growing private sector. In this context, for most people being a scientist means success in life.
In the circles in which I have travelled in Trabzon, the position as tenured scientist is
generally regarded as very attractive; few leave to pursue other careers. The position of
researcher (araştırmacı) or scientist (bilim adamı/insanı, science man/human) is also accorded
much respect in the population at large. Some scientists display their titles together with their
names on the front door at home, and they are, together with schoolteachers, commonly
addressed as ‘hoca’, an ‘old-fashioned’ respectful form of address instead of the more
‘correct’, öğretmen (teacher). Except for positions as village teachers, most university
graduates live and work in cities. But, whether a position as a scientist is perceived and
experienced as personal success depends upon individual background and aspirations and
upon the status of the institution.
These are among the topics that will be addressed in this chapter, which can be read as
a companion chapter to Chapters 5 and 6. The focus here shifts from the scientists’
knowledges to their lives. What are the forms of social interaction in daily life? What kinds of
lifestyles do they articulate? What are their perspectives and opinions? What makes their lives
so distant from that of the fishermen? What is the institutional framework of science? What is
the role of politics?

The position and relative status of scientists

Traditionally, higher education in Turkey has been the privilege of the urban middle and
upper classes; this is still the case at the prestigious universities. Memur (‘bureaucrat’, civil
servant) families have typically put more emphasis upon education than others have. But
offspring of the growing private sector bourgeoisie now make up an increasing portion of
universities’ student bodies (see Chapter 11). The profile of the marine scientists in Trabzon

141
The last factor, that of the dayı, indicates that even though you have all the other three assets, you
must have good connections in order to find a position, both with the state and in the private sector
(placement services are virtually non-existent in Turkey).
 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE AND POLITICS 251

deviates somewhat from this pattern. Of those I know well and/or have interviewed, about
half come from memur families (military, teachers, lower local bureaucracy), the other half
from rural families that have their main income from agriculture (some rich, some poorer).
Thus, most of these scientists have been upwardly mobile. The university in Trabzon (KTÜ)
is not among the prestigious universities in Turkey, but neither is it very low in prestige142. It
is certainly not regarded as one of the new ‘provincial’ (‘taşra’, ‘the provinces’, outside of the
urban areas) universities created during the 1980s and 1990s. It is a ‘proper’ university that,
contrary to some of the ‘provincial’ universities143, has relatively few problems filling
positions with qualified staff.
The main difference between the Sürmene MSF and Trabzon WPRI is that the former
is responsible for education at all levels including PhD (doktora), while the second is not.
Some of the marine scientists in Trabzon have received their training from KTÜ, but most
have completed all or most of their higher education at universities elsewhere in Turkey or in
the USA, Canada or the UK. The level of training at Sürmene MSF is generally much higher
than at Trabzon WPRI. At Sürmene MSF many scientists (10 of 40 research and technical
personnel) have a PhD degree, while in 1999 only two out of 27 ‘technical’ staff at the
Trabzon WPRI had a PhD degree (and only nine had Master and/or PhD degrees). While only
two at Trabzon WPRI are trained as ‘water produce engineers’, many at the Sürmene MSF,
especially the younger ones, have such a background. A new cohort of young men and
women are working on their PhDs at there. Thus, the scientists at Sürmene MSF generally
have seen more of the world, speak better English, and are more integrated with international
science. While there are many researchers from outside of Trabzon both at Sürmene MSF and
Trabzon WPRI, the majority hail from in or near Trabzon.
Most of the scientists I know in Trabzon seemed to be fairly satisfied with their
salaries. Trabzon is a far less expensive place to live than the larger cities (in Istanbul teachers
and university employees often have to supplement their salary). Most manage with their
incomes as scientists, especially so since many are married to professionals with incomes in
the same range. Income differences are generally huge in Turkey, with the upper quintile
securing 56% and the lower quintile receiving only 4% of the total national income (1994,
State Planning Organisation). During the spring of 1998 the official minimum wage was in
the range of 35 MTL144/month. It was not unusual, however, for employees in places such as
Çarşıbaşı to be paid as little as 25 MTL. Industrial workers in the western part of the country
would typically start at about 50 MTL. A teacher would receive somewhat less than 100 MTL
and a ‘research employee’ (araştırma görevlisi, usually working on their Master or PhD
degrees) slightly more. A professor would receive at least 250 MTL, and often more with

142
Measured in number of publications entered in the Science Citation Index, the KTÜ is the most
productive of the universities outside of the elite universities in the three largest cities (Zaman Gazetesi
30.12.1996: Üniversitelerimizin durumu).
143
Cumhuryiet, 04.12.1999: Taşradaki üniversiteler ögretim uyesi bulamiyor.
144
1 May 1998: 100 MTL = 400 US$.
252 CHAPTER 8

class fees (ders ücreti) to which ‘research employees’ are usually not entitled. The salaries of
researchers at Trabzon WPRI are generally in the same range as for the ‘research employees’.
In addition to the relatively good salaries, as employees of the state one is also
guaranteed other attractive benefits. First, a permanent position (daima), and to some extent
as a contractual worker (sözleşmeli), guarantees lifelong employment and salary. This is of
utmost importance in a society with virtual no unemployment salary. A position with the state
automatically brings benefits such as insurance, old age pension, orderly work hours (mesai),
transport to work, among other perks. For these reasons, many will choose a position with the
state even though the income may be lower than in alternative occupations. Thus, no small-
boat fisherman would hesitate to accept an offer to be the lowest remunerated memur position
with the state. Small-boat fishing is something a man does when he cannot support his family
in other ways.
Professors and other permanent scientific staff are therefore generally seen as
successful and privileged. Their relative success and status is also attested to by an upper
middle class lifestyle, as expressed in culinary preferences and in such material wealth as
fairly high quality apartments and clothing. Many also own cars (no small-boat fishermen or
crew have cars) though not, however, the posh types; not the Mercedeses that the factory
owners and a few of the rich fishermen can afford to zip around in; rather; they drive typical
memur arabası (civil servant car) such as the Turkish produced TOFAS. Senior employees
and especially those in administrative leader positions also enjoy having official cars (makam
arabası) with driver at their disposal.

Institutional structure and recruitment of staff

The employees at Sürmene MSF spend most of their time teaching, while those at Trabzon
WPRI mainly practice applied science. There is relatively little scientific cooperation between
the two institutions except for the cases where researchers at Trabzon WPRI working on their
PhDs (three in 1998) are supervised by hocas at Sürmene. The Trabzon WPRI at Yomra,
about 15 minutes drive west of Trabzon city centre, was established in 1987 and has since
become co-ordinator of all three ‘water produce’ research stations in Turkey. Research at
Trabzon WPRI spans a wide range from socio-economic studies of fisheries, fishing
technology, and catch analyses, to aquaculture and monitoring of marine pollution. At
Sürmene education and research focus on fishing technology, boat construction, water
produce processing, and fish farming. Relatively speaking, at both Trabzon WPRI and
Sürmene MSF there is a high focus on aquaculture (both marine and fresh water). In general,
the Trabzon WPRI is regarded as being better supported than the university faculties. Some
see it as a pity that the brainpower (beyin gücü) at Sürmene and the material power (maddi
gücü) at Yomra are not united.
The location of the Marine Science Faculty in Sürmene, almost an hour’s drive from
Trabzon where most of the employees live, may seem odd. The location is not motivated by a
 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE AND POLITICS 253

desire to be close to ideal research locations, but an outcome of political processes. Local
politicians and businessmen often try to win support by bringing benefits to their
constituency. One way to effect this is to bring state institutions (and thereby jobs as well as
‘civilisation’) to their district or province. This is precisely one of the processes behind the
creation of so many ‘provincial’ universities during the 1980s and 1990s. The Faculty at
Sürmene was established there because a wealthy businessman donated the ground for this
purpose. The same processes led to the establishment of another - separate - ‘water produce’
faculty at Rize, only 30 km east of the Sürmene Faculty. This smaller faculty is also a part of
the KTÜ. Recently the university has opened a ‘water produce’ section at the new Maçka
Vocational School, half an hour ‘upstream’ from Trabzon. This school was established with
monetary donations from wealthy businessmen and the lobbying efforts of politicians coming
from Maçka. The school’s main focus is fresh water aquaculture.
There are several crucial barriers to be crossed in order to become permanent staff at a
university or research institute in Turkey. Although somewhat complex, as these are crucial
issues in the lives of Turkish academicians, some elaboration of the national system of higher
education and research follows. First of all, entrance to the universities is by a two-tier
national entrance examination (recently redesigned into a single exam). Marks from high
school (lise) count for almost nothing; therefore pupils put their energy into preparing for the
exams. This preparation is done best by the private dershane that train the student exclusively
for these university entrance exams. It is in practice almost impossible to ‘win’ if one has not
been to a good dershane or to one of the prestigious high schools, all of which require
substantial ‘investment’ by the hopefuls’ parents. In the cities of Istanbul and Trabzon the
wealthiest quintile of the population spends five to ten times as much on their offsprings’
education as the rest of the population. Also, the wealthiest 20% tend to use a much larger
share of their income on education (State Institute of Statistics 1997). The dershanes attract
the best teachers as many pay far better than the state schools. They run what is called an
‘American exam’ whereby one is to tick the correct answer to a question or problem from
three options. The exam results receive great publicity; each year the national media
announces national winners and the dershane and schools that scored highest. The individual
results are coupled with the candidates’ priority list (kind of study, where). In hopes of a good
score, most candidates put such studies as medicine, architecture, law on top of their lists. The
result is that most of the students that ‘win’ do not have their first choice, but their third,
fourth or fifth choice. I do not know anyone among the ‘water produce’ scientists who picked
‘water produce’ as their first choice.
Once at university students first read four years (sometimes shorter courses) within
one faculty and receive a ‘lisans’ (Bachelor) degree. Entrance to the next level, ‘higher’
(yüksek) lisans or Masters, is by a combination of marks and various entrance exams (at
national, university (English language) and Faculty level). Entrance to the doktora (PhD) is
regulated primarily by exams. The more important issue of position and salary is another
matter. The various faculties have at their disposal a certain number of positions (kadro) for
254 CHAPTER 8

the recruitment position ‘research employee’. People are formally engaged for one year at a
time as contractual (sözleşmeli) workers. These are primarily students working on their
Master or doktora thesis. In practice the contract is usually renewed each year until one has
completed the doktora and automatically becomes a Yardımcı Doçent (Assistant Professor)145.
Many are able to become ‘research employees’ already when they are working on their
Masters. The selection criteria for these positions are highly arbitrary, but de facto authority
for decisions seems to lie with the Faculty. In addition to several exams (among them an
English language exam), the doktora thesis must be accepted by a scientific committee before
a degree is granted. As Yardımcı Doçent one is still a contractual worker (three-year
contracts). One has twelve years to qualify as Doçent (Associate Professor). The final
acceptance of a candidate as Doçent depends primarily on the decision of a scientific jury that
reviews one’s publications and scientific credentials. After becoming Doçent one
automatically reaches Professor after a few years. Thus, the critical steps in the process
towards becoming a full-fledged university academician with a permanent position are
passing the university entrance exam, attaining a position as ‘research employee’, receiving
ones doktora, and passing the scrutiny of the Doçent jury. The Trabzon WPRI does not follow
the above procedure. Formally candidates enter national exams which, together with their
training and experience, are evaluated when the Institute selects a new employee. In practice,
many of the academic staff, here generally called ‘technical staff’, come from positions within
the large (regional) bureaucracy of the Ministry for Agriculture. Staff is often shuffled around
between positions within this Ministry.
From among the staff at the faculty and institute, an administrative leader an
administrative leader is appointed, dean (dekan) in the university faculty, and a director
(müdür) at the institute. These are positions that give the holder substantial authority and
power. Each directs much of the research activity, decides who will work on which task, be
sent on assignments, or receive permission for leave. In short, the dean/director can ‘assign
tasks’ (görevlendirmek) to the staff and give permissions (izin). Also, most decisions must
pass the hands and be affirmed by the dean/director. This is bureaucratic procedure ‘as usual’
in Turkey. When researchers speak of their research trips, be it a one-day visits to a nearby
station or a prolonged stay abroad, they commonly speak of it as they having been ‘assigned
the task’ (görevlendirildim, görevli olarak gittim). Alternatively, if they themselves take the
initiative to leave for fieldwork (e.g. as part of data collecting during doktora), or want to
participate in a conference, they depend on receiving izin from the dean/director. This very
hierarchical structure within the institutions means that the work practice is thoroughly
suffused with an experience of doing a task on behalf of the Institution (and therefore the
State). This implies not only that the institution retains control over and possession of their
staffs’ work, but also that it is responsible for it by, for instance, covering incurred costs.
Fishermen and researchers alike frequently asked if I was on ‘duty’ (görev), and, if so, for

145
The exception is if one has an external scholarship, often called elli’de (‘at fifty’), which is said to be
increasingly common. Then one must wait for a position (kadro) to open.
 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE AND POLITICS 255

whom. They were generally satisfied when they heard that I was with a University and that
they covered my costs. On the other hand, disassociated me somewhat from the project. The
fishermen especially did not see me as responsible for the project. In their eyes the project
was not mine but the University’s; I had simply been assigned the task, in which I,
incidentally, may or may not be personally interested. The crucial fact was that it would be
concluded with a degree, and that I would, as they saw it, become a university hoca or an
engineer (mühendis).
Thus, the daily activities as well as the careers of scientists are profoundly structured
by the state. Scientists must by necessity direct their attention to this structure and its
associated social dynamics. Knowledge is framed by rigid institutional structure, and
authority with regard to knowledge is highly instituted. Unlike in fishing, what is ‘good’ or
‘correct’ knowledge is therefore to a large extent dependent upon the formalised structures of
academic degrees and levels/positions. Being a scientist, in the cases at hand, not only means
‘doing science’, but also ‘being with the state’. Scientists themselves may have an ambivalent
attitude towards their dependence upon the state, but fishermen and other ‘common people’
clearly perceive the situation as ‘once you have a foot in the dood, the state takes care of you’.

Social life, manners and style

In general marine scientists in Trabzon spend most of their working hours within their home
institution. However, the image of the lone professor sitting in his office contemplating
difficult things is hardly apposite here. First, the workday (mesai) is interrupted by a one hour
lunch and a half hour tea break. Academic staff appears fairly universally at these gatherings.
Since transportation service (bus) from Sürmene leaves early, the effective workday is only
five and a half hours. There is generally an informal tone. Many keep their doors open. There
is a lot of talk, mutual visits, and collective work. Many students sit and work together in
front of a PC in the computer rooms. In the doktora students’ shared offices, the students
generally sit facing each other. Except for the doktora students, not much research seems to
be done during the workday. Many reputedly work at home during evenings. One doktora
student, who had done his masters in the USA, complained about this lack of opportunity to
study. He had turned his desk so that he sat facing the wall, and put a large aquarium between
himself and his office mate in order to create a better environment for concentration. Doktora
students spend only about one year on their thesis and the rest on courses, exams and
compulsory work. They are often assigned tasks by their supervisors; ‘research employees’
are generally assistants of their supervisors. They are also often expected to supervise the
laboratory work of undergraduates.
The high degree of sociability, the mutual visiting and drinking of tea, is something
found in many sectors of Turkish society; in business, within the bureaucracy, and, indeed, in
the fishery sector. The communal transport to and from work reinforces this active interaction
within the institutions. Here, as in the fisheries, collective work, trust, and flow of information
256 CHAPTER 8

seem to depend upon friendships that must be regularly affirmed. There are of course
differences in style and emphasis, but scientists appreciate sohbet (small talk), drinking tea
together, hospitality and generosity. But, unlike the fishermen, they are more familiar and
comfortable with the kind of ‘impersonal’ relations that they encounter, for example, within
the scientific world. Upon meeting me the scientists were much less interested than fishermen
in learning about my father’s profession, my children, and other details of my personal life.
To what extent do they actually handle interpersonal relations ‘impersonally’?
Interaction with the Japanese researchers at Trabzon WPRI is revealing. The Japanese
organisation (JICA) that is responsible for the turbot project (see Chapter 7), has engaged a
Turk with extensive training in marine science from Japan to coordinate, from Ankara, this
and other projects in Turkey. He speaks Japanese well and is a ‘dynamic’ young man who is
able to take a distanced view of the Japanese-Turk interaction. He is well aware of the
differences between the two groups. When I visited him in his home in Ankara he offered the
following interpretation: ‘The Turks believe that one must be friends (dost) in order to be able
to cooperate in research. The Japanese are not so concerned about that. They do not pay much
attention to thoughtfulness and helpfulness. The Japanese think the Turks are little good at
cooperating. They say that one Turk can do the job of two, while three Turks only manage to
get one man’s job done. On the other hand, one Japanese makes one man’s work, while three
Japanese do five man’s work.’
When the Japanese had been in Trabzon for a couple of years, the Turks at Trabzon
WPRI grew increasingly sceptical of the Japanese. The Japanese lived permanently at one of
the best hotels in town, were transported to and from the institute by a separate service,
socialised little with the Turks, and kept the research results to themselves – even daily
research notes were inscribed in Japanese. A ‘water produce’ scientist from Trabzon that was
familiar with the turbot project complained that the Japanese were not open (açık), that they
do not share (paylaşmıyorlar). One of the researchers at Trabzon WPRI told me the following
story. Two of his colleagues at Yomra were sent to Japan for a few months as part of the
turbot project. In the street one day one of them ran into a Japanese scientist who had been in
Trabzon for a long time when working for the project. The Turk asked the Japanese: ‘Do you
remember me?’ The Japanese answered ‘I remember’, turned and walked away. The Turk
became very upset (çok üzüldü). While the Japanese stayed in Trabzon he had not ‘given him
[the Turk] a moment of peace’ (onu rahat bırakmadı). He concluded the story by asserting
that the Japanese only work. The man who told me this story does not hold Turk-Islamic
views (that could be a motive for criticising the Japanese), but rather sees himself as a
democratic, left-wing intellectual who is sceptical of many things Turkish.
That the ethical know-how of decent manner is highly cherished is exemplified in the
Turkish/Japanese differences. The scientists, although to a lesser degree than the fishermen,
prefer to articulate social interaction as being along lines of friendship; much emphasis is put
on sociality, spending time together, and being generous and hospitable. Many of the marine
scientists in Trabzon prefer a kind of social practice that gives due attention to the individual
 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE AND POLITICS 257

and the mutual relation among humans. Yet, in their time off work, the researchers do not
hang around in local kahves. Some occasionally visit the Teachers House in Trabzon in small
groups to play a game of cards. Some have access to the Kalepark (‘Castlepark’) military
social club where they can have high quality food and alcoholic drinks at a low price in a
‘civilised’ environment. Generally, however, they spend more time with their families and
make a point about that. The unmarried, often in mixed company, sometimes meet after work
for a meal at a restaurant or a cup of coffee at a pastahane (patisserie). Some like to go to
classical Turkish music concerts, which are sometimes organised by the University. Women
in this social environment are generally not covered (kapalı) but ‘open’ (açık), dressing and
keeping their hair in a moderate ‘Western’ style. Hair, hair-covering and dress are continued
sensitive and politicised topics in Turkey; They are issues of which the researchers have got to
relate to consciously somehow, especially as state employees who are subject to very strict
codes of attire.
The formal rules of clothing and appearance are quite strict. They narrow down the
scope of attire considerably because they aim at restricting ‘excesses’ in both directions, i.e.
both in Islamic and ‘indecent Western’ styles. At the workplace, women are not allowed to
cover, but neither are they allowed to wear skirts above their knees. Men are not allowed to
grow beard (but can groom a moustache that must not be longer than the upper lips…) and are
barred from wearing shorts. Attire should be formal, clean and fairly neutral. These rules have
become especially important at the universities since they were the major scenes of the türban
(headscarf) protests of the 1980s and 1990s (see e.g. Göle 1996, Özdalga 1998). In the
institutions I became acquainted with some do not pay too much attention to these rules, and,
‘Western excesses’ were more common, especially among younger men from western
Turkey: long hair, no tie, and Levis trousers. Most felt the rules a ridiculous imposition, and
there did not seem to be any serious conflicts over attire and general appearance within these
institutions.
The adherence to the rules seems to be taken more seriously at higher ranks, especially
in administrative positions. I remember well one very warm day I visited the director (himself
recruited from among the researchers) at Trabzon WPRI. He was dressed in an elegant black
suit and, despite the heat, he kept his waistcoat and jacket on and did not loosen his tie. The
‘technical staff’, on the other hand, were dressed decently, but in a much more relaxed style.
The closer to state power a person is, it seems, the more important are the state rules. He
personifes and embodies the state. The state bestows authority, but this authority only
becomes legitimate and effectual when the representatives take on the ‘air’ of order,
cleanliness, and importance. This seems to be much more important at Trabzon WPRI than in
Sürmene MSF.
The ‘Islam-West’ conflict is not very pronounced within these institutions and it is
generally of less concern than what one may have expected. A few of the researchers,
especially some of those coming from the western part of Turkey, are expressly atheist. But
most seem to regard themselves as religious, and for some the Islamic faith, rituals and life
258 CHAPTER 8

style precepts are indeed very important. On the other hand, I do not know of any who are
active members of Islamic brotherhoods or political parties, and few draw attention to their
beliefs or proselytised (as many fishermen as well as lower bureaucrats do). Their religious
beliefs are to a large extent ‘individualised’. Concerns about attire and bodily behaviour that
partly transcend the ‘Islam-West’ opposition, have profound importance in self-presentation
and social practice. These revolve around concerns of cleanliness (temiz, temizlik) and good
manners (kibar/refined, terbiye/well-mannered, nazık/polite).
Most researchers, as others of the middle classes, pay great attention to the cleanliness
of their clothes and shoes and make sure that they do not appear worn or not ironed.
Alexander (1997) describes one lower bureaucrat in Erzurum who, despite his low salary, did
his utmost to present himself as well dressed (and ‘shoed’). Clothes and shoes are generally
important measures of a person’s status. Some of the researchers from western Turkey are
more ‘slack’ in this respect (or ‘relaxed’, rahat, as they would have said themselves), but
most make sure to wear plain, clean and often ‘official’ clothes such as jacket and tie, and to
avoid loose and soft ‘leisure’ clothes (more about this in Chapter 12). The transport by official
car service (makam arabası) (available to the director, or researchers on special duty) gains an
added importance in this context: when compared to travel by public buses or the (private)
dolmuşes (minibuses), it is easier to stay clean. Streets easily become muddy in the Black Sea
climate, and the buses are often packed. In a context where many are not (economically) able
to dress in new, clean, and ironed high quality clothes, and where manual labour makes this
difficult or impracticable, attire and cleanliness receives considerable attention. But ability to
dress ‘well’ is also believed to stem from a cultural competence associated with breeding and
education. Dressing is a subtle way to expressing tastes appropriate for a certain lifestyle.
The presence of the nataşas also makes it important for a woman to distance herself
from this ‘dirty’ group, notably by not bleaching her hair, applying much mascara nor
showing too much of her skin or body figure. Added to this are other elements associated with
body posture, eye contact, and use of socio-space. A concern for both men and women is the
cleanliness of food and service. Many avoid eating at cheaper lokanta because they are
perceived as unclean (both the food and the ortam, environment, socially and physically);
some always make sure to wipe thoroughly drinking glass and utensils with tissue paper
before eating. No fisherman bothers about such ‘niceties’. The scientists prefer to do their
shopping in the ‘modern’ and supposedly clean stores in the city centre’s main shopping area,
rather than in the cheaper markets just beyond these streets. Even foodstuffs are often
purchased from the ‘clean’ supermarkets and stores in the city centre rather than from local
grocer (bakkal) and greengrocer (manav) or the open market.
Many of the criteria for decent, cultivated behaviour are difficult to explicate, and
concern not only bodily behaviour and language, but also ‘interpersonal style’. First, scientists
are much less physically close in their personal encounters than are more ‘simple’ people.
There is much less kissing, squeezing, and holding hands. During one lunch (at a nice
restaurant), a professor and a ‘research employee’ that he supervised (for the doktora) spoke
 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE AND POLITICS 259

about their pre-graduate students. They found that the students from western Turkey
(specified upon my request as the regions of Marmara, Aegean, Ankara, Black Sea and
Adana) had more easy-going manners (daha rahat, ‘more relaxed’) than the students from the
east. I asked whether this was the same as being less cultivated (kültürlü). “No, not quite.
Kültürlü is not the same as sosyal (social) or rahat. The students from the west are more
sosyal, rahat, since they ask questions more freely in class, and so on.” Many that oppose the
Islamic and conservative forces in Turkey emphasise precisely that they themselves are more
sosyal. But this may be as much a way of distancing oneself from ‘backward and village’
style interaction, as an opposition to Islam (although Islam may of course be seen as one
‘backward’ trait). The ideals of being rahat and sosyal may equate with being urban and
kosmopolit, being good at and desiring social intermingling (‘solidarism’). In connection with
the international conference FISHECO'98 that was organised by the Sürmene Faculty, a
cocktail party was arranged in the Kalepark ‘military club’ in the centre of Trabzon. When
almost no one from the Trabzon WPRI showed up at the cocktail party even though many
attended the conference, a researcher at Trabzon WPRI complained that the Institute was not
‘social’ (bizim Enstitü sosyal değil).
The style of a person’s interpersonal behaviour should be fairly self assure and not
overtly deferential, but polite with colleagues and superiors. She must to be sensitive to strike
the right balance. Even people working together, and even in informal situations, usually
address each other with the polite Siz (‘You’, which e.g. the fishermen reserve for strangers
and superiors, though not for their reis or village head). Alternatively, one may use other
polite forms of address, such as hoca (teacher), hanımefendi (lady, madam), müdür bey (‘Mr.
director’, if appropriate). Indeed, speech is one of the most important practice domains where
style and manner are expressed. Almost all scientists speak with the national style ‘Istanbul
dialect’. Also, most of them make sure to use the correct Turkish neologisms, and not the
Arabic words that may still be common vernacular among the uneducated. While many
fishermen use the (Arabic) concept tahsil to denote ‘education’, the scientists generally say
eğitim. The scientists generally speak more softly and plainly, without the changes in pitch
and ‘power’, without the swearing and rich use of metaphors that ‘simpler’ people employ in
their much more ‘dramaturgic’ style of talking. It is as if the words ‘in themselves’ are to
carry more of the weight of meaning in the scientists’ speech. They also employ creative
metaphors to a lesser degree than the fishermen do. It is as if they speak as they write. Walter
Ong has noted that:

…written words sharpen analysis, for the individual words are called on to do more. (…) [a]nd
you have to make your language work so as to come clear all by itself, by no existential
context. (…) Of course, once the chirographically initiated feel for precision and analytic
exactitude is interiorized, it can feed back into speech, and does (1982:104-5). Persons who
have interiorized writing not only write, but also speak literately, which is to say that they
organize, to varying degrees, even their oral expression in thought patterns and verbal patterns
that they would not know unless they could write (1982:56-57).
260 CHAPTER 8

This seems to apply to the marine scientists in Trabzon. It would be interesting to focus more
on scientists’ verbal externalisations as manifest in lectures and formal meetings. I have
largely been unable to do so, but from conversations and interviews I get the general
impression that they employ a verbal language that seems to take as its ideal, tries to conform
with, a written style. Although I have spent much more time with fishermen than with
scientists, I almost always had an easier time understanding what the scientists said. The taped
conversations with fishermen are difficult to transcribe, while those with the scientists are
more straightforward. I suspect this is so because the scientists tend to take the written text as
a model for oral styles, using longer grammatically correct sentences, with little implicit
meaning, that are phonetically clear and not too hastily spoken. The ‘literate style’ of speech
is further demonstrated by the fact that scientists are much more accustomed to having long
monologues. They also know how to be polite and not interrupt. Thus, the ‘clarity’ of the
scientists’ speech style may be an effect of the fact that their thinking is structured by a high
involvement in writing and reading. It is as if the words are only set to work with their
denotative meaning, ‘correctly’ representing the world.
I believe, however, that there is more to this than simply the ‘technique’ (skill) of
speech being moulded by the ‘technique’ of writing. There is a level of meta-communication
in this style, precisely by being seen as a style. It is part of the lifestyle of the ‘educated, a
style for which they have a taste. The purity (correctness) of the style and of the language is in
itself an important identity marker that demonstrates sophistication. It takes a special kind of
breeding, training, and skill (technique) to be able to master the correct style. This literalism
of the oral style may be an expression of a more general fetishsising of language as text. The
‘rational’ language of the scientists (and bureaucrats) is an aspect of their lifestyle that
connects them with the ‘Grand Narrative’ of Turkish Modernisation. They both represent and
embody this state-governed modernisation process. As I noted in Chapter 3, scientists have a
special responsibility in the Turkish modernisation since development and social change are
ideally to be guided by rational, scientific thinking. In the final chapters I will elaborate
further on the symbolic importance of education and the mastery of ‘refined’ language style
as aspects of the social process of creating a distance between scientists and fishermen.
Note the contrast to Yılmaz Terzi’s ‘inscription’ of himself into the ‘Grand Narrative’
of hamsi migrations, weather conditions, the Universe and Allah (Chapter 4). An important
technique employed by Yılmaz was to position himself in the Grand Narrative by drawing on
human body analogies, body language, and other techniques that imbued the story with
experiential reality. Creative metaphors, radial concepts, and density of connotations mark his
technique. The scientists’ rhetorical strategy is the opposite. They stress clarity, transparency,
and the decontextualised meaning of language. This conforms to the ‘correspondence theory
of meaning’ that Lakoff criticises (see Chapter 4), and which Herzfeld disclaims as a ‘myth of
representability’ and a ‘literalist dream of clarity’ (1992:111,118). Thus, Herzfeld claims that
both contextual (Yılmaz’ narrative) and universal (scientists’ narratives) meaning are
rhetorical strategies and not possible conditions of reality (1992:117). The rhetorical aspects
 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE AND POLITICS 261

of the bureaucratic-scientific language came out in the bureaucrat’s formally correct but
opaque statement that I cited in ‘Scientists as modernising agents’ in Chapter 3.
These are issues to which I will return in the next two chapters. It may be noted that
Herzfeld’s approach begs the question of the status of his own text and whether a ‘scientific’
text is possible. The semiotic kind of analysis that he seems to prefer may represent a problem
of extreme relativism. Everything becomes symbols and rhetoric. What is the connection
between rhetoric and reality? I touched on this problem in Chapter 4 and established a partial
epistemological rescue in Lakoff’s (1987) theory of the bodily basis of language. It comes as
no surprise that also marine scientists, although to a lesser degree than fishermen, employ
human body analogies in their oral articulations to convey the lifecycle of the fish. In
explaining that the fish is most vulnerable in the larval period, one scientist used a metaphor
drawn from human life: “What is the most critic periods? Yes, its when children are new-
born, in the period [when it is] child [yavru]. That’s how it is with fish as well.”
Cleanness, sophistication, and literalism important aspects of scientists’ lifestyles.
Entering social spheres where one does not find such refinement is perceived as a problem by
some. One researcher at Trabzon WPRI regretted having been assigned to stay in the small
town of Çayeli (east of Rize) for a couple of weeks since she found the people there to be very
kaba (coarse, without manners). Thus, lifestyle puts restrictions on practice and hampers
interaction and contact with the ‘common man’, of which fishermen are widely regarded as
being among the most ignorant (cahil) and kaba. Both the social and physical dimensions of
the fishing sector are ‘unclean’. This concern with manners and style is found throughout
Turkish society, and the unwillingness to expose oneself to ‘dirty’ environments, people,
places, and food often results in people living very segregated lives. Once at a private party
among foreign diplomats and Turkish elite in the posh Çankaya area in Ankara, I told one
young bureaucrat that I was staying in a cheap hotel at Ulus. Ulus is on the other side of the
city centre, but not far from Çankaya and an important part of the larger city centre of Ankara.
It is, however, the part of the city the villagers and conservative Muslims seek. I was amazed
to learn that although a native of Ankara, he had never been there. Likewise, a young upper
class student at METU, also from Ankara, told me that she had never been to any village in
Turkey!
The concerns that I have elaborated above are not in conflict with, nor wholly
congruent with, what is perceived as the more specific Islamic rules of for example
cleanliness. One may say that the scientists’ tastes in this regard are partly extensions from
and partly overlap with Islamic rules. The concern with cleanliness can of course be
elaborated in multiple ways. For instance, most academicians will find that the new style of
Muslim restaurants, brightly lit, alcohol free, and so on is fully acceptable (but it may not be
the desired place to celebrate their wedding). Most kinds of claims to elite status, but also to
the ethically correct way of life as articulated among other things in the Trabzon fish food
culture, are in some way or another imbued with claims to cleanliness.
262 CHAPTER 8

Skills such as refinement and literalism are kinds of ethical know-how that are to a
large extent tacit and embodied, but still very much a defining characteristic of what it means
to be a man or woman of learning and good breeding. These skills, as the fishermen’s ethical
know-how of interpersonal interaction, defy to a large extent being defined as either ‘Islamic’
or ‘Western’. To wipe the fork before eating, is that ‘Islamic’ or ‘Western’ style? The stress
on being rahat, sosyal, and kültürlü could be interpreted as composing an ‘ethos’ of
‘solidarism’, a cosmopolite social code that stands in opposition to ‘mahalle’ (community)
‘ways’, as expressed for instance in patron-client relations and blood-feuds. Is this
sophisticated culture ‘Western’, ‘Turkish’, or perhaps an extension of the Ottoman adab, the
elite code of conduct and taste that a gentleman within the state-oriented tradition should have
at his command (Zürcher 1993:14, Mardin 1994:164, Heper 1985:25)? Why fit it into such a
well-defined slot at all? It certainly is an urban, elite culture, but ‘Western’? Certainly, in
some domains there are competing claims to elite style that are framed within the opposing
idioms of ‘Islam’ and ‘Secular’. Chic head-cover stands in opposition to ‘styled’ hair. But
both of these are styles that distance a woman from ‘village styles’.

Politics in science, science in politics

Marine scientific knowledge in Trabzon derives its character from its complex embedding
within international science, national policies and traditions, and local and national cultural
traditions of elite articulation. But it is clear that science is of the elite, and being a scientist is
an expression of elite identity. That does not mean that scientists can direct everything or that
they feel secure in their elite positions. Indeed, they feel just as much as everyone else does
that they are restricted and influenced by politics and that their elite status is constantly
challenged. This is especially so in post 1980 Turkey where alternative elite groupings, elite
symbols, and power wielders have ‘proliferated’ (Göle 1997).
I have touched earlier upon the involvement of scientific knowledge in controversies
over hamsi regulations (Chapter 6). Such involvement is fairly common. Not only are
scientific results mobilised in conflicts over fishery management. The initiation and funding
of research projects is directed by the state (and increasingly other institutions) and is in a
sense political. Bureaucrats or politicians are the driving force behind many of the research
projects at Trabzon WPRI. From these projects they want to either: (1) gain an informed
perspective on some contested issue146; or (2) develop a knowledge base for increased
‘production’ (i.e. catch) or development of new resources147. In the North Atlantic fisheries
the main area of contest between fishermen and scientists during the last two decades has
been the estimation of stocks and the establishment of TAC (Total Allowable Catch).
Fishermen dispute scientists’ methods, findings, and recommendations, while scientists

146
Such as the dolphin stocks (Çelikkale 1988 et al), the sonar (Çelikkale 1988b), the optimal mesh size
of trawls, or the impact of seasnails on fisheries.
147
Typical examples are: surveying the potential use of mid-water trawl for catching pelagic species,
and various projects aimed at developing fish farming
 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE AND POLITICS 263

criticise the fishermen for political bickering, manipulation of the rules, and not thinking
about the tomorrows. In the Turkish context, stocks and TAC are not issues at stake, but there
are certainly similarities in the mutual criticisms.
As I indicated in Chapter 7, a large portion of the marine research in Trabzon is
applied in nature and published only in Turkish. One can safely conclude that the bulk of the
research is directed towards and framed within the national or local context. Yet, for its
legitimacy (locally, nationally), the research will have to at least purport to be universal in
character. The local/national rooting and applied bent of the research is not necessarily seen
by the scientists themselves as political, although they do believe that research focuses should
ideally grow out of the scientists’ own interests and experiences. What they see as political is
the way the knowledge they produce is manipulated or side-stepped by the bureaucrats who
let politics get in the way of scientific management of the resources. They do not blame the
bureaucrats so much as they blame the politicians and powerful forces in the fishery sector.
The change in the hamsi regulations in 1990/91 is a case in point. Officially, the bureaucrats
make the decisions, based upon information gathered from scientists as well as the
perspectives and interests presented by various stakeholders. Thus, scientists have only an
advisory role, and often do not have extended involvement in the decision process. Fishermen
and others, on the other hand, often mobilise politicians (primarily MPs from their
constituency) to inform and instruct the bureaucrats.
The fishery regulations are formally designed upon scientific principles. One of these
is the principle that fish should be allowed to spawn/reproduce at least once before being
caught. The size of the fish when it reaches maturity is therefore a critical measure. But
gaining knowledge of this is often a difficult scientific task, and differences of opinion exist
within the scientific community. During the 1989/90 season there had been some discussions
about and changes in the minimum legal size for hamsi, but the legal size remained at 9 cm.
(as specified in the annual ‘circular’). The next season (1990/91) hamsi catches were even
more dismal than the previous one. Moreover, fish were very small. The regulation accepted
up to 10% of the catch to be below legal size148, but now most of the hamsi were in the size
classes 5 - 7 cm. and 7 - 9 cm. The province Control and Protection offices of the Ministry of
Agriculture took daily samples from the catches. Fish were measured and results faxed to the
Ministry. Quite a few boats were caught catching too many undersize fish. Many fishermen,
however, managed to acquit themselves with the help of MPs who intervened on their behalf.
Fishermen and factory owners in growing numbers approached the Ministry in an effort to get
a change in regulations to ease the situation. There was pressure to change the minimum size
to 7 cm. The Ministry finally (13 December 1990) called all the relevant bureaucrats, factory
owners, and important fishermen to a large meeting where the issue was discussed. The
Ministry had already sought the advise of several scientists. Some scientists wanted to keep
the minimum size at 9 cm. One scientist had produced ‘results’ that showed that hamsi

148
For technological reasons, it is not possible to use seines that let small fish through. Small fish
simply clog the meshes of the net and may cause great damage to the gear.
264 CHAPTER 8

becomes mature at 7.15 cm. In ‘consideration of the difficult situation of the fishermen’ The
Ministry decided that the minimum size was to be reduced to 7.5 cm. for the rest of the
season. After this, catches of small fish, even below 7 cm., continued for some time.
The scientists take this and other cases as examples that the politicians and bureaucrats
do not listen to their advice. They believe that the politicians think primarily about their vote
potential, and that the fishermen are more important in this context than the scientists are. The
result is that the politicians think only on the short term (günlük). At a more general level, the
scientists believe that this short-term thinking is the reason for all balances being lost, such as
the constant price increases (zam) and inflation in Turkey. The scientists, apparently in
contrast to politicians, have a firm idea about ‘rational management’ based on scientific
knowledge. Thus, as described, they embrace easily the ideal of stock management. In this
context, one scientist explained the need for rational management with an interesting
metaphor. “What happens to an unmanaged (or non-administered) stock, or an unmanaged
human society? In the end it will enter a crisis… (Yönetilmeyen bir stok, veya yönetilmeyen
insan topluğa ne olur? Sonuna krize girer…)”. Fish, like people, are to be ‘managed’.
Connected to this is a belief that people in general, and fishermen in particular,
‘unfortunately’ do not see the need for scientific knowledge and a ‘professional, technical’
approach. According to the scientists, fishermen and fish farmers, as well as seafood
processing factories do not engage engineers (i.e. science) in order to develop their
businesses. They only approach the university when they encounter a problem. They find that
it is too expensive to hire technical-scientific consultants. This is perceived as a bigger
problem in the eastern part of Turkey (including Trabzon) since so many people there are
thought to be cahil (ignorant), unable and unwilling to see the advantages of professional
knowledge.
In informal one-on-one conversations with individuals scientists would sometimes tell
me that the University and research institutions themselves were unduly politicised. These
allegations usually came from persons left of the political centre and were primarily directed
towards fascist groups, especially the Nationalist Action Party (MHP). The Director of the
University was said to be an MHP, and the student union was allegedly completely controlled
by the MHP. A popular rumour had it that many scientists were leaving the University
because of this. It was also said that it was easier for students with connections to the MHP to
obtain positions as ‘research employees’. Moreover, MHP was claimed to have much
influence within the Ministry of Agriculture. I do not know the University system and the
working of the Agriculture bureaucracy well enough to comment upon the truth-value of these
claims. But it has been rather common in Turkey to claim that fascists and/or Islamists have
‘infiltrated’ universities and Ministries. Especially some of the provincial universities (e.g.
Van) are believed to be MHP strongholds, and the MHP supposedly occupies many positions
within the Ministry of Education. There is therefore reason to believe that it has been a
conscious strategy of MHP as well as Islamic organisations (both political parties and others)
 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE AND POLITICS 265

to establish a power base within the universities and the bureaucracy. In Trabzon this
probably does effect research somewhat, but the extent is difficult to ascertain.
Some scientists (especially left wing) frame the current situation within the ideological
picture of the late 1970s, when the confrontation between the fascists and the left wing
reached an unprecedented level that was heated and violent. Some of the marine scientists in
Trabzon were themselves much involved in these conflicts, which seems to have made a
lasting imprint on their worldview. That people seldom talk about these issues in mixed
groups indicates that these are still sensitive issues. On the other hand, scientists that
supposedly stand in different quarters do cooperate in research. Politicisation seems to be
more pervasive in administrative positions. During the years that I have been in touch with the
Trabzon WPRI (1990-1998/2000), the director’s (müdür) chair has been filled by four
different men. The first director was involved in a scandal in which he supposedly benefitted
personally from undue and unrealistic promotion, in the name of the Institute, of marine fish
farming and the equipment supplied by one Turkish producer. He was transferred (sürgün) to
another position. The next director came originally from among the ‘technical staff’, but had
for some years worked at the Province Control and Protection Office because he had earlier
fallen out with the previous director. He is a well-known and active supporter of MHP. With
changes in government in 1994, he was replaced by another of the ‘technical staff’. With
subsequent changes in government and new leadership at the Ministry, the MHP supporter
was again put in office as director, but then replaced again, this time with the former vice-
director who is backed by ANAP. Then these two ‘alternated’ at least three times during the
next few years as they raised cases against each other in court and mobilised politicians’ and
others’ support. The researchers found that the frequent changes in leadership were actually
advantageous to them. It made it easier to pursue the research without administrative and
political interference. Many regret that the position of director has become primarily a
‘political thing’ and that the director is not chosen on the basis of academic merit. Only one of
the four directors (the ‘non-political’ intermezzo) has had an academic career and knows
some English.
Some claim that politics also influence other domains, such as the allocation of
position of ‘research employee’, which in many cases is a de facto decision about who is and
who is not going to be allowed to become an academician. Distribution of benefits such as
joining trips abroad is viewed as political. Many complain that the most competent persons
are often not sent. However, such decisions are often taken above the heads of even the
directors/deans, for example by the Turkish Research Council TÜBİTAK. People frequently
told stories about scientists who were to be sent abroad for a course or conference, but were
bypassed by someone from Istanbul or Ankara who were sent in their place since they had
their ‘man’/’uncle’ (adam/dayı) in the institution making the decision. Similar stories were
told about students who entered national exams and gained the right to be sent abroad for their
Masters or PhD, but lost out to other candidates with more powerful relations.
266 CHAPTER 8

During semi-formal interviews I often asked the scientists if politics did not enter
science. Two general aspects surface from their answers. First, they responded by noting
something in the vein of “unfortunately, in Turkey the situation is so…”, “in Turkey politics
enters everything…”, thereby implicitly holding up an ideal that is thought to, alas, have been
deviated from in Turkey. This is a common way of conceptualising the situation in Turkey.
The other issue that emerged was the instant re-conceptualisation of politics into ‘personal
relations’ (kişisel ilişkiler). This stands in some contrast to the leftist framing outlined above,
and implies a de-ideologisation of politics, to some extent putting the blame on individual
persons and not groups or the political system. But, this position also contains elements of a
critique that politics is invaded by ‘mahalle’ norms instead of being based on reason and
rationality. Unlike the fishermen, scientists generally do not employ the metaphor of ‘eater’
when criticising politicians and the pervasive importance of ‘personal relations’.
The importance of personal relations is also seen in the doçent exams. This is a quite
heated issue, even at the national level; many find the system as it operates today unfair. The
jury is composed of five professors (usually all from Turkey). But success in front of this jury
is perceived as depending as much on personal relations as on academic criteria. One must
know someone who will forcefully support one’s candidacy. In the words of one of the
scientists at Sürmene who has a PhD from abroad: “Then there are those juries. Almost none
of them know foreign languages or have publications in A group, top class journals. There
isn’t any clear standard, there is no definite criteria or standard. The people in those juries
have no international publications, no scientific projects.”
This underlines the importance of the personal hierarchical bonds that are mobilised to
promote academic careers. There are intense ‘local politics’, running along local lines of
personal relations and allegiances, of deciding who is going to be included on the list of
authors, and in what sequence. One professor admitted that he had put the name of one of his
doktora students on a joint paper (that included several other juniors of the professor), even
though the doktora student had contributed only very marginally to the relevant paper: “He
needs publications”. Many also regret that supervisors add the Master thesis of their students
to their own publication list, and that doktora students are expected to publish together with
their supervisors.

The marine scientists in Trabzon are ambiguously positioned relative to the state. On the one
hand they embody and represent the state and the moral project of modernisation policies. On
the other hand they criticise the state for dictating the sciences and the politics and
bureaucracy for being corrupt and irrational. For instance, many marine scientists find the
overt emphasis on ‘water produce’ and aquaculture an imposition by the state, yet they pay lip
service to it. They uphold the ideal of independent, free and universal science. This is, of
course, not a situation unique to Turkey. For instance, Finlayson in his study (1994:2) of
marine scientists in Canada, stresses the very same ambivalent position between ‘bureaucratic
rationality’ and ‘scientific rationality’. I have stressed here that scientist are incompletely
 SCIENCE, LIFESTYLE AND POLITICS 267

understood if one limits analysis to ‘rationalities’, ‘ideologies’, and ‘knowledges’. As I argued

in Chapter 7, in the life and practice of the scientist, the focus is not always the project at hand
and the knowledge gained, but rather the dynamics of having a degree or position, in effect a
career. This is intimately connected to lifestyle and manners. Lifestyle and an academic career
are both dependent upon and facilitate the other. Skills in managing social relations and to
engage in ‘politics’ are, just as in the fishermen’s world, critical for success. And it is
precisely through politics that science and fishermen meet. At this level knowledge is often an
important resource but frequently contested. One of the cases in which this comes out most
clearly is in the controversy over the sonar.
9 DO SONARS HARM FISH?
COMPETING CONSTRUCTIONS OF KNOWLEDGE
AMONG FISHERMEN AND SCIENTISTS

Most Turkish fishermen claim that the fish finder device sonar scares away or kills fish.
Turkish marine scientists contend that sonars have no such effect upon fish. This is but one
example, albeit a dramatic one, of the mutual distrust between fishermen and scientists in
Turkey, a distrust that hinders dialogue and cooperation. I mentioned the conflict over the
sonars to a leading English marine scientist who has been working in the Black Sea. “Well”,
he said, “I suppose the difference is one between knowledge and belief”. This is an
assumption that I do not want to make. As I see it, an anthropological approach to the way
fishermen and scientists know this new technology should aim at not privileging any position.
Hence, I will develop a more sound understanding of the conflict and incongruent positions
by focusing on how the different people ‘construct’149 the sonar. What kind of a ‘thing’ is it to
them? These different ‘constructions’, or understandings, of the sonar determine how the
sonar is addressed in public discourse. In ‘following the sonar’ I will not restrict myself to an
analysis of how different views and arguments can be seen as different claims to Truth.
Rather, I will work beyond that to grasp some of the underlying factors that shape those
claims; the practices, experiences, reasoning and metaphors involved. I therefore do not limit
my perspective to a ‘latourian’ ‘how is the sonar constructed?’, but also ask ‘how do the
fishermen and scientists know the sonar?’ How do they involve in and through the sonar?

Towards an anthropology of technology

The sonars that the fishermen use are of the latest model, technologically very advanced, and
similar to the sonars used in technologically developed fisheries around the globe. It may be
assumed that the adoption of sonar in the Turkish fisheries has resulted in fishing practices
becoming more similar to practices in other technologically advanced pelagic fisheries. These
similarities are assumed not only to be technological, but possibly also in the way the
fishermen perceive the hunt: all fishermen look at comparable images on fairly similar
screens. What does this ‘technologisation’ of fishing, or any other kind of activity, actually do
to practice, perception, and knowledge?

149
I put construction in quotation marks in order to indicate that I do not regard the sonar as fully
constructed by the fishermen/scientists respectively. If I were to be more precise I would have written
‘perceived-constructed’.

268
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 269

During the last ten years technology has attained a pivotal and pervasive position in
current theory and popular imagery of globalisation and internationalisation: the internet,
cellular phones, and satellite transmitted television are among the primary icons in this
discourse. Such technology is seen as one of the ‘primary movers’ in the theatre of
globalisation, facilitating increased flow and movement, escaping the bonds of the state and
the body and exposing almost all humans to the same images. This ‘celebration’ of especially
information technology and biotechnology is reflected in both the stock market and in
widespread incorporation of such techno-imageries into popular definitions of ‘modern’ ways
of life. I do not deny that the swift spread of new communication and bio-medical
technologies, the development of electronic money, and the standardisation/homogenisation
of technologies of production such as the sonar has far-reaching consequences for people's
lives. I want to question what kind of changes these technologies bring about and call for
more nuanced understandings of their influence on and role in people's lifeworlds. I also
intend to elucidate relations among technology, knowledge, power, and societal
transformations. This can only be achieved by empirical studies that localise the use of these
standardised technologies.
Science and Technology Studies (STS) have stressed the socially constructed nature of
all techno-scientific objects/facts. This means that technologies cannot be known as
something ‘in themselves’, and the global dissemination of many technologies therefore does
not imply universal meaning or consequences. On the other hand, these studies of science and
technology have focused primarily on the metropolitan production of facts and technology
and generally failed to address the various uses and subjective experiences of technology. In
addition to being biased towards radical relativism, letting society bear the entire burden of
explanation (Collins 1981:3, Latour 1993:94), such a perspective directs attention to the
‘objects’- and hence easily plays into the metaphors of flow, unboundedness, technoscape etc.
This perspective generally fails to recognise subjective experience in the engagement with
technology and with other people through new mediums of communication. Thus, I am not
entirely satisfied with the metaphor of social construction that most of these approaches
capitalise on. The focus on the object of attention, in place of on the attention itself, brings the
concerns of ‘Explanation’ and ‘Ontological Truth’, and hence metropolitan science, to the
forefront of the research agenda. Hence, this approach has stimulated almost no research on
the various ‘uses’ of technology, the Experience of Truth, and even less on peripheral
technoscience.
Feminist cultural analyses have brought a fuller light to technology-in-society. In
studying the ‘Culture of Science and Technology’, they have demonstrated that
science/technology fetishisms are pervasive in Western popular discourse150. Such approaches
demonstrate the ways in which technoscience is embedded in wider cultural contexts. I will
follow such lines of enquiry, but feel that these approaches risk producing interpretative
‘surface’ analyses because they have a tendency to slip into a style that focuses primarily on

150
For an overview, see Franklin 1995.
270 CHAPTER 9

history, texts and discourse and privileges deconstruction (and critique) of the technoscientific
‘constructions’. In other words, they are extreme-relativist with regard to science and
technology. I stress that technology must be resituated in people's engagement with the world,
in their lived experience. Tim Ingold has criticised the Western conception of technology for
establishing a separation between the social and the technical (Ingold 1993a). In order to heal
this wound, he suggests distinguishing ‘technique’, the subjective, context dependent
‘knowledge how’/skills, from context independent, ‘knowledge that’ objectifying claims of
‘technology’ (see also Chapter 4). He claims that the use and engagement of tools is, rather, a
part of the general bodily and social skills we employ when acting in the world. Therefore,
technical and social relations can be said to be implicated one in the other.
Technology is not only a social construct, not only a social and symbolic fact. As with
knowledge, however, it is impossible to precipitate out the purely material aspects of
technology. It is a composite, or a ‘collective’ as Latour (1993) would call it. I want to heed
the possibilities and limitations that the material aspects of technology engender, but that can
only be done within a perspective that regards technology as a ‘total social phenomenon’.
Latour studies one special way of constructing facts and technology, the techno-scientific
approach. His focus is on the ‘collective’, the piece of technology or knowledge. I have
claimed, however, that knowledges and technology can only be understood through peoples’
engagement with them, that an analysis of the ‘life of the facts’ should be balanced with an
analysis of the ‘life of the scientists’. I will add to that the ‘life of the fishermen’. The sonar
may thereby emerge as two different kinds of ‘collectives’.
Although I am interested in understanding this highly complex technological object, I
do not focus primarily on the techno-scientific production of the sonar. I situate it in the life,
experiences, and politics of people in a particular setting where its status is highly disputed
and ambiguous. I explore scientists’ understanding of the sonar by focusing primarily on an
experiment they set up to test whether it is harmful or not. I address the fishermen’s
understanding through paying attention to their use of the sonars. Additionally, I survey the
two sides’ narratives about the experiment and use of sonars. Towards the end of the chapter I
examine how science is implicated in the politics of the sonar.
The material that I present in this chapter does not amount to a ‘classical
ethnography’. I focus on fishermen’s understanding of the sonar through their engagement
with it in practice and through their oral statements about it. Scientists’ knowledge, on the
other hand, I precipitate out from academic texts. This may seem to be an ‘unsymmetrical’
approach. It is, however, a reflection of the inherently different approaches that most
fishermen and scientists have to the sonar: for the fishermen it is involved in practice and/or
an issue of contention in verbal discussion, for the scientists it is seldom related to. The crux
of the scientists’ sonar is ‘the study’, the inscribed sonar – that is the way the sonar exists for
most scientists. I also pay attention to scientists” informal oral comments on the study, and to
fishermen’s perspectives as included in the texts of the bureaucratic-scientific regime.
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 271

A comprehensive understanding of the empirically observed processes of

appropriating, opposing and acting through technology also calls for untangling the networks
through which local use is connected to global economy and politics. Technologies of power
can, working through person and body, reshape social asymmetries as well as reconstitute
experience of subjectivity and intersubjectivity. People are unevenly positioned relative to the
internationalisation of free market expansionism, flexible technologies of scale in industrial
production, and new information technologies. How does this restructure ‘work’ and relations
of production? What new forms of differentiation are created? One challenge is to understand
how technical change and changes in social relations, the scope and condition of
intersubjectivity, play into each other, for instance the ways in which new technology
facilitates development of new kinds of communities as well as new kinds of social
distinctions. The current regime of free market expansionism and increased flexibility of
industrial production apparently effect changes in relations of production both at the centre
and in the peripheries. How does the global dissemination of production technologies interact
with and affect local and traditional social organisation and culture? Aihwa Ong has
demonstrated that as young female factory workers in Japanese factories in Malaysia came
under a new capitalistic regime, local culture worked together with industrial logic in the
establishment of technological and organisational discipline in the production halls (Ong
1987).
The popular view that new technologies have only recently stimulated ‘globalisation’
is likely flawed. Technologies of war, transport and industrial production as well as the
technologies of writing and printing have been instrumental in the early phases of
establishment and consolidation of nation states and in global processes of colonisation and
economic integration. To appreciate their import, new, advanced technologies must be
situated within an ethnographic-comparative framework that makes no preconceived
distinction between new and old, high and low, Our and Their technology. For instance,
studies of ‘production technologies’ should situate their use within a wider ethnographic
understanding of various forms of ‘production’, and any study of the sonar must situate it
within the wider context of fishermen practices, technologies and social relations. Does
technological expansion require new knowledge? How does local culturally-based knowledge
interfere with, modify or disrupt the impact of new technologies? It may be seen that well-
tested and habitual technical knowledge can be integrated with or extended to incorporate and
appropriate new technology.

The sonar controversy

The first sonars were used in the Turkish fisheries around 1980. Some larger and more
expansive Black Sea family fishing companies spearheaded the development. The sonar made
more of a difference to them since it facilitated observation of anchovy but not of other, larger
pelagic fish. Istanbul fishermen raged against this development and argued that the sonars
272 CHAPTER 9

harm fish. They lobbied successfully for a regulation that made use of sonars illegal. Some
Black Sea fishermen owning large purse seiners mobilised, with the assistance of MPs from
the region, against this decision and managed to bring the case before the Turkish Military for
a final decision. The Military deemed the sonars not harmful; only a few days after the initial
ban on sonars a counter-statement was issued in the Official Gazette. Yet, sonars remained a
heated issue. A few years later the national television broadcast a discussion about the sonar
among elder skippers, sonar salesmen, and scientists in the Kumkapı fishing port in Istanbul.
During the 1980s and 1990s the use of sonars become steadily widespread. It is now
indispensable in the anchovy fisheries and fishermen must reinvest continuously in better and
more expensive sonars in order to stay in the game. It has become somewhat emblematic of
success within the pelagic purse seine fisheries. Most of the larger purse seiners involved in
the anchovy fisheries are now equipped with sonars; not having a new model is a clear
indicator that one is in the process of being sidelined. A good sonar may cost as much as US$
220,000 and is, together with the net(s), boat and engine, one of the main investment cost in
the purse seine fisheries. Most sonars are now imported from Japan and marketed by agents in
Istanbul. Since 1997 a new kind of sonar, introduced by the Istanbul fishermen, has gained
currency and brought one more loop to the capitalisation of this sector. This new sonar can in
addition to small pelagic fish see the larger pelagic fish and has especially transformed the
fisheries of the palamut, which is fished during its annual migration from the Sea of Marmara
into the Black Sea.

Reasons for disturbance of Owners of big Crew and Non-

natural balance in the Black Sea Total boats small-boat fishermen
(%) fishermen
Sonars 69 50 81 67
Pollution 53 57 45 61
Too high fishing effort 43 43 42 44
Use of trawls and dredges 31 29 32 33
Dolphins 11 21 9 6
Dams barring natural flow of rivers 5 14 3 0
New species 0 0 0 0
Other 2 0 0 6
Figure 22 Reasons for disturbance of the natural balance in the Black Sea
Keremköy sample: Total 62 men, including 14 boat owners, 31 small-boat fishermen/crew, and 18
non-fishermen. Most gave two answers to the question: “If you think that the situation in the Black
Sea is not normal, what are the main reasons for the problems? a) pollution, b) too much fishing, c)
new species, d) sonar and similar equipment, e) dolphins, f) damages done to the bottom by dredging
and trawling, g) other: specify.” (adapted from Knudsen 1997)

The sonar has remained a controversial issue since its introduction (Taner 1991,
Knudsen 1997), and, for the fishermen, science has not settled the case. It is clearly one of the
most important and most discussed issues in these fisheries. Among small-boat fishermen and
crew on the bigger boats in the Black Sea region, as well as in Istanbul, it is the most cited
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 273

reason for the ecological crisis and low catches of the first half of the 1990s (figure 22). As a
kind of concession to the sceptical Istanbul fishermen the government has crafted a regulation
that rules use of sonars with frequencies of 60 Khz and below illegal in the Sea of Marmara
(MARA 1998).

The scientists' sonar

To the Turkish marine scientists who work in this region the sonar is mainly a scientific
product, a piece of technology. They rely primarily on the scientific discourse of other centres
of scientific knowledge, especially Norway and Japan, for their knowledge. Already
Sarıkaya’s 1980 textbook in fishery and fishing technology, includes an extensive chapter on
electronic fish finders in which the operating principle of sonars is briefly sketched. As the
text relates little to actual conditions in Turkish fisheries, it is better seen as a general
summary of the potential and possible uses of electronic fish finders. Most of the technology
outlined in the textbook has not found application in Turkish waters. Some of the scientists in
Trabzon through training courses or longer stays in Japan or England observed that the effect
of sonar on fish need not be controversial issue in other countries. But they are well aware
that many fishermen are concerned about the effect of sonars and regret that most fishermen
seem unable to understand the ‘facts’.
In contradiction to the fishermen, scientists are only occasionally involved in practices
where they use sonars, and their research vessels are equipped with outdated sonars. Overall,
the sonar has not constituted one of their major tasks or projects. A study undertaken by the
scientists at the Sürmene MSF together with the informal comments on the study by many of
the participants give valuable insight into the scientists’ approach. The study is presented in
an unpublished Turkish report. It outlines three lines of work they did on the sonar. In the
first, istavrits in an aquarium were exposed to waves similar to those emitted by the sonars.
The sonar pulses were ‘translated’ to sound audible for humans so that the scientists could
know when the fish were exposed to the waves. The experimenters then watched, by normal
sight, how fish reacted to different kinds and strengths of sonar pulses. They noted no changes
in behaviour except when the frequency was tuned down below 12 Khz “...[I]t was seen
(görülmüştür) that the individuals in common made 2-3 powerful whips with their tail and
fled into the other corner of the aquarium” (Çelikkale 1988b: 12). The study implicitly
assumes the ‘truth’ that the sonar emits sound (ses). In the international scientific literature
sonar pulses are understood as sound and emphasis is put on describing the properties of
sound in water (FAO 1980, MacLennan & Simmonds 1992). Fish are regarded as deaf above
approximately 2 Khz. Most sonars operate in the range of 15-200 Khz. It is commonly
observed that dolphins use sound as an orientating and prey-locating technique.
In the second component of the study scientists observed, again visually, fishes’
behaviour when they were exposed to sonar pulses from fishing boats. They hired a fishing
boat of Can Kardeşler (with crew) to undertake these experiments. In five cases the behaviour
of free swimming schools of small pelagic fish (hamsi and istavrit) were observed on the
274 CHAPTER 9

sonar display. In a sixth experiment divers stationed at three different depths inside a half
closed purse seine watched entrapped hamsi as the sonar of the ‘research’ vessel 100m away
was turned off and on. No change in behaviour was observed (by the scientists? fishermen?)
and the report concludes that the fish was not scared off by the sonar pulses. In its conclusion
the report gives most weight to this last experiment, most likely because it entailed direct
visual observation.
The last component of the study is a survey of the international scientific literature on
fishes’ ability to hear sounds in water. Here the main emphasis is put on arguing that while
the two first parts of the study have proved that sonar does not scare off fish, other studies
from the literature indicate that engine noise and the like may. In accordance with the
accepted convention for writing papers in natural sciences, the report lists the different
‘materials’ used. This includes detailed taxonomic identification of the relevant fish species,
but only a vague identification of the sonars (only general brand name, such as FURUNO).
No attempt is made to explain the general working of the sonar, nor is there any discussion of
the specifics of the sonars involved in the experiments. For the scientists the focus moves
away from the sonar to the fish. The question becomes: ‘Do fish hear the sonar?’ The fishes’
capacity for hearing, and not the sonar and its emissions, is constructed as the ‘unknown’.
I did not observe this experiment myself, but I know both fishermen and scientists
who were. Their informal comments add interesting information about their approach to the
sonar and to knowledge. In independent informal conversations with me, scientists’
statements on the issue were rather uniform: in 1990 the man who led the study referred
primarily to the experiment where divers had observed fish inside a net and argued that sonars
absolutely do not scare away or kill fish. However, he added, they know nothing about
hormone or biochemical changes. The technical expert, an electronic engineer, was most
concerned about the fishermen being ignorant (cahil) and said that they do not know what
Khz is. Also, he maintained, they are additionally confused by the regulation that stipulates
that use of sonars above 45 Khz is forbidden in the Sea of Marmara (here he was wrong, see
above).
One of the Faculty's lecturers who participated in the experiment as a diver also rested
his position on the sonar on the experiment during which the divers observed the fish. Being
socially closer to fishermen than most scientists he also gave an explanation for why the
fishermen had a misperception concerning the sonar. He explained that fishermen know that
light scares fish and that the same generator that is used for empowering the sonar is also used
for the powerful spotlights that illuminate the work area on the boats, and think therefore that
the sonars emit light or powerful electricity. Yet, he also noted that the manuals that
accompany the diving equipment they receive from the USA recommend not diving near
operating sonars because they may, without perceptible sensation, damage your heart. He
commented: “Biological effect is another matter, it was not part of our study. We studied the
effect on fish.”' A senior researcher who works in the same Faculty but did not participate in
the study, referred to the same part of the study as the others. He furthermore argued that
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 275

since the waves emitted from the sonar are reflected when they hit the fish, how can they
harm fish? Although supporting the general findings of the study, he claimed that “it was not
very scientific (pek bilimsel değil), they conducted it badly. When the divers were in the water
strong gales were blowing and the fish were difficult to observe. It would have been better if
they done it in an aquarium.”
Each of these scientists supported the main findings of the study and referred to the
‘diving’ experiment when arguing that the sonars do not harm fish. But, most of them also
commented that the study did not answer the issue of possible biochemical or reproductive
changes in humans, and by implication, in fish. In the end of the 1980s an official working
with the Control and Protection Office in Samsun proposed a study to ascertain the influence
of sonars on fish reproduction. His superiors within the Ministry turned down the proposal.
This, together with the one scientist’s claim about the unscientific nature of the experiment,
indicate that there also among scientists is an undercurrent of reflection and argument that
make the sonar a less solid and well-defined thing.

The fishermen's sonar

To discuss what changes in technology have meant to fishermen’s perceptions and
knowledges, I shall first describe the activities surrounding the search for and catch of fish on
a technologically advanced purse seiner in the late 1990s. This case compares directly with
Otyam’s text that describes the pursuit of hamsi around 1960 (see beginning of Chapter 6).
Ergün Kardeşler, one of the teams from Fenerköy, Çarşıbaşı, invested in a new purse seiner in
1998. With a length of 46m the boat was regarded as one of the largest in Turkey. It has
plenty of space for both fishing operations and the crew. With modern amenities life on this
boat is certainly much more comfortable than on the crowded boats in the days Otyam wrote
his essay. The crew’s quarters are in the bow, while four cabins and a bathroom on the second
floor are reserved for the owners, hired reis, and one or two senior crew. The bridge, or upper
cabin (üst kamarası), is spacey, heated by radiators, and covered by wall to wall carpet. In the
rear of the room some of the reis and often a visitor or two sit on some deep sofas and relax,
sometimes chat about the fishery. There were three men to take turns at steering the boat and
search for fish: the skipper-owner, his eldest son, and the hired reis working for shares. This
is not an unusual composition of the leader team. During search one of them sits leisurely in a
comfortable chair in the front, shoes off (as all others in the upper cabin), feet on the desk,
remote control of the sonar in hand, surrounded on three sides by various electronic
equipment. No lying on the bow deck to spot the fish!
The social organisation and the complexities of the large-scale fishing operations, with
all the various roles requiring different skills, makes knowledge much more distributed and
uneven than in small-boat fishing. Most crew specialised in one part of the operation, while
the sons of the owner changed around in order to familiarise themselves with all aspects of the
seining operations. While the reis/owners knew well the practical operations of the seine, the
crew members were less familiar with the practice of searching for fish – that is the
276 CHAPTER 9

responsibility and privilege of the reis. Usually only the reis and owners and possibly a senior
member of the crew follow developments on the display during normal operations. Thus, the
crew will generally have almost no experience with the sonar nor know how to operate one.
The crew members generally do not hang around in the upper cabin. On Ergün Kardeşler and
other big boats I joined they watched television, read the football newspaper, or made
themselves a meal of fried or steamed (buğulama) hamsi to share. Reis and crew shared meals
and the reis spent quite some time with the crew in the ‘living room’. All crew on Ergün
Kardeşler were fellow villagers of the boat owner, the hired reis Turgut came from the
neighbouring village Keremköy.
A full description of the multitude of activities that make up the search and catch of
hamsi is beyond allowable limits of space. I will concentrate on the search process because it
is seemingly at this stage of the operations that the qualitative change brought on by the
adoption of electronic fish finders has been most dramatic. The net operation per se has been
enlarged, but the main principles and operations are the same as 30 years ago. Once I joined
an old style small purse seiner, on which the reis in charge complained that everything was so
small. He was accustomed to operating the large, contemporary purse seines. However, the
style of operations, the net technology, was basically the same. A change in scale may of
course amount to a qualitative change, indeed the current operations involve working more
machines and depending on a wider variety of specialised equipment. Yet, the reis’ leap from
the bow deck to the reclined chair in the upper cabin is the most striking change.
During the week I ‘signed on’ Ergün Kardeşler they cast the seine two or three times a
day. When the crew had finished cleaning up, rewinding the wires and so forth after a seine
they had set near İskefiye one day, Mahmut slowly started a new search, first towards karayel.
After a mate told him via radio that someone had set seines near Yoroz, he turned the boat
around and headed in the opposite direction. He first switched on the echo sounder (dip
radar), then the sonars, and after the sun had set, the radar (su üstü radar) in order to be able
to see other boats in the vicinity. Now and then he glanced at the screens. Others present in
the upper cabin talked about other things and did not look at the screens. Mahmut saw some
fish on the echo sounder and started to search a little in zigzag, but soon continued without
commenting upon it.
I had wondered about why, when possessing such powerful sonars, they needed to go
zigzag during search. They told me that the kuyus make it impossible for sonars to ‘see’
everything. They generally had the palamut sonar fixed on a range of 450 m (maximum range
600m), tilt 8°, the hamsi sonar somewhere between 2200 and 3200 m (maximum range
4000m), tilt 3-5°. Both sonars can show hamsi, but only the palamut sonar will show palamut.
Why use both during search for hamsi? Turgut, the hired reis, once explained to the owner-
son that the hamsi sonar should be used to discover the fish, and the palamut sonar to set the
seine (since it shows a more accurate and detailed picture, including the track of the boat
setting the seine). On both sonars the boat’s position is always in the middle of the screen, the
route of the boat displayed by a thin line. Both sonars, as well as the echo sounder, show fish
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 277

on the otherwise black screens as fields of yellow, greens and reds, deep red indicating the
highest concentration. The palamut sonar usually showed a red field in the upper section. I
soon learned that that was bottom. The hamsi sonar showed a more confusing picture, with
many small, moving fields of yellow and green. Only stable red fields attracted interest. When
a red spot (other than the one always present up on the top of the screen) appears on the
sonars it is crucial to know whether it shows a hill (tepe) or fish. Sometimes one of the reis
will claim that he knows the bottom conditions on the location (burası bilirim) and safely
conclude that “yes, it is a hill”. If they are unsure, they may adjust the tilt up and down in
order to see how the field appears. If it gradually becomes wider when tilt is adjusted
downwards it is most likely a hill. Otherwise it is fish.
Now, Mahmut, the captain-owner, adjusted the tilt of the palamut sonar up from 8° to
6°, probably because the echo sounder showed the fish near the surface. He already knew
from the echo sounder that it was fish. He spotted some fish ‘upwards’ (yükarıya, i.e.
seawards, see figure 15) and contacted by radio a boat on that side of us and asked why they
did not set their seine. They were not to, so Mahmut headed upwards. Red fields started to
move into the echo sounder. Other men approached and watched the screens attentively. They
now used the palamut sonar to move in onto the shoal and the echo sounder to evaluate the
amount. Turgut ‘Reis’ commanded Mahmut: “go like that”, looking out over the sea and
pointing on the screen. Mahmut pressed the bell. The botçu jumped into the bot (small boat
used to hold one end of net in place during casting of seine) and the rest of the crew made
themselves ready. Soon after Mahmut gave full speed to the engines, the bot was let go, and
the seine was dropped into the water. Only a few minutes later the boat had made full circle
and come back to the bot. One hour later the purse was pulled almost completely together.
The carrier vessel had arrived (called on by Mahmut). The small purse remaining, full of
silvery blinking fish, was now between the net boat and the carrier. Haul upon haul of hamsi
were lifted from the ‘pan’ (tava) of hamsi into the carrier with a large scoopnet (roşi, gedal), a
tonne at a time. This was always the climax, always the time the crew and reis most expected
me to shoot photos (with the result that I have lots of almost identical photos of schoopnets
full of hamsi). That was the moment when the red fields on the sonar materialised as fish.
This was a fairly typical search and setting of seine. Variations and disruptions do
occur. There may be problems with the seine, the bot may not go when it should, and so on.
The slightest lack of attention, lapse of concentration, might lead to breakdown of the normal
procedure. Once the owner-captain set the seine too wide and the hamsi escaped through the
gap in the net, another time one of the crew had not fastened the bot the way it should be.
Both times the result was the loss of large sums of money. This points to the continued
importance of skills at all levels, both of crew and captains. To recruit competent crew, and to
go with captains who are renowned for their skills, are therefore still of great concern of the
owner and crew respectively. What, however, has happened to the skills of discovering fish?
What kind of change has there been from the direct observation of yakamoz, to the ‘distant’
viewing on a sonar screen? Has this transformation implied a transition from ‘being’ to
278 CHAPTER 9

‘seeing’, from situated practice to distant, neutral observation, from ‘technique’ to

‘technological knowledge’ (Ingold 1993a)?

Analysis: what is the sonar to the fishermen?

In Chapter 4 I argued that both fishermen's and scientists' knowledge is embodied, lived,
local, and embedded in biophysical and social contexts. How do people within the two
traditions of knowledge relate to this embeddedness? I have accepted Ingold's claim that all
knowledge may in some respects be regarded as skill, but I do not see skill as being separate
from cultural models. Models are implicated in skills, and skills play their role in
representation and objectification. Both fishermen's and scientists' knowledge are based on or
have their starting points in personal experience, but both are also involved in objectification,
albeit in different manners. This can be framed by an analytical distinction between ‘being in’
(‘technique’/know-how) and ‘seeing as’ (‘technology’/know-that) both of which require skills
and involve (cultural) models. Put briefly, I focus on how ‘being’ and ‘seeing’ are related to
each other in different ways among scientists and fishermen. How is ‘being’ ‘treated’ when it
is objectified (degree of objectification, fixation, fluidity?), or ‘seen as’, and what
implications do ‘ways of seeing’ have for ‘being’? To address this problem I have described
how the sonar is engaged in practice. Below I analyse this engagement as I question whether
it has stimulated new ways of perception. I will expand on this by discussing the ways in
which its symbolic significance and articulation in narratives (oral, texts) indicate how it has
come to be different things to scientists and fishermen.

Perception and social differentiation

How do the fishermen know the sonar? They ‘know’ by engaging it, by engaging with
and through it. I claim that fishermen experience themselves as being within the screen
picture, they are positioned, situated, not outside ‘watching over’. It seems to me that they
still integrate perceptions of the changing fields of colours on the screen with their
observations and knowledge of the immediate surroundings, the weather, and sea currents.
The reis must know much more than simply the technical use of the sonar in order to mobilise
its power of ‘seeing’. To interpret the display fishermen often need to know the local bottom
conditions: is the red field spotted a tepe (‘hill’) or hamsi? When intending to cast a net a reis
may ask: “is it clean here? (burası temiz mi?)”. And they must search in zigzags because of
kuyus. Even though the best sonars can scan a circular area with a diameter of 8 km,
knowledge of local conditions is still important. This is attested to by, among other things, the
preference of captains to operate in ‘home waters’. When I accompanied Ergün Kardeşler,
they were in partnership with a friend further east. They shared income made from catches in
order to reduce risk, and each plied the waters with which they were familiar.
The sonars currently in use offer a wide range of options including measuring the
weight of a school of fish. The sonars can also be connected to an autopilot. However,
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 279

fishermen use almost none of the possibilities for numerical (digital) information that the
sonars provide and rely on their own interpretations of the changing fields of colour on the
display (analog codes). In this respect use of sonar does not imply a radically new way of
seeing for the fishermen. The kind of perception has not changed much. Pálsson (1995:9) has
similarly noted that despite the fact that Icelandic fishing “…has been radically transformed
by electronic technology and artificial intelligence,…[a]ttentiveness continues…to be one of
the central assets of the good skipper and, just as before, it demands lengthy training…what
shows on the screen of the radar, the computer, and the fish-finder is no less a “natural sign”,
directly sensed, than birds in the air or natural landmarks.” In the Turkish purse seine
fisheries, there is still an attention to colours, to the intensity of colours, even to the same
colours that used to be most important during direct observation; red and green. Moreover, it
was and still is important to be able to add three-dimensional visualisation to the observed
fields of colour. How does a fisherman know how to interpret these fields of colour? There
are no ‘transportable’ inscriptions of them, no carrying over from situation to situation of
experience by external means such as printouts or the like. Moreover, the sonar display units
are equipped with a confusing set of buttons, often with no clearly identifiable icons to
indicate their use.
The fishermen attend no schooling or courses in the operation of sonars (or in any
other aspect of fisheries, for that matter). Neither do they relate to manuals to learn the
operation or find guidance for interpretation. The manuals supplied with the sonars are in
English only and it is so packed with technical jargon as to be unintelligible anyway. Even
when they do have an instruction book in Turkish, for example on radars, they do not use it.
Some fishermen told me that they tried to get a teacher to translate the manual on the sonar,
but he told them that, even though he might understand the English, he was unable to
translate. I can attest to this. I have been asked more than once to read the manuals in order to
find out how to operate them. Although I had read some general technical literature on sonars,
most of the manuals were completely unintelligible to me because of the technical jargon.
Thus, fishermen learn how to operate the sonar by trial and error as well as by demonstration.
The skill is only learned, transferred to new situations, and accumulated through embodied,
engaged, practice - with big money and prestige at stake. Thus, they do not relate to inscribed
knowledge as concerns the sonars, nor create it themselves for that matter.
The skill in operating the sonars is precious knowledge. Some have so much trouble
adjusting their new ‘large-pelagic’ sonars that they are essentially useless. Owners that
themselves do not master the art of using the sonars may, therefore, work hard to sign on
competent reis who can both ensure effective search and teach the use of sonars to the hopeful
younger ones among the owners, especially sons growing into the business. Some jokingly
call those reis who are experts on sonar use ‘computer experts’. Fishermen observe the
actions and verbalised interpretations of others. More than one may adjust the sonars and
comment on the picture when something interesting appears on the screen. As of old, the skill
is learned and sustained through common, shared practice. I claim that even though fishermen
280 CHAPTER 9

now employ very advanced technology, for the most part they do not relate towards it with
technological knowledge, or a ‘technological approach’. It hardly involves much new
knowledge or modification of perception. Thus, on the level of experience new technology
does not necessarily imply any dramatic departure from past practices.
This should not be surprising. Use of advanced technology certainly does not require
technological knowledge, a distanced or reflective view. We use bicycles and cars to move
faster, but only use them effectively when we are able not to concentrate on what we do, but
when we are able to immerse ourselves into it so that our knowledge becomes procedural,
implicit, embodied (Bateson 1972, Borofsky 1994, Bloch 1994, Shore 1996). Think also of
the developments in computer software; more advanced technology is steadily mobilised in
order to facilitate more direct, immediate and non-reflective use of the programs. Some of the
new technologies may even facilitate more ‘oral’ ways of communication and therefore come
closer to everyday forms of communication.
The increasing dependence on sonars (as well as other electronic equipment and
engines) means that the fishermen increasingly depend on scientific-technological knowledge
created other places in the world. In some respects these new ‘things’ are ‘black boxes’ to the
fishermen; they have only very diffuse ideas about how they work. However, they do not
simply adopt rigid, external models. They actively engage and contribute to shaping these
knowledge-technology clusters. They ‘re-calibrate the collectives’ (Latour 1987). For
instance, the palamut sonar in use in Turkish waters was developed upon request from
Istanbul fishermen to the importers of Japanese sonars. Japanese experts arrived and puzzled
for several days on board a purse seiner at sea. There were sonars for large pelagic fish from
before, but special adaptations were needed for the Marmara and Black Sea waters. Their
learning process was not very different from the learning processes fishermen were already
familiar with. It entailed learning the use of sonars by enskilment during shared practice and
by demonstration. In this situation, the Japanese experts, possessing both practical skills and
technological knowledge, needed to function as mediator or ‘translator’ of a sort between the
reis’ practical skills and the ‘technological’ knowledge developed by their company in Japan.
There must certainly be differences in discovering fish by sonar than by other means.
Indeed, but the differences may be at levels other than where we first expected to find them.
First, there may be less likelihood of overlooking fish, and thereby less room for both chance
and personal skills. Once the first hurdle of learning how to use the sonars has been passed,
there is probably less difference in skill between captains, or at least less than before.
Furthermore, the use of sonars has meant a change from waiting for the fish near kuyu during
the nigh, or at least restricting movement to the vicinity of kuyus, to an active search for the
fish, sometimes up to 25-30 miles offshore. But, the greatest change that the sonar constitutes
and symbolises lies, I believe, in the fact that the introduction of the sonars has brought a
differentiation of who is entitled to search for fish. The main difference the sonar has helped
bring about, is not a change in perception, but in social differentiation.
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 281

In Chapter 6 I described the ways in which the competitive game in the fishing sector
has been radically transformed during the past 20 years. Whereas it used to be a game open to
many, with luck/chance and skill/hard work as the defining characteristics, it has evolved into
a game of the few, with money-power as the differentiating resources. To be successful, the
boat owner must increasingly be a successful ‘politician’. Earlier everyone could participate
in the search, everyone could try to be a reis. Success depended primarily on personal skill.
This has changed: now the rich have bought the privilege, the power, to look for fish. In this
situation, where it is no longer possible to advance from small-boat fisherman to owner of big
purse seiners, the sonar has become somewhat metonymic for the success of the rich and the
powerlessness of the poor. Thus, the main difference the sonar has created is not a difference
in perception, but a difference among people. While the reis used to be on the deck, among
the men, exposed to the ‘elements’ (see Otyam’s text, Chapter 6), he now sits in the
comfortable upper cabin, which more and more resembles the reception room of ‘big men’.
Boat owners still socialise with their crew, and the younger of Mahmut’s sons (of five,
four were working on the boat, and the other was doing his military service) generally mingle
with the crew, who incidentally for the most part are co-villagers, relatives and schoolmates.
But, the activities of the boat owner increasingly draws him away from the crew and into
other webs and practices. The sonar is among the main symbols of this. For the fishermen the
sonar is very much embedded in a social universe. Boat owners are often eager to show
visitors their sonars and brag about its range and price. Most other fishermen are more than
ready to criticise the use of sonars. It is often perceived as creating unfair competitive advance
and clearly creates envy. Most crew accordingly view the introduction of the sonar as diluting
the importance of the reis’ skills; they commonly claim that there is no skipperhood any
longer (artık reislik yok). Another common claim since the advent of the sonar is that ‘there is
no chance any longer’ (artık rastgele yok!). These claims play into a general discourse where
monetary and material riches are regarded as morally suspect. Sonar has become suspended in
an indefinite position between fetish object of prestige and metonym for morally dubious
riches.
The incorporation of new technology into traditional and well-proven ways of fishing
has been gradual, not some sudden import of a total package. The skills needed to operate
sonars have become integrated with other skills within this tradition of knowledge. Certainly,
fishermen need outside experts to install, calibrate and repair the sonars, a limitation that, to a
large degree, applies to a lot of their other equipment as well. The local reis nonetheless
remain the experts on using the sonars to find and catch fish. The fishermen, or rather a
certain class of the fishermen, have remained in control and new technology has been
appropriated into their ongoing projects. Thus the meaning and use of the sonar is shaped as
much locally as by the ‘inherent’ qualities of the sonar in itself.
282 CHAPTER 9

Fishermen’s sonar stories

Further insight into the fishermen’s understanding of the sonar can be gathered from the way
they articulate their opinions of it. Their narratives about the sonar are invariably oral. A tale
from one man or a discussion around a table in the cafe will often include many different
kinds of arguments made in an eclectic manner. Very similar stories about personal
experiences are told along the coast, such as: “the fish I was catching by hand line
disappeared when a purse seiner passed”, “dolphins who often follow the boats flee as soon as
the sonar is turned on”, “the fish is not as live as before when hauled into the boat”, and so on.
Except for some of the skippers, nobody talks about the sonar pulses as sound. The sonar
pulses are generally explained as or compared to light (ışık) rays (ışın), electricity, and more
seldom, X-rays, laser and radioactivity. One fisherman told me: “the rays hit the fish and
return. There must be resistance in the fish since the rays do not simply pass through it.
Something happens.” Another fisherman produced a small mirror and directed the reflex to
my eyes and commented, contentedly, that “yes, you are influenced”. One claimed that the
sonar is like a bomb (bomba gibi, a very common metaphor used e.g. about very sex women,
or as a reply when asked “how are you”), and that the hamsi as a result now have black bones.
‘Social’ metaphors are also invoked to explain the effect of the sonar. “If the police
continuously crack down on the cafe where you usually hang around, what will you do? Yes,
you will go to another cafe, or you will escape to Russia.” “If you enter a teahouse waving a
shotgun, what will people do? They will flee....” Often the popular idea that sonars have been
banned in Japan is mentioned, and some also use semi-scientific models, for instance
claiming that the sonars send 220 Volts into the water. Fishermen’s stories are very popular
and have standardised elements. Unlike the narratives about the state, corruption, politicians
and so forth, in the narratives about the sonar many different concepts are used and the details
of the settings vary widely. This may indicate the importance of the personal experience as a
foundation for the fishermen’s stories.
Many fishermen have heard about the scientists’ experiment and comment that it was
not set up properly. They are especially critical of the fact that the divers wore diving suits.
Fishermen claim that the sonar pulses cannot pass through rubber. This is in accordance with
a general idea that shellfish are neither exposed nor vulnerable to the sonar due to the
protection provided by the shell. In other words, the fishermen think that the response of the
human body to sonar pulses is a good indicator of how the fish bodies are influenced. Some
fishermen told me about a similar experiment set up by fishermen in which the divers had no
diving suits. The men were allegedly stricken by electricity and severely harmed (some said
one died). I have also heard a story about a wealthy small-boat fisherman who offered an
owner of a purse seiner a large amount of money if he dived beside his boat when the sonar
was turned on. The skipper did not accept the offer. This case conforms to a general concern
with fish and human bodies sharing many qualities of ‘life’. In Chapter 4 I noted that
fishermen often use human body analogies in order to explain the behaviour of fish.
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 283

I think that all fishermen, even the boat owners, harbour some uneasiness about this
object: they do not know for sure how to understand it. Those who hold that sonars scare or
harm fish will often round off their arguments with the comment “and anyway, if it is not
harmful, it does lead to excessive fishing.” I also sense unease among boat owners. They
often ask my opinion, how the situation is in Norway, and so on. Once, when a 15 year old
son of a boat owner proudly showed me the room in the boat’s hull where sonar transducers
were installed, he commented that “actually it is harmful. Fish are live creatures like us. They
are influenced.” The insecure, ambivalent and at once precarious and important role of the
sonar is underlined by the fact that there seem to be charms protecting against the evil eye
(nazarlık) attached to almost all sonar displays. During a long, spontaneous conversation with
a skipper (not boat owner) on the breakwater in Çarşıbaşı he asked me what scientists in
Norway think about the sonar. I told him that they think that the fish cannot hear the sonar. He
replied that he was becoming bewildered. “Whatever is emitted from the sonar, it has an
effect on (tesir ediyor) the fish. If someone fires a shotgun, it will have an effect, it strikes. If
you enter a cafe waving a shotgun, what will people do? They will flee...” He added that he
had seen that dolphins, which often race with the boats, flee as he turned on the sonar. As the
sonar is turned on and off several times the dolphins become accustomed to it. He closed this
topic by commenting that “even if the sonar does not kill the fish, it will help killing them
anyway since they will be caught and die. There is too much fishing.”
Thus, the crew and small-boat fishermen’s critique of the sonar may also be
interpreted as a language of resistance towards the mounting inequalities within the fisheries.
The ‘traditional’ object of critique and envy, the kabzımals, has always been easy to criticise
on a general basis as being usurers and rentiers. Since the owners of the large purse seiners,
crew and small-boat fishermen all live and work together, critique is deflected from a direct
attack on the boat owners to the most potent symbol of their success: the sonar. The engine
could also have been an object for opposition and envy. Indeed, many fishermen acknowledge
that the big engines scare fish. But it has not become an object of conflict. Why? Perhaps
because use of more powerful engines, contrary to the sonar, has not lead to a transformation
of the fisheries. Although once a critical factor of change in the fisheries in the 1950s and
1960s, the engine has not changed the game of luck and chance. The current need to install
more powerful engines is in part simply a secondary effect of the use of sonars.
The sonar, on thecontrary, has a special role in seeing, in discovering the fish,
previously the role of the experienced and talented reis. Just as the evil eye, its working is
more mystical and obscure. What is it? What are the powers it embodies? It strikes its object
and hurts it, as the evil eye does. I have not observed any direct, explicit coupling or analogy
between the evil eye and the sonar, but the model of the evil eye may reinforce or support the
understanding of the sonar as having the force to deform and kill. Crew and small-boat
fishermen feel so utterly powerless in the face of new techno-magical instruments. But there
is no organisation to voice their opinions and interests. So the critique is informal, on the level
284 CHAPTER 9

of widely shared, but personal opinion. Moreover there is no ‘action’, no sabotage of sonars. I
have not even heard such a thought voiced.
There are some intriguing similarities between this case and the ethnography of Aihwa
Ong (1987). In both cases new technology contributes to changes in relations of production.
In both cases resistance is deflected from direct opposition to widespread but unorganised
response: in the case of Malay female factory workers spirit possession, and in the case of
Turkish fisheries, accusations against the sonar. But the case discussed by Ong may harbours
a more dramatic social rupture than mine. ‘Work’ has not yet been ‘rationalised’ on the purse
seiners. There is not a radical change in subjectivities. Capitalist relations are still embodied
as friendship and the like. But there are tendencies. Yakup Kaya, the leader of Can Kardeşler
is not reis, but director. They have a company (şirket), they are not simply fishermen. But
most important, in my case, is not that there are tendencies of changing relations of
production, rather that the character of the capitalist economy of the fisheries has changed. It
was once a sector of possibilities, where chance and fate, skill and hard work, were the
differentiating factors. To some degree chance and fate were seen as the results of good
morals (see ‘Trust in the family’, Chapter 6). Now success has been engulfed by money-
power and politics, which are morally dubious. While a moral personal character and having a
‘clean heart’ (temiz gönül) may have been regarded as important to success in bygone days,
now the opposite is seen as necessary: success is not possible without involvement in politics
and corruption. This resonates with a general nostalgia and complaints about the loss of
‘sharing’.
Does the critique of the sonars also amount to a counter-hegemonic discourse? I would
say not, since the crew, small-boat fishermen and boat owners all engage in the same
discourses. There is no inversion of symbols’ meaning, no irony or parody (Keesing 1992), as
there may be in the illegal small-boat trawling that mocks the large-scale corruption and
lawlessness by copying it: “why should we stick to the law when the powerful do not?”. With
regard to the discourse about the sonars, the boat owners and reis who support their use put
forth the same kinds of arguments as do the critiques: “no, I have not seen that the sonars
scare away the dolphins”, “the fish is very much alive when we haul it on board”, “no, it has
no effect on human bodies”. It seems as though the critique of the sonar in some contexts
gives the crew and small-boat fishermen an upper hand and empowers them to turn the
hegemony upside down, if only temporarily. Once, while sitting around a table in the kahve
during the off-season, a group of primarily small-boat fishermen were discussing the sonar.
As usual they held it to be harmful. The only boat owner at the table, himself in possession of
a sonar, remained mostly silent. Although usually very talkative, he was now rather sulky due
to bad catches and economic problems. He was confronted by one of the small-boat
fishermen: “the sonar is harmful, isn’t that so?” He didn’t answer, but responded with a quiet
nod.
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 285

Seeing the Truth, being in the sea

Thus, to summarise, the sonar is a very different thing to the fishermen and to the scientists.
In text, the official discourse of the scientists, the sonar is a black boxed technological object
(Latour 1987) that emits sound. In contrast to many other issues or objects, it is rather
peripheral to the world of these scientists, a speck in the corner of their world, and they relate
to it primarily through scientific texts. The sonar is not as critical to the lives of scientist as to
the lives of fishermen. However, it cannot be said that their position on the sonar is morally
void. Precisely their unwillingness to focus on it embodies a message, a kind of moral
statement. They are familiar with the sonar’s potential for numerical information and think
that, since it emits sound, sonar waves are simply reflected by the fish body as an echo. In
their experiments emphasis is placed on visual observation of the fish. For the fishermen the
sonar is implicated in a moral discourse. It is a social thing that looms large in the fisherman’s
world. Contrary to the scientists, they struggle to conceive what it is that the sonar emits. The
sonar is not black boxed, it is an unknown hard to grasp, and for many, hard to accept. They
have no textual and numerical, but rather a performative - being at sea - approach to the sonar.
Because they often understand the sonar pulses as a kind of electricity, they think that the
bodies of fish and humans do not simply reflect the pulses but partly absorb them.
The critique of the sonar articulates a connection among fish, people, technology, and
moralities. Together this constitutes a universe of continuities and connections among the
natural world, the humans’ bodies and moralities. The concerns about not cutting live fish
(see ‘Trust in the family’, Chapter 5) is based on the same kind of connection, among fish
bodies, human bodies and morals. There is also the possible analogy, in fishermen’s
conceptions, of the powers of the sonar with the evil eye. The working of the evil eye is based
upon the same kind of connections among moralities, human reproduction, and envy. Thus, it
is notable that fishermen try to protect sonars against the evil eye with charms (nazarlık). In
addition, the frequent use of human body analogies to explain fish behaviour operates on the
same tacit assumption of connections. Thus, I believe it would be wrong to regard the analogy
with human bodies as ‘merely’ a metaphor. For the fishermen the human body and the fish
body are similar, are of the same quality. Certainly, if fishermen were to articulate a
cosmology they would employ concepts that are at least as Cartesian as those employed in the
West, stringently separating humans (insan) from nature (doğa) and animals (hayvan),
primarily on the basis of humans’ capacity for reason (akil), which they separate from
feelings (duygu) and body (beden). However, in their more everyday discourse, fishermen are
more prone than scientists to think that they have a bodily continuity with fish and the sea.
For them it is not only possible to extrapolate to fish the sonars’ effect on human bodies, it is
seen as perhaps the ultimate test of the sonar.
Scientists, on the other hand, give priority to visual observations of fish behaviour and
in the report write in the passive, subject free language: “...it was seen that... (görülmüştür)” -
thereby emphasising the ‘seeing as’. Neither in the report nor in the comments on the
286 CHAPTER 9

experiments does the idea appear that the sonars’ effect on human bodies should have any
relevance for its effect on fish. There is nonetheless an undertone of uncertainty among
scientists, but they try to reframe this uncertainty as ‘another' question, as a ‘biomedical'
issue. This uncertainty includes the realisation that they lack practice, and that what cannot be
seen cannot be trusted. Science creates a distinction between object and subject and between
nature and culture. Fishermen are not much concerned about this distinction. Although they at
a certain level separate very clearly between humans and non-humans, they are at the practical
level not very concerned about the separateness, and clearly perceive continuities between
human bodies and nature.

Science in the politics of the sonar

The fishermen and scientists both know well that at the end of the day the actual use and non-
use of sonars is not decided by knowledge alone. That is rather an outcome of the brute
politics of money, votes and social webbing. But officially sanctioned knowledge can be one
of the vectors in the political game. Fishermen and scientists realise this. It was fishermen
who supported the use of, and themselves owned sonars, that in 1988 induced marine
scientists at the University in Trabzon to undertake the sonar experiment. Thus, contrary to
most research projects which are initiated by bureaucratic decree or on scientists’ own
initiatives, the scientific study of the sonar was induced by some better-positioned fishermen,
who tried to achieve ‘closure’ of the controversy by referring to the ideal of ‘sound scientific
knowledge’. One party in the internal controversy among fishermen mobilised science to
strengthen their position, not necessarily against other fishermen, but in face of the
authorities. This may have settled the debate in the eyes of the scientists, bureaucrats and
politicians, but among the fishermen the controversy has continued unabated.
In science there is more pull towards ‘certainty’, the absolute Truth. I am therefore
sceptical of making the question of ‘Truth’ or ‘Right Knowledge’ a central issue when
comparing science with other traditions of knowledge. ‘Usefulness’ or ‘Result’, and not
‘Truth’, may be what are most important to the fisherman. For the fishermen, the controversy
over the sonar is not a knowledge conflict, but a conflict over practice and morals. The
controversy about the sonar cuts across the fishing communities, yes, even through boats. It
remains an unresolved issue. For the fishermen the sonar is not primarily an object to be
known. It is an extension of the technique of seeing, and its use or non-use is not settled by
knowledge, but by money and power.
Some fishermen acknowledge that they and the scientists play different games, are
involved in dissimilar projects, and that different criteria apply to the sciences. Accordingly
many fishermen criticise the scientists not for being scientists, but for being bad scientists.
Turgut Reis, hired reis aboard Ergün Kardeşler, was the skipper on charge aboard Can
Kardeşler when the scientists undertook their study of the sonar. He is sympathetic to the
scientists' view on the sonar, but says that he would not accept the findings of the scientists
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 287

until their study had received international recognition. As many others, he criticises the way
the experiment was set up. Talking about the experiment which involved the divers he said
that “it only lasted for half an hour, and that was it”. He thought there was not enough
practice. Thus, fishermen may admit that science is a different project with its own methods
and criteria, but as ‘men on the path’ or sometimes as ‘informed citizens’ they feel entitled to
comment upon, use and criticise the knowledge of the ‘experts’ (Lambek 1993). They also
claim a voice about how science should be practised. However, they are not heard.
Fishermen's jargon, with its emphasis on personal experience and the body, with the lack of
fixation of their knowledge into texts, together with the social barrier created by mutual
constructions of ignorance (see Chapter 12) ensure that their voice is mute in the politics of
officially accepted, ‘high’ knowledge.
Actually, both sides claim to be the more knowledgeable. Scientists think that the
fishermen are cahil (ignorant) since they do not understand what Khz is, are unable to use the
full potential of the sonars, and still tend to trust the gulls more than the sonars. Fishermen say
that they have learned the use of sonars themselves and know more about (the use of) sonars
than the scientists do. However, the fishermen do not say that the scientists are cahil. Since
the sonar is a product of the technoscience, scientists are therefore easily seen as the
legitimate experts on it. It would be different with, for example, fish behaviour or bottom
topography which from the outset are not scientific ‘constructs’ (but may of course be
appropriated). In contrast, scientific knowledge is included in fishermen's eclectic narratives.
Reference to ‘scientific facts’ is precisely one of fishermen’s narrative strategies and
references for authority. But such reference to or ‘mobilisation’ of science is prone to gross
simplification, and in this game the fishermen lose, as they can easily be proven wrong in
relation to the accepted standards of truth in science. For instance, one fisherman claimed that
the sonar sends 220 V into the water and therefore harms fish. Fishermen also enter the same
kind of discourse as scientists when they claim to be able to prove (ispat) that the sonar is
harmful. But by drawing on science in often distorted ways, fishermen’s endeavours on
talking science in effect often lead them to unwittingly reconfirm their stereotype as cahil.
The fishermen’s and scientists’ different understandings of the sonar are not totally
independently of each other. Their understandings are partly influenced by the other
(especially, the fishermen’s draw upon science), partly developed in a kind of confrontation
with the opposite view. The two different positions should not be seen as two totally distinct
and internally consistent cultural models. After all, many boat owners stand in a middle
position as they defend the use of sonars and are in touch with scientists more often. Each
position is grounded in both embodied practice and external models as well as by articulations
between them. Thanks to the bureaucrats’ textual tradition, some of the dialogues between
fishermen and scientists have been preserved. During an exchange about various issues at a
1988 seminar about the hamsi fisheries, fishermen expressed their views on the sonar:
288 CHAPTER 9

Halit Bay (old fisherman, owner of purse seiner): “I think that this is one of the atom bombs of
the sea. Yes, we have now come to the sonar. It is a scientific (bilgin) instrument, quickly
finding, easy catch device, but let’s look at its technical ability (hüner)…. a seine with 80
tonnes hamsi caught without sonar we pulled with only the [hand-] power of the crew. Now I
address my conscious (bilinçli) friend who caught 25 tonnes of hamsi with sonar: I wonder,
can you raise (kaldırmak) the seine only with manpower, is the power sufficient? I wonder
why they cannot raise it? I answer also this: it put the hamsi in a state of shock, it killed
(hamsiyi şok etti, öldürdü). Whether large or small, they are dead…” (İktisadı Araştırmalar
Vakfı 1988:136)

Azmi Mutlu (boat owner): “ …is sonar advantageous, or is it harmful? It is harmful in three
ways: One, I did not buy, therefore it is harmful. Two, it quickly finishes off the fish in the
sea. Three, it scatters light (ışık saçar) on the sea bottom. But I cannot know whether this is
right or not, whether it is studied (araştırması yapılmış mıdır) and to what degree it is correct.
But I observed that my friends receive exceptional results on this topic [i.e. by using the
sonar]. We also entered the sonar business and bought one.” (İktisadı Araştırmalar Vakfı
1988:137-138)

These two statements, particularly the last one, aptly summarise the positions and dilemmas
of the fishermen. They do not quite know or understand what it is or what it does, but the
dynamics of their adaptation forces those who still want to join the race, and have the
resources, to use the sonar.
Next, a young scientist asks why use of sonars with frequencies under 60 Khz (that is
most of the sonars currently in use) is legal while the annual circular of regulations stipulates
that the use of such sonars (below 60 Khz) is forbidden in the Sea of Marmara. Professor
Çelikkale at Sürmene MSF comments:

…the sonar is not harmful to the fish. I don’t conjecture this (tahmini söylemiyorum). I state
this on the basis of the results of a study that I did with five researchers and was supported by
the University Research Fund. The fish ear hears a maximum sound (ses) of 12 thousand
hertz. The frequency of our sonars starts at 38 thousand hertz. It is the military sonars that
affect the fish, the large trade sonars [?], but those you cannot remove. The sonars used by our
fishermen do not have the effect of scaring or making substance-less (ürkütücü, pörsütücü
etkisi yoktur). If you believe in science, this is the result. (İktisadı Araştırmalar Vakfı
1988a:144)

With regard to the 60 Khz limit he makes the point that the regulation in question stipulates
the minimum ‘power’ (güç) of 60 Khz. That is wrong, he claims, “…power is measured with
Watt, this is frequency. If possible I want this paragraph to be removed. As a scientist I see no
justification for it” (İktisadı Araştırmalar Vakfı 1988:144). In 1998 this regulation was still in
place.
Despite the general scientific claim that Science constitutes universal knowledge
achieved through peer review and openness, with regard to the knowledge of the sonar, the
scientists seem to have been less than open. The report (Çelikkale 1998b) from the study on
the sonar was not universally accessible. First of all, it is written in Turkish and unpublished. I
only managed to get a copy thanks to my personal relationship with and the generosity of
scientists at Sürmene MSF. This implies that the report has not been exposed to the scrutiny
of the larger scientific community, and indicates that the rationale for this work was not so
 DO SONARS HARM FISH? 289

much ‘scientific’ as local-political. This is substantiated by the fact that the study was
initiated upon ‘requests’ from some owners of large fishing boats. The report was not
distributed to the fishermen (except perhaps a few boat owners) - even Turgut Reis did not
receive a copy, even though he sides with the scientists and, with his high school education, is
better able to understand such a text than most boat owners! This contrasts with fishermen in
countries such as Norway and Iceland who when conflicts arise with scientists have had more
direct access to reports. In a conflict in south-western Norway over a deposit on the seafloor
of mud from a mine that fishermen held ruined their fishing grounds, they directly read the
scientific reports and criticised them for being written in a style that made them inaccessible
(Engelsvold 1994:102). In Iceland and Canada the Boat Owners’ Associations have hired
marine biologists on a permanent basis to undertake their own analyses of the scientists’ data
(Pálsson 1998:216).
In Turkey the issue of the sonar is hardly addressed in newspapers and other public
forums. Unlike fishermen in Norway and Iceland, for example, Turkish fishermen do not have
their own magazine/newspaper nor do they write letters to the daily newspapers. The only
time I have seen the sonar mentioned in the newspaper is when some journalist decided to do
a feature story about fishermen. Fishermen lend themselves easily to such feature stories since
they are generally considered exotic figures. The results from the scientists’ work on the sonar
has entered the popular discourses about Turkish fisheries, but only as oral narratives. The
scientific articulation of the result - the report, the text - has been appropriated by the
scientists. On the other hand, scientists often rely on the practical knowledge of the fishermen
when conducting experiments at sea, although th0at is not reported in their texts. Who really
interpreted the sonar display images during the scientists’ experiments?
There are also indications of convergence: all sides accept that the experiment is the
relevant technique to test an idea. But, while fishermen and scientists use and rely upon each
other’s practices and knowledges, these connections are partly obscured (by mutually
exclusive constructions of knowledge etc.). It would be possible to reframe the whole dispute
and move towards a convergence in knowledge/perspective. If all parts could allow for
uncertainties in their knowledges, they might be able to approach common ground along lines
of: ‘sonars are heard by dolphins and may possibly have some effect on fish, and engine noise
may scare away fish’. Why is there no such common understanding? One reason may be that
for the fishermen the sonar is overdetermined by its role as fetish/metonym for dubious
riches. And for the scientists it is difficult to accept arguments beyond scientific discourse.

Conclusion

The use of the technologically advanced sonars in the Turkish fisheries has not led the
fishermen to adopt a ‘technological’ approach. The sonars have been appropriated into the
‘local’ dynamic tradition of knowledge. There has not been a major change in the way of
perception, but rather in the character of the social differentiation in the fisheries; this most
290 CHAPTER 9

likely accounts for the widespread critique of the sonars. The sonar is, for the fishermen, a
‘social’ thing that exist in a world where there are continuities between peoples’ bodies,
morals, fish, technology, politics, and so on. And, it is the politics of the fishermen that got
science involved! The agenda of science is in large part local, and not even of local science’s
own making. I suggest that many of the conflicts between scientists and others about
technoscience and ‘facts’ can be similarly analysed. Instead of only focusing on ‘different
rationalities’ with competing Truth-claims, one should direct more attention at what role the
technology or fact takes up in peoples’ lives: as practice, as tool, as symbol, as a social thing.
The recurrent critique North Atlantic fishermen direct against scientists’ stock assessments
and suggestions for TAC may be insufficiently understood as nothing more than competing
rationalities or epistemologies. There probably is more to the fishermen’s critique than only a
‘different theory of stocks’. The scientists’ defence has more at stake than the knowledge of
the stocks: the general moral and political standing of the scientists, even the role of science
in modern society comes into play.
That more than ‘facts’ or the ‘Truth’ are at stake in contemporary disputes over
technoscientific projects is readily apparent in case of consumer scepticism with regard to
genetically modified food, and in the general critique of the Human Genome Project. This is
most likely so because these projects directly challenge understandings of what the human
body, and in a wider sense, what the human is. It may be more difficult to see that the sonar,
or the instigation of capitalist-industrialised organisation of production (cf. Ong 1987),
challenges fundamental ethical sensibilities such as ideals of equality, locality, sharing and
intimacy, and gendered use of socio-space.
While this chapter has focused primarily on the perception and construction of the
‘thing’, on how fishermen and scientists through different practices have come to understand,
or sense, the sonar very differently, there may also be many parallels in the ways knowledge
is acquired, sustained and externalised. When we turn our gaze (or rather, sensibilities?)
towards not the experience of the sonars but to the semiotics and the materiality of the
knowledge and knowledge articulations, we may come closer to a specification of differences
and convergence in knowledges and discourses about knowledge. This will constitute the
topic of the next chapter.
10 TACIT KNOWLEDGE, SPEECH,
AND SCIENTIFIC TEXTS

Can we say that fishermen’s knowledge is to a large degree tacit? Is this one of the main
reasons for the lack of understanding between the fishermen and the scientists? In this chapter
I discuss this assertion critically through problematising the distinction between language and
practice. I suggest that in place of this distinction, more attention should be paid to the
difference between speech and text and greater focus on the articulations’ ‘impact area’ or
context. Within such a perspective the scientific move towards formalisation and
objectification emerges as the constituting moment in its hegemonic position within a wider
societal context.

An assumption has gradually emerged that fishermen and others that have a practical and
occupational mode of approaching their environs often have just as good, if not better than,
knowledge of, for instance, fish and the sea as scientists do. There have been calls for science
to learn from such ‘indigenous science’ and for integrating such knowledge in models for
resource management151. Yet, fishermen’s knowledge as well as other ‘folk’ knowledge, do
not communicate well with scientific knowledge because it is embodied and tacit practical
know-how (Pálsson 1995, Pálsson & Helgason 1998, Müller 2000). Because core aspects of
fishermen’s knowledge are difficult to transform to a linguistic form, their knowledge is not
met with the recognition that they themselves (as well as many anthropologists) think that it
deserves. Cooperation and communication between fishermen and scientists is allegedly
hindered by the pervasive problem of fishermen’s inability to articulate and externalise their
knowledge.
I will critically examine this claim by attempting to clarify to what degree and in what
manner fishermen externalise their knowledge. What techniques do they employ to convey
their knowledge, and what is it that causes some of their knowledge to remain tacit? I will
supplement and balance this focus with a discussion of to what degree and in what manner
scientists externalise their knowledge. Thus, the main questions that surface are: what are we
really to understand by tacit knowledge? why and how is much knowledge not heeded? This
implies a problematisation of what is to be meant by externalisation and articulation. I pursue
this by asking: externalise to what? tacit in relation to what? In the extension of the discussion

151
See e.g. Richards 1985 (cited in Croll & Parkin 1992), Freeman & Carbyn 1988, Acheson and
Wilson 1996, and McGoodwin 1990.

291
292 CHAPTER 10

of these questions I claim that it must be important to differentiate between externalisation,

inscription, and formalisation/abstraction of knowledge. Towards the end of this chapter I will
draw on previous chapters to indicate other lines along which fishermen’s and scientists’
knowledges may be compared152.

Tacit practical knowledge

Even though Polanyi pointed out more than 40 years ago that tacit knowledge also has an
important and necessary role in science, and thereby partly deconstructed the rigid separation
between scientific knowledge and other knowledges, the implications of this have largely
been ignored outside of philosophy of science. Later on, new and more critical studies of
science (SSK, STS153) have contributed to ‘normalising’ or even deconstruction of scientific
knowledge, explicitly or implicitly claiming tacit knowledge to be an important aspect of
scientific knowledge (see e.g. Latour 1987:43). But, it is not my goal in this chapter to
provide yet another demonstration of how sciences are socially constructed. I want rather to
explore further possible approaches to working out a symmetrical approach to knowledges.
Here I focus primarily on the way knowledges come to be inscribed in signs and on the
importance of the materiality and the social context of the knowledges and signs.
Initially I start by noting that one possible approach, which Polanyi himself indicated,
may be to distinguish between practice and discourse, between practical knowledge and
theoretical knowledge. One of the most important differences between these kinds of
knowledge is supposedly that much practical knowledge is tacit. It has become commonplace
in social science to use ‘tacit’ as an analytical tool to stress that much of what is practical
knowledge cannot be transformed to discourse and expressed in language (see e.g. Bourdieu
1977). Giddens (1979:57) introduces the concept ‘practical consciousness’, which he defines
as “...tacit knowledge that is skilfully applied in the enactment of courses of conduct, but
which the actor is not able to formulate discursively".
The distinction between the linguistic and non-linguistic was central also for Polanyi.
He defined tacit knowledge as that which could not be articulated by language or symbols.
But he also asserts that such tacit knowledge is a precondition for and takes part in language
(see e.g. Polanyi 1958:86-87) More recently both Lakoff and Ingold have elaborated on this
kind of perspective (Lakoff 1987, Ingold 1993b, see Chapter 4). Bloch holds that such non-
linguistic knowledge can be transformed to language and take the form of explicit discourse,
but that it then changes character in the process (1994:278). Bourdieu (1977:18) claims that
such a translation to a linguistic form would imply a transformation to quasi-theory, to rules
or principles that are assumed to direct action. Thus, when the concept of ‘tacit’ is applied,
attention is directed at the problem of articulation, the possibility for expressing knowledge

152
This chapter is a reworked version of Knudsen 1999.
153
Sociology of Scientific Knowledge, Science and Technology Studies, see also chapters four and
nine.
 TACIT KNOWLEDGE 293

within a linguistic framework. In such a perspective it is a widespread assumption that the

differential possibility for articulation is caused by knowledges being cognitively coded in
different ways (see e.g. Bloch 1994, Borofsky 1994). In other words, kinds of knowledge that
are not coded in accordance with a linguistic template (such as how hard one will have to pull
the oars in order to set the net in a ‘perfect’ curve) tend to be unutterable.
Shore is one exponent of this view. He writes (1996:272-3), “Samoans appear to have
two cultural models for village space. Because it is encoded in a number of linguistic terms,
the linear model might be termed an ‘explicit cultural model’. The less articulate but clearly
operative concentric model is more of a ‘tacit cultural model’ that is acted upon and
represented spatially but not linguistically marked for Samoans”. Shore (1996:280)
furthermore connects the linear model to digital coding and the concentric model to analog
coding. Schemata or models that are coded analogically are, he claims, more difficult to
articulate and objectify (yet he does claim to have managed somehow to articulate the
concentric model…) That the knowledge is embedded in practice and is non-linguistically
coded is therefore often regarded as a main reason for the difficulty of communicating much
non-scientific knowledge. In keeping with this, it could be claimed that the communication
barrier between fishermen and scientists is primarily a consequence of the fishermen’s
knowledge being of such a quality that it remains tacit. I now return to the ethnography and
explore the potential for fishermen and scientists to externalise their knowledges of the
bottom topography (cf. Chapter 4) and the sonar (cf. Chapter 9). Through this I will discuss
whether a distinction between practice and language is sufficient for understanding
differences and similarities between fishermen’s and scientists’ knowledges.

Bottom topography: to articulate ada and kuyu

When I observed fishermen interacting with the complexities of their environment, I soon
became aware that relating to ada and kuyu was an important aspect of their knowledge. I
therefore wanted to inscribe this knowledge in my fieldnotes in the form of sketches (maps).
The fishermen do not use nautical charts, so I could not rely on them pointing out features of
the seascape on existing inscriptions of their environment. In my notebook I made a simple
line drawing to indicate the coastline and tried to get them to draw small sketches indicating
the location and extension of adas and kuyus. When at sea they may say that ‘this ada extends
eastwards (poyraza), perhaps a couple hundred fathoms and westwards (karayele) beyond the
mosque’. But it was completely impossible to get them to make a sketch (map) of ada or
kuyu. I tried again and again to no avail. In most cases they would take pen and paper in hand,
but then hesitate. Sometimes they made some vague short lines that indicated direction, but
never any delimited unit. Most likely, in their experience boundaries of the ada and kuyu are
far too diffuse to be circumscribed and inscribed precisely. Moreover, their knowledge may
be ‘floating’.
294 CHAPTER 10

When Polanyi discusses articulation, it becomes clear that he means articulation in

symbols. These include, in addition to speech and text, graphs, maps, and sketches (1958:82-
83). In the above example, it seems that the fishermen are not able to externalise their
knowledge about the boundaries or limits of the adas and kuyus or other aspects of bottom
topography through sketches. Neither could they articulate it precisely in ‘plain words’. They
could only, and primarily at sea, indicate something very general about the extension of the
adas/kuyus. If tacit knowledge is understood as experience and skills that cannot be given
linguistic or other conventionalised symbolic expression, we may say that fishermen’s
knowledge here is tacit. Yet, despite the fact that we could not discuss the topographical and
other qualities of adas and kuyus on the basis of two-dimensional sketches, fishermen had no
problem sitting in the kahve and illustrating important aspects of the bottom topography,
where fish gather, how currents flow, and so on. Most commonly they used their hands
(sometimes one, usually both) to make a three-dimensional iconic representation of ada or
kuyu. Accompanied by pointing to ‘features’ at their hand-icon, they then explained the rest
verbally, such as: ‘when snow melts in spring the seawater becomes cold. The fish prefers
warm water and therefore descends into the kuyus where water is warmer. However, they do
not dive too deep since the water there is poisonous. For this reason the fish gather around the
shoulders of the kuyu. That’s also where there is most food for the fish. Since it is more
difficult to fish at such spots, the fish at these places often grow bigger than elsewhere.’ Thus,
the fishermen are able to articulate some of the qualities of the adas and kuyus by means of
hand symbolism and also couple this with highly standardised models of fish behaviour and
seasonal changes. They easily articulate these models orally, although their articulations are
not as straightforward as my linear representation of it here. For a better example of the style,
recall Yılmaz Terzi’s narrative in Chapter 4 and note that his narrative also included hand
symbol articulations.
It is worth having a closer look at what kind of externalisation this is, a ‘translation’ to
what? How did the sign come into being? What is its genesis, so to speak? The use of hands is
a kind of iconic sign that was rather immediately understandable for me. It was probably
important that I had shared some of the fishermen’s experiences at sea. I noticed also that a
scholar at Sürmene MSF who lived in a fishing community used the same kind of hand-signs.
During a lecture that I attended, a (Norwegian) geologist used her hands and arms to articulate
and demonstrate for the audience the structural geology of her fieldsite. There probably is an
element of convention involved here, of communication by means of conventionalised signs,
but such signs may also conform closely to the fisherman’s own experience and imagination
of the bottom topography. It is a very ‘plastic’ kind of sign that can be shaped to fit the
individual ada or kuyu. The meaning of the sign is given immediately and directly by its
analog closeness to the fishermen’s mental image. This image is not linguistically organised
and is activated and develops during continued interaction with gear, water bodies, and the
sea bottom. Their mental image is by necessity three dimensional since they continuously
have to relate to different depths. Meaning construction here is by an analog model that
 TACIT KNOWLEDGE 295

certainly is very ‘bodily’, but has elements of abstraction and distance. Hands (and arms) are
simply good for expressing ‘invisible’ three-dimensional features. In combination with the
hans-signs, fishermen articulate their knowledge of the bottom topography by speech, that is
by language. The hand-sign is actually rather empty without verbal comment that can situate
it. However, fishermen make no written notes of their knowledge.
Although fishermen’s knowledge here first appeared as tacit, a closer observation
shows that they have alternative techniques for articulating their knowledges. They are
certainly able to give verbal expression to many of their experiences. Pálsson (1995:20) has
made a similar observation with regard to the Icelandic fishermen. The Turkish fishermen
have no problem in some contexts externalising core aspects of their knowledge of bottom
topography. Still, their knowledge remains largely tacit in relation to the scientific discourse
since they do not command, or are unwilling to employ, the scientists’ techniques for
articulation and inscription, such as maps, written/typed texts, jargon, and so on. The
fishermen’s and scientists’ approach to the sea bottom, together with their techniques for
representing it, stand in stark contrast.
I once talked with a marine scientist, associated with the Sürmene MSF, who had
prepared a project aimed at studying why there are relatively more fish on adas. He drew his
models from international scientific literature and speculated whether special conditions
created by water currents around the adas could explain the abundance of fish. Based on my
own experience and what I had learned from the fishermen, I told the scientist about the
fishermen’s ideas about why there are more fish on adas and on kuyu shoulders. These were
clearly new ideas to him. However, in contrast to the fishermen, I used two-dimensional
models (sketches in a notebook) to illustrate adas and kuyus. This was a convention that we
shared as members of the international scientific community, or perhaps the community of
people with advanced schooling. Many fishermen also understood such drawings when I
made my sketches, but they did not make such drawings themselves. During another
encounter, one scientist readily sketched the outlines of some adas he knew on a piece of
paper. It was a very straightforward thing to him, a practice unconscious of its tacit
assumptions. Similarly, when marine scientists at Trabzon WPRI explained fish behaviour in
relation to water temperature in terms of thermocline (see ‘Hamsi migrations’, Chapter 7),
they sketched on paper different possible ‘temperature gradients’ to illustrate different water
temperature conditions.
296 CHAPTER 10

9 8 16
Temperature (°C)

(Thermocline)

7 7 8
Depth (m)

Figure 23 Scientific models and inscription: temperature gradients

I have adapted this from fieldnotes. Scientists sketched such gradients informally on a piece of paper
during discussions with me.

Such illustrations of temperature gradients are a kind of articulation that even more than the
conventional two-dimensional ‘cross-cuts’ depends upon specific conventions. Here at least
two kinds of convention are involved. First the technique of plotting two variables against
each other in a diagram and situating the ‘observations’ as analog representations within this
field (as in the MSY models, see figure 21). Then there is the convention of articulating water
bodies with different temperatures as temperature gradients and thermocline. Since during my
first years at university I had studied natural sciences, this diagram was readily
understandable for me. Both the kind of inscription and the model of
water/temperature/thermocline are highly ‘community’ specific. It worked in communication
with me in much the same manner as the hand-signs. It was a basic model that operated as a
fundament for further verbal articulation and elaboration. But the analog coding of the two
kinds of articulation (hand-signs, temperature gradient) is different. The hand-sign roughly
conforms to, is homologous with, the fishermen’s image of the sea bottom. It is an iconic
sign. The analog coding in the temperature gradient model bears less resemblance to the
scientists’ idea of what it is meant to represent, although the visual ‘break’ at thermocline
mirrors the physical temperature change between two bodies of water. Thus, though
fishermen are able to articulate much of their knowledge, their articulations are to a certain
extent made by other means than scientists’ articulations.
 TACIT KNOWLEDGE 297

Language as bodily practice

Are fishermen’s and scientists’ ways of constructing knowledge radically different? A brief
review of the sonar case will help modify this picture of incongruity between fishermen’s and
scientists’ knowledges. In the previous chapter I discussed ways in which the sonar is a
different thing to the fishermen and the scientists. If we take a closer look at the ways they
build and externalise their analytical or propositional knowledges (i.e. ‘claims’) about the
sonar, there is clearly convergence. Both sides give weight to visual observation of fish’
behaviour (primarily direct, but also through instruments such as the sonar screen).
Knowledge has its basis in both cases in concrete local experiences in specific contexts
(situational) that to a large degree are of the same character: people in boats at sea, and
observation of fish directly or by instruments. Both fishermen and scientists depend upon
‘tacit’ practical knowledge. For instance, fishermen must be familiar with general behaviour
of istavrit, dolphins and hamsi (see the ‘Fishermen’s sonar stories’, Chapter 9). Scientists
must recognise changes in pitch of the sound as they listen to the ‘translated’ sonar pulses
during the aquarium experiment. Both also generalise on the basis of a limited number of
observations.
In addition to their own observations, both parties also mobilise external authorities to
bolster their arguments: fishermen refer to ban on sonar use in Japan, scientists refer to
scientific studies of fish’ ability to hear. Thus, both fishermen and scientists in much the same
manner build networks of actants or arguments/resources to construct the sonar (‘collective’).
Furthermore, both fishermen and scientists mobilise logical reasoning that has much the same
character. Cause-effect/correlation reasoning is used by both fishermen and scientists when
they respectively claim that ‘dolphins flee as one turns on the sonar’, and ‘hamsi do not
change behaviour as the sonar is turned off and on’. Fishermen very often analyse their
experiences at sea in order to speculate and build/modify their models of the dynamics of
their environment. One night during the season of the ‘Russian’ kefal fishing there were
heavy rains and few fish were caught in the nets. The few fish that were caught had all
become entangled in the lower parts of the nets, towards the seafloor. Upon observing this
one fisherman commented, “That means that it seeks the bottom during rains (demek
yağmurda dibe iner)”. Another morning, with bright and sunny weather, catches were very
good. “That means that fish hit the net in the sunshine (Demek güneş parlarken vurur)”. They
said, however, that they did not know why. Such reasoning implies connecting two
independent observations by assuming a cause-effect relationship. This is of course also one
of the basic logical principles of science.
Given the many similarities in the fishermen’s and scientists’ ways of constructing
propositional/analytical knowledge, why do they end up with such contradictory views of the
sonar’s effect on fish? Why do they listen so little to each other? While in the previous
chapter I focused on what kind of thing the sonar is, my tack here is different. As discussed, it
298 CHAPTER 10

is not enough to focus on whether knowledge can be articulated or not, whether it is tacit or
not. Therefore I will look at it from a slightly different angle and ask ‘how is the knowledge
articulated?’ To approach an answer, I think it insufficient to let an analysis turn solely on the
difference between practice and symbolisation/language, between practical knowledge and
theoretical knowledge. I propose to loosen up this dichotomy and instead tentatively
differentiate among: (1) (bodily) practice, (2) oral language, and (3) written language. It
thereby becomes critical to clarify the difference and transformations between these (and
potentially other) forms of manifestation (Johannessen 1999).
I have here used many different analytical concepts to specify the ‘movement’ of
knowledge out into interpersonal and transportable forms. We may distinguish between these
concepts by saying that articulation of knowledge may occur in different forms of
manifestations. It may imply varying degrees of externalisation, movement away from the
original quality (situation, context, form of manifestation) of knowledge. Different kinds of
manifestation harbour different qualities as or potentials for inscription. In general,
externalisation facilitates, and is stimulated by, objectification – the making of something as
something for someone. While the initial definition of tacit knowledge could be seen to
revolve around language/not language, the above reworking of forms of manifestations
(practice, oral language, and written language) will necessarily result in a reevaluation of what
is meant by the concept. I claim that the critical difference between fishermen’s and scientists’
knowledges is the way they are articulated, what kind of manifestation they are expressed in,
and not whether they can be articulated. While fishermen’s knowledges come to be expressed,
to be manifest, in speech and body language, as well as in the (bodily) fishing practice proper,
the primary forms in which scientific knowledge is manifested are written/printed text and
other fixated forms of expression/inscription such as maps, photographs, graphs, and the like.
It has been common to regard speech as an act that simply carries out a rational,
structured, rule-governed and conventional language system. Writing has often been regarded
as the true, real and clean manifestation of language, as if parole was the execution of langue.
Text rather than speech has commonly been seen as the prototype of language, and this
assumption has, as is well known, stimulated the structuralistic approaches to language and
culture. Neither does Polanyi in his study of ‘Personal Knowledge’ make much of the
difference between speech and text. He writes as if speech and listening are synonymous with
writing and reading. He mentions the reading of a letter as an example of ‘hearing a message’
(Polanyi 1958:91). For Polanyi the text comes out as a model of language, and he is
sometimes led to use ‘text’ and ‘language’ interchangeably (Polanyi 1958:95). Ingold
(1993b), inspired by among others Merleau-Ponty, argues against this conception of language
and claims that speech, as a phenomenon, evolutionary as well as experientially, comes before
writing, before langue. Langue, he maintains, is a post-hoc abstraction from speech, not a
script for speech.
Without acknowledging it, Ingold here articulates ideas similar to Walter Ong’s
position on ‘Orality and Literacy’. Among other things, Ong (1982:119) points out how the
 TACIT KNOWLEDGE 299

oral has a continued importance in the written. In “oral manuscript cultures…written texts
often continued the oral mnemonic patterning that made for ready recall. Moreover, readers
commonly vocalized, read slowly aloud, or sotto voce, even when reading alone…”. This is
reminiscent of Lakoff’s (1987) and Shore’s (1996) concerns about the bodily basis of
language (see Chapter 4). Indeed, Ong’s distinction between orality (or oral culture) and
writing (or literate culture) comes very close to Ingold’s (1993) distinction between technique
(or dwelling) and technology (or building). “For an oral culture learning or knowing means
achieving close, emphatic, communal identification with the known…Writing separates the
knower from the known and thus sets up conditions for ‘objectivity’, in the sense of personal
disengagement or distancing” (Ong 1982:45-46). He furthermore claims that oral cultures use
concepts in ‘situational frames of reference’ that ‘remain close to the human lifeworld’ (Ong
1982:49).
While I find Ong’s comprehensive and persistent attention to the difference between
the oral and the written intriguing, I am less convinced when he consistently connects the two
ways of manifestation to distinct ways of thinking, as if form of manifestation alone shapes
thinking. Merleau-Ponty makes a similar distinction between ‘ways of thinking’, but does not
link it so directly with form of manifestation. He also holds that speech is bodily practice,
‘one of the possible uses of my body’. Words are brought forth from the body and are not
expressions of the taught, but “...his speech is his thought” (1962:180). Here bodily practice
should not be understood in a conventional manner. For Merleau-Ponty embodiment signifies,
in the same manner as the pre-objective, all non-objectified approaches towards the world, in
other words a ‘being in the world’. He compares speech with music in order to demonstrate
that the meaning of speech does not inhere in grammar or vocabulary (the ‘notation’), but in
its ‘doing’, its practice. Speech is linguistic gestures. Thus, we cannot separate speech, and
more generally language, from non-linguistic ways of being in the world, from what we
ordinarily call bodily practice (Merleau-Ponty 1962:174-99). By denying classical
correspondence theory of meaning, Lakoff has also argued that language is rooted in bodily
practice (see Chapter 4). But he is still primarily interested in language, how language
becomes possible through the bodily basis for cognition and the imaginary power of
‘idealised cognitive models’ (Lakoff 1987). Merleau-Ponty’s perspective is different. For him
speech is also a way of being ‘pre-objective’. Or, put another way, speech, as ‘being in the
world’, is at the outset pre-reflexive and pre-abstract (Csordas 1990:10, Østerberg 1994:vii).
Speech is also a kind of bodily practice.
If we accept Ingold’s and Merleau-Ponty’s perspectives on language, it is no longer
possible to equate discourse with language154 or theory with language. Since language has

154
Of course, the foucaultian concept of ‘discourse’ transcends language. But even when scholars
paradigmatically argue for a foucultian approach to discourse, in analyses of ethnography one easily
slips back into a more conventional operationalisation of discourse as speech/language. Thus the edited
collection ‘Language and the politics of emotion’ (Lutz and Abu-Lughod 1990) primarily treats
language about body and emotion and implicitly upholds the rigid distinction between language and
body.
300 CHAPTER 10

different forms of manifestation (body language, speech, writing, print, screen images etc.), it
is no longer the single factor that defines the knowledge barrier between scientists and
fishermen. Both apply language, one way or another, to articulate aspects of their
knowledges. But, how is speech different from, on the one hand, other practices, and, on the
other hand, text? What may legitimise a distinction between speech and other ways of ‘being
in the world’ (or, ‘being towards the world’, as Merleau-Ponty may have preferred to say), is
that it may ‘settle into a sediment’ as an intersubjective acquisition. This takes place not with
its transformation, inscription, into text, as music can also be inscribed in terms of notation.
Rather, “[s]peech implants the idea of truth in us..., loses sight of itself as a contingent fact,
and...provides us with the ideal of thought without words...” (Merleau-Ponty 1962:190).
Jack Goody (1986), as well as Walter Ong (1982), argues that the oral and the written
give rise to different forms of cognition; in other words, different forms of manifestation
shape cognition and experience as well as social organisation. Objectification, reason, and
reflection are thereby easily seen as outcomes of the technology of writing. Merleau-Ponty
approaches this somewhat differently. He claims that speech gives rise to the idea of the
privileged position of Reason. And when speech is fixated, primarily as writing/text, the idea
of an independent reason and rationality, the pure thought, is affirmed. The leap from speech
to text fixates the potential for abstraction that speech presents. But that formalisation and
abstraction can include maps, graphs, and the like underlines that it is not language per se, but
formalisation (or ‘hardened objectification’) and literalism (Herzfeld 1992, see Chapter 8) that
constitute this leap.
The deconstruction of practice:language and parole:langue have brought practice into
speech and helped to give new meaning to the distinction between speech and text. The
discussion above demonstrates that the borders between each of the three forms of
manifestation (practice, speech and text) are very fuzzy. There is, for instance, little difference
between speech and body language. ‘Tacit knowedge’ is also invested with new meaning. A
definition of ‘tacit’ knowledge as skills and insights that it are impossible to articulate and
externalise may give an impression that this is knowledge that is ‘locked up’, but that could
potentially have become conceptualised and represented if only it had been possible to unlock
the essence so that it could ‘come out’. Wittgenstein has pointed out, however, that it is
extremely difficult to provide a definition of what for instance a game is, but that it is still
possible to communicate one’s knowledge of it to others by means of examples and practice.
“And when I do this I tell him no less than what I know myself” (Wittgenstein 1967:§208,
cited in Johannessen 1999:278). “And it is no second-rate imparting of my knowledge. I fully
divulge all my knowledge. Nothing remains hidden” (Johannessen 1999:278).
Even though a skill or familiarity (e.g. with the sound of an instrument, Johannessen
1999:279) cannot be mediated by words, it may still be possible to communicate. The
mechanisms necessary to make possible such mediation are of critical importance. It may
require people having similar, shared bodily experience within a community of practitioners.
When I asked fishermen how they could see fish on the sonars, they answered “you’ll see”.
 TACIT KNOWLEDGE 301

Once when we saw fish on the echo sounder, the reis told me that it was istavrit. I was unable
to see any difference from the displays of hamsi and asked him how he knew. ‘Experience’
(tecrübe), he answered, but added that istavrit shows more thinly (seyrek). Thus, he was able
to articulate in speech and thereby externalise some of his knowledge. He did mediate some
of his knowledge. But the verbalisation only made sense when connected with repeated and
extended attention to the screen. Also, the skill is developed in an interpersonal context. And,
of course, knowledge is also mediated by means of demonstration.
Polanyi writes, “...strictly speaking nothing that we know can be said precisely...”
(1958:87-88). If we assume that the world is not a uniform place and that there is
incommensurability between different forms of manifestation, then we may realise that
nothing can ever be completely explained or expressed. “...[T]alk about the world can never
be fully consistent...because language and the world themselves are incommensurable...”
(Lambek 1993:400). There will always be a ‘tacit’/silent remainder that cannot be expressed,
but different forms of manifestation will often be attempts at approaching externalisation (and
creation/construction) of elements of the experienced reality. The apparent contradiction
between Lambek/Polanyi and Wittgenstein dissolves if one sees that precise, full articulation
of knowledge is an impossibility, but that comprehensive and adequate mediation of what we
know is possible, granted that we share experiences inside the same ‘reality’ (cf. ‘Internal
Realism’, Putnam 1981). There will always be a ‘tacit’ component of knowledge, but it will
also always be possible to articulate, one way or another, aspects of most knowledge. To
understand the knowledge barrier between fishermen and scientists only as different ‘ways of
holding knowledge’ and fishermen’s ways of knowing as ‘tacit’, seems insufficient. It is an
oversimplification to identify different ways of knowing (or cognition) with different forms
of manifestation.

From externalisation to formalisation and culture difference

Thus far in this chapter I have discussed issues relating primarily to the dynamics between
knowledge and different forms of manifestations, or signification modalities. I now change
lenses, and by directing focus on the regime or context within which the manifestations and
signs find their place, I indicate another direction in surveying differences between these
traditions of knowledge. This approach diffesr from the phenomenological focus on how one
specific ‘object’, such as the sonar, is engaged and known (Chapter 9). It is also different
from the cognitivistic/linguistic/phenomenological focus on ‘ways of knowing’. Rather, I
return to a discussion of what makes different kinds of knowledges possible. What are the
cultural, social, material and historical conditions of knowledges’ existence? I discussed this
in some detail in Chapters 1 through 3. Of particular import in this context was the
observation that the rise of the marine sciences was an effect of change in state policy from
‘sovereignty’ to ‘governmentality’. These are fields of inquiry where we particularly need to
go beyond phenomenology and ‘action’.
302 CHAPTER 10

There are two interconnected aspects of the ‘context’ of the manifestations that I will
elaborate on here. First, there is the quality of the materiality of the manifestations. Variations
amount to different degrees and kinds of inscription. For instance, the body language of hand-
signs exists in a fluid and subjective materiality. It is repeatable, but not transportable beyond
the user of the sign. Its is a kind of objectification so long as it is an intersubjectively accepted
or understood sign of something. But it is only when knowledges are inscribed as text or other
similarly transportable forms of inscription that they can attain a ‘universal’ character. Thus,
one of the main differences between fishermen’s and scientists’ knowledges is that the latter’s
externalised knowledges can more often be reproduced without scientists’ presence and
intentional action. It is therefore tempting to conclude that fishermen’s articulations of
knowledge take place in forms of manifestation that, contrary to science, provide little
potential for externalisation outside of the situational context in which the knowledge is
engaged. However, as Yılmaz Terzi’s narrative of hamsi migrations, for example,
demonstrates (see Chapter 4), fishermen have no problem ‘talking at a distance’. When I
visited communities of fishermen unfamiliar to me, they readily explained to me how they
managed to find their way to their preferred ada: ‘We travel for sixty minutes straight out
from the harbour, until we are able to see the mountain X.’ And, use of hand-signs to signify
ada and kuyu is certainly context-independent: the same sign may work through a variety of
contexts. However, these kinds of signs are articulated in forms of manifestation that have to
be reproduced continuously. They have no existence beyond people’s active use of them
(before fixated in my texts). We may say that the fishermen therefore can only create very
small and unstable networks with only very local relevance. But no inscription is meaningful
outside of a social context. Also scientists’ ‘universal’ knowledge must be framed by some
context in order to make sense. Indeed, if fishermen were to read a text in which the words
Trachurus trachurus ponticus appeared they would have no clue as to their meaning.
Scientists’ knowledge is also ‘local’, but the local context is different: it is a context in which
transportable inscriptions find their place, are accepted, more easily.
Latour is interested in how the context is ‘drawn upon’ in the construction of
collectives. However, his analytical framework gives less scope for analysing the contexts per
se. Such a change in perspective implies a move towards a foucaultian position. Like most
critics of science, Foucault tries to understand science by focusing on its context. He is also a
kind of social constructivist. But unlike most SSK and STS it is not his ambition to de-mask
science. Rather his concern is to approach the conditions for production of truth in society.
What are the conditions necessary for the production of knowledges, truths? He chooses to
focus on sciences since they are the main formulators or producers of truth in our society.
Contrary to Latour and Lambek, he will uncover the ‘tacit' or implicit preconditions of
science not by studying science directly, but by looking at the ‘ground’ (if science is
foreground). Insofar as this tells a story of science that science does not relate about itself, it
amounts to a critique of science. The primary ‘fields' in which sciences are embedded, and
which makes them possible, are the discursive formations made up of discursive practices.
 TACIT KNOWLEDGE 303

Foucault focuses on ruptures or discontinuities in scientific development, made

possible by massive reordering in the discursive formation. In his study of specific sciences
(or disciplines) he chooses to focus on linguistics, biology and economics (and their
‘predecessors') (Foucault 1970). All of these are embedded in wider contexts, discursive
practices that undergo (parallel) ruptures. By comparing these sciences he claims to
demonstrate that the three discursive formations that give rise to the sciences share common
approaches to the world (Pre-classical: resemblance’s, doctrine of signatures, sign as part of
nature; classical: representation and classification; and modern: study of Man as knowing
subject, relations among the elements). These common traits he terms episteme. Thus, while
Foucault does not study ‘knowledge in action’ (but rather the ‘archaeology of knowledge’), he
claims to uncover what makes this action possible in the first place, the grounds of discourse
and epistemes. Foucault’s ‘archaeology’ implies grand assumptions and ambitions, but may
contribute to an important corrective to actor analyses of knowledge: the knowledges we
study as ethnographers may be expressions of underlying dynamics that can only be grasped
by taking a wider perspective. Among other things, we may ask how context, as for example
discursive formations, put restrictions on ‘what can be said’ (or stated). This opens up to
theorisation of how (different) contexts afford different possibilities and limitations on what
can (legitimately) be articulated. Thereby ‘tacit knowledge’ is not simply considered a
consequence of qualities of ‘neutral’ pieces of knowledge and of their different relation to
signs.
For Foucault, the main units of a discourse are ‘statements’ (which are more than the
‘here and now’ articulations, what he calls ‘enunciations’). He is interested in the importance
of the materiality of these statements. Above I outlined one aspect of this: different materials’
potential for inscription and transportation. However, his interest in the materiality goes
beyond this. “The rule of the materiality that the statements necessarily obey is therefore of
the order of the institution rather than of the spatio-temporal localization; it defines
possibilities of reinscription and transcription (but also thresholds and limits), rather than
limited and perishable individualities” (Foucault 1972:103). The repeatability of a statement
is thereby embedded in a materiality that encapsulates the institutional frames. Thus scientific
disciplines take part in, and set the scene for, a network of statements, aids, practices and
institutions.
It is therefore in such an extended sense of the materiality of the statement that the
inscribed statement ‘there exists a fish named Trachurus trachurus ponticus’, in the context of
Trabzon 1998, must be understood. Likewise, statements about temperature gradients and the
plotting of two variables against one another in a vector diagram are possible only within a
special institutional formation. The condition that makes such statements possible is a
historically created discursive formation: the development of sciences in general, the adoption
of science into the Turkish modernisation process, and the growth of marine sciences in
Turkey in particular. This discursive formation idealises the generalisations or formalisations
that certain kinds of fixated inscriptions make possible. The scientists’ articulations are often
304 CHAPTER 10

manifested in kinds of inscriptions that make the statements more accessible to projects of
objectification and formalisation. The scientists’ greater attention to the repeatability of
statements ensures that wider and more rigid networks can be built. In the sonar case, both
fishermen and scientists referred to ‘external’ authorities (sonar use in Japan, fishes’ hearing
ability). For the scientists, however, the fishermen’s claims remained simply ‘words’, while
their own claims were ‘knowledge’ since they rested upon the shoulders of others’ ‘neutral’
observations within an accepted system of academic reference. The reference is tractable, and
the ‘institution’ is the guarantee. Likewise, the standardised scientific taxonomic system is an
institutional framework that facilitates repeatability, transportation, and generalisation. When
a scientist identifies a fish as Trachurus trachurus ponticus, the name is not only inscribed on
paper, but in a wider sense in the taxonomic system, which again is embedded in even wider
institutional frameworks, such as the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature
(see Chapter 7), as well as shared understandings of what is meant by a ‘species’.
Even though the texts of Foucault present intriguing insights into the sciences’
grounding in and effect upon society, I am still somewhat cautious about the possibility of
foucaultian ethnography. The analyses in this chapter were initially worked out without
inspiration from Foucault. An ethnographic account of discursive formations, and especially
epistemes, must indeed be highly problematic since it risks over-interpreting the material.
While not conventionally structuralist, such an approach may reinstate the search for the
essential (e.g. episteme). On the other hand, I find it insufficient to compare fishermen’s and
scientists’ knowledges only along the axis of the length of associations, and width and rigidity
of networks (cf. Latour 1987, 1993). It must be possible to speak of different cultural models
without assuming that different cognitive processes are at work (Shore 1996, Tambiah 1990,
see also Chapter 4). I interpret Foucault’s (1970) historical study of the development of the
biological, linguistic, and economic science disciplines as an inquiry into (among other
things) changes in cultural models. In the previous chapter I mentioned how fishermen and
scientists perceive the emissions from the sonar respectively as rays of light/electricity and as
sound. Through practice and interaction within a community of practitioners fishermen have
embodied an understanding that light scares fish away. The difference here between the
scientists and fishermen has less to do with some knowledge being ‘tacit’ or with differences
in cognitive operations than with how understanding is created through different analogies
that often prove to have basis in bodily experience. There is in principle no difference here
between fishermen and scientists. Scientists probably base their understanding of the sonar
emissions on embodied knowledge of sound, most likely coupled with visual observations of
‘pulses’ or ‘waves’ on the screen of an oscilloscope (which was employed during the
scientists’ aquarium experiment).
As we saw in Chapter 4 fishermen readily include personal, bodily experiences in their
articulations. In the previous chapter this was seen to apply also to their talk about the sonars.
Although there are clearly many parallels between fishermen's and scientists' approaches, they
seem to differ as to how practice, or experience, is incorporated into narratives. As I indicated
 TACIT KNOWLEDGE 305

in Chapter 8 when I discussed the different techniques Yılmaz Terzi and scientists used in
‘inscribing’ themselves in different Grand Narratives, the difference in the ‘institutional’
context of the statements privileges different styles of articulation and persuasion. Thus,
fishermen often stress that they themselves experienced something: “I saw it with my own
eyes.” “I didn’t believe (it), but I saw (it) (kendi gözlerimle gördüm; inanmadım, gördüm)”.
As compared with scientists’ articulations, there may be more ‘continuity’ between practice
and its representation, between ‘being in’ and ‘seeing as’. Fishermen use analogies that both
presuppose and construct continuity between fish and people, thereby acknowledging the
bodily, situated character of their experiences. This is most clearly seen in the emphasis
fishermen put on the necessity to have extended practice at sea and with the fish in order to
know them. Rather striking in the context of Turkey and the Middle East is the claim I have
heard from several old fishermen, that they ‘were born in the sea/ at the seaside’. One even
gave this a literal expression when he said that his mother gave birth to him in a kayık at sea.
Another old fisherman made good his knowledge of sea and fish by exclaiming that “I was
born at sea, I have lived at sea, and I will die at sea (Denizde doğdum, denizde yaşadım,
denizde öleceğim)”.
The kinds of objectification that the fishermen develop in oral narratives are inherently
fluid. They must be fluid to fulfil their purpose. Although fishermen's stories are based on
personal experiences, they can ‘evolve’ into something far different from the original
story/experience. This is partly because their stories often have many sides in addition to the
knowledge gained from the experience. The story may have rhetoric-political aspects, or
qualities of entertainment and conveyance of manhood, such as irony, ‘grandeur’, and
exaggeration. One example of such story ‘evolution’ comes from an experience related to me
in 1990 by Şaban: the well-known reis and boat owner Zekeria Ertuğrul once had his legs in
water when the sonar was turned on. He felt pain in his legs. This little story has probably
developed into the ‘fishermen's experiment’ as related to me in 1998: men diving beside a
purse seiner were stricken by the sonar pulses and severely harmed (see Chapter 9).
Scientists' narratives, on the other hand, must conform to the objectifying language of
science and the strictures of the text. In this language there is little place for personal
experiences, the complexity of the situations, the unexpected, the body analogies, and so on.
This is expunged from the scientific language because of associations to ‘subjectivism’. The
scientists’ textual narratives are therefore more rigid than fishermen's oral narratives. The
fixation of scientific knowledge facilitates creation of longer networks (Latour 1987), the
drawing in of distant experiences and constructions, such as experiments on the hearing
capacity of herring that Norwegian scientists conducted during the 1960s. But, an other
important effect of this fixation and textual bent is that the scientists are less likely to
stimulate extended practice, or ‘being’, at sea and with the fish (they have of course their kind
of extended practice, or ‘being’; in their offices, with books, computers and colleagues). In
private conversations local scientists acknowledge the lack of practical experience (tecrübe),
but this is difficult to espouse in public discourse. The book, the experiment and the 'station'
306 CHAPTER 10

are the icons of the local marine sciences. 'Being in the sea' is the icon of fishermen's
knowledge. We may ask whether bodily experience and analogies are more important for
fishermen because they have more of a bodily continuity with the sea and the fish? Also,
because the thrust of their objectification precisely stresses the ‘being in the sea’ character of
their knowledge, their objectification has less potential for inscription that is easily
transportable and combinable.

Can we then conclude that scientists and fishermen embed their knowledges in different
ethno-epistemologies (Hviding 1996b, Shore 1996)? Do they have different cultural models
of what constitutes legitimate knowledge? To say that they have different epistemologies
implies, among other things, that different criteria or techniques for verification are applied
(Barth 1993:308-9, Lambek 1993). I claim that although both fishermen and scientists in
Trabzon ground their knowledge in direct observation, the two privileged forms of
manifestation – text in science, speech in fishing – are related to different approaches to
knowledge. The fisherman will emphasise that that he knows something because he has
experienced it himself. The scientific abstraction and formalisation, on the other hand, makes
it possible, and obligatory, for the scientists to comment neutrally in the passive that “…it was
observed that…” as if the ‘objective’ world unfolds independently of us. In their
representations the scientists will stress the impersonal, the general. For the scientist the
personal is ‘subjective’, what happened is ‘objective’. Fishermen acknowledge the
personalised character of fishers’ knowledge, especially epitomised in the concept reislik
(skipperhood). The fisherman will forcefully claim that a person has to execute an activity, be
in physical proximity to the phenomenon, in order to acquire knowledge of it. “The sea is not
a book thing (Deniz kitap işi değil)”. “What can the scientist know about the fishing when he
is never at sea?” The scientists, on their side, accuse the fishermen for being ignorant, cahil.
Based on different ethno-epistemologies mutual accusations of ignorance are played out (cf.
Hobart 1993).
But are the approaches both ‘epistemologised’? I noted in the previous chapter that
‘usefulness’ or ‘result’ might be more important to the fisherman than ‘Truth’. Fishermen’s
practice is not imbued with an effort to reach agreement of knowledge. Quite to the contrary:
the unpredictable, changing nature of their environs, both human and non-human, have made
them accustomed to keeping a flexible and open attitude to knowledge. The warm-cold
spawning model (as well as compass/weather model) among fishermen is fluid with no clear
‘nob’ or core (Goody 1987). That implies that within this model ‘Truth’ is also elusive.
Complete certainty is not possible, only practical solutions, accommodations, experiences etc.
Their endeavour is not a knowledge project. Neither do they entertain an idea that they
possess a specific body of knowledge. To them knowledge is what they will have to master in
order to be able to catch fish and sell it profitably.
For these reasons I increasingly doubt whether conceptualising fishermen’s approach
to knowledge as ethno-epistemology is well founded. Epistemology implies a reflexive stance
 TACIT KNOWLEDGE 307

turned in on knowledge per se, it is an explicit endeavour engaged in primarily by experts. It

implies that knowledge is being ‘treated’ and formalised. Knowledge is made into something
in itself, objectified so to say. To try to fit fishermen’s approach to knowledge into this
framework may distort the degree to which knowledge is embedded and exists only as ground
(and not foreground). While it may be possible to identify one fairly coherent epistemology
among the marine scientists (their practices may of course be more complex), fishermen’s
explicit approach to knowledges is more composite. We have seen that they tend to stress the
bodily, personal and situated aspects of knowledge. When they talk about their own skills or
knowledge they use the concepts bilgi (knowledge), bilgili (knowledgeable), but also tecrübe,
yaşamak, görmek (experience, living, seeing) which they put in opposition to tahsil
(education, Arabic concept).
Their articulations thereby refer both to ‘formal’ knowledge and to ‘experience’. They
leave it to the experts (scientists and religious scholars) to work out explicit, coherent
epistemologies. Their approach to knowledge is not a mirror project of scientific
epistemology. This should not be taken to mean that ‘oral cultures’ do not have elaborate
epistemologies (see e.g. Hviding 1996b:172). Sometimes the experts’ main form of
manifestation may be oral. Epistemology can be said to be a question of degree in the sense
that within different traditions of knowledge the process of gaining and conveying knowledge
may be objectified to varying degrees. Foucault has indicated possible steps towards an
identification of the degrees of epistemologisation of discursive formations (thresholds of
positivity, epistemologisation, scientificity, and formalisation in the emergence of a discursive
formation) (Foucault 1972:187). In this framework fishermen’s knowledge has barely passed
the first threshold, while the marine sciences perhaps are at the brink of passing the threshold
of formalisation.
Thus, I will hold that if there is to be a heuristic value in applying ‘ethno-
epistemology’ in comparative quests, we must account for both the kind of (content of)
epistemology and the degree of ‘epistemologisation’. We should not assume that
‘epistemology’ takes up the same position in all traditions of knowledge. How is
epistemology coupled with wider social processes? In what kinds of institutions are
epistemologies embedded? What are the consequences for knowledge practices? What are the
dynamics between epistemology and practice? I have addressed some of these questions, for
instance when I coupled marine scientists’ widespread use of forms, and their attention to
istasyon, to a model of knowledge production (Chapter 7). It may also be seen that
epistemologies are inscribed in wider discourses. In Turkey the positivist epistemology is a
political statement within a Grand Narrative of Turkish Modernisation. Fishermen’s
epistemology to a lesser degree articulates with such large-scale structures, but it may be said
that the institution(s) of the fisheries make up an activity field into which fishermen’s
epistemologies are ‘inscribed’. Thus, the restructuring of the sector that has followed
capitalisation and technological changes has made it possible to say that ‘skipperhood died’,
308 CHAPTER 10

in other words reflecting an idea that ‘knowledge’ (e.g. ability to see fish) can be procured
with money-power.
Yet, fishermen’s epistemology does articulate with large-scale traditions of
knowledge, for instance in the commonly held idea of there being a ‘Truth’. This may stem
just as much from Islam as from the articulation with Western sciences. They imagine there
being the true name of a fish, the right compass, the truth about two streams meeting, the truth
of the Koran. Fishermen hold this general idea of knowledges since they live in a society with
long literate/scriptural traditions, and practice a religion that is scriptural and (therefore) focus
on Truth (Goody 1986). When pressed, in articulating orally their practical or implicit
knowledge, this kind of knowledge is at a disadvantage because the knowledge as used in
practice is not directed at Truth, but at ‘catching fish’. Thus one kind of knowledge (written,
Truth) is hegemonic to the degree that it is to a certain extent internalised by the fishermen
themselves, or because attempts at externalising their knowledge is moulded by the imagery
of Truth in such terms that it is subjugated to the hegemonic form.

Conclusion

It has not been my intention here to assert that there is little knowledge that remains tacit. I
still believe that ‘how’ we hold knowledge (what kinds of models? how are the models
organised?) has implications for the possibility to articulate it, make it identifiable in an
intersubjective context. Indeed, Daniel (1994) has pointed out that pain, as experienced during
torture in Sri Lanka, is extremely difficult to articulate in publicly recognisable signs. “Pain
stops at the skin’s limit. It is not sharable”155. There is certainly a difference in knowing how
to move the pen in order to create recognisable signs (e.g. ‘letters’), and to know how many
letters there are in the alphabet, or that upwards on a map usually indicates north. What I want
to stress is that a one-sided focus on an assumption that much of fishermen’s knowledge is ‘in
itself’ of such a character that it cannot be articulated is insufficient explanation of the
knowledge barrier between scientists and fishermen. Both acquisition and use of knowledge
start in the pre-objective, and there are considerable similarities between fishermen’s and
scientists’ ways of establishing knowledge. What separates them is the scientific movement,
not towards language, but towards abstraction, formalisation and fixation required by and
propped up by the statements’ context of institutions, aids, patterns of practice, and so on. It is
relative to this that fishermen’s knowledges remain tacit. Their knowledge is tacit in the
context of scientific conventions of accepted forms of manifestation. Such
abstraction/formalisation along specific conventions presupposes a ‘learned community’,
often within the context of high cultures (Anderson 1991, Gellner 1983, Goody 1986, 1987)
Articulation is not manifest only in linguistic (speech, text) forms. It is possible to turn
the tables and say that scientific knowledge is ‘tacit’ in relation to ‘the mode of the

155
However, he also notes that ‘victims have moved from speechlessness to an ability to form
elementary metaphors, pain reemerges and is reexpressed through objectification in iconic metaphors’.
 TACIT KNOWLEDGE 309

fishermen’. The scientific knowledge cannot always be externalised to practice, be

transformed to skilful handling of the practice that they claim to have knowledge about. On
Sürmene MSF many candidates are taught navigation and are awarded a captain’s certificate.
They have acquired knowledge of a formalised abstraction of the skill. This is a practice that
many fishermen handle well without having received any formal, abstract training. The
scientists, however, have great trouble with mastering this practice – steering a boat at sea.
The crewmembers on the boats that are in the command of scientists often have backgrounds
as fishermen, live in fishermen communities, and do not refrain from ridiculing and even
humiliating the scientists. Thus, at sea the scientists do not have any obvious hegemonic
position. But, because of the bureaucratisation, scientification, and politicisation of the
fisheries, more and more of the fisheries knowledge circulates outside of activities at sea, the
spheres in which fishermen can have an upper hand are relatively limited. It is not that
scientists always ‘win the battles’, but rather that decisions must be couched in a scientific or
rationalistic, mode – even when fishermen have it their way (through the politics of social
webbing).
In this context it is significant that the scientists have a tendency to mask the
importance of the subjective and pre-objective. First, there is internationally a long tradition
in science for ‘listening’ to sounds in/from the sea. There is an informal stock of knowledge
about this that is transmitted during apprenticeship learning (Hamilton-Paterson 1992:16-18).
However, ‘listening’ to the sonar pulses during the first stage of the sonar study was not
objectified, it was a tacit skill. Secondly, in another study, counting dolphins was constructed
as a neutral process. In the second half of the 1980s Sürmene MSF studied the dolphin stocks
in the Black Sea (Çelikkale et al 1988). Four boats travelled in parallel along the coast as
dolphins were observed visually through binoculars and counted. In the report this is
described as a neutral technique (variation/deviation is admitted, but is implicitly ascribed to
coincidence). By chance I learned many years later, from a digression during an interview
with a scientist cum bureaucrat who had assisted the scientists during the cruise, that the
scientists had hired elderly dolphin fishermen to spot the dolphins. The fishermen could with
their bare eyes spot the dolphins at a much greater distance and count them more accurately
than the scientists could using binoculars. In other words, visual observation of dolphins is a
practice that requires subjective training and mastery. The report makes no mention of the
importance of such embodied experience for scientific observation, and the elderly fishermen
are completely absent from the report’s chapter on methodology. The observation is
constructed as neutral.
The practice of defining tacit knowledge in relation to what is possible to articulate in
language (and then specifically in text) is a demonstration of how the different kinds of
articulations are ranked. In my own text I have also used jargon, metaphors, that draw on the
authority of the scriptural articulation. In Chapter 1 I write that “ it is reported that eating
seafood is something most people can afford…(Vemund Aarbakke, personal comm.)”, while
it would have been more correct to write “I have been told…” The ‘report’ may seem more
310 CHAPTER 10

authoritative and ‘objective’ than what is being ‘told’. This is of course connected to a very
widespread fetishisation of the scriptural in academic discourse. Scripturalism, and its cousin
literalism, may be pervasive ideals in societies where the elite groups (be it modernising
bureaucrats or Islamic teachers) base their authority on scriptural means of articulation.
That fishermen’s ‘voices’ do not come to the fore may therefore have just as much to do with
it not being ‘heard’ or ‘understood’, as fishermen not being able to express themselves. In
contexts in which fishermen’s and scientists’ knowledges meet, there is a tendency for certain
kinds of manifestations and discursive formation(s) to be hegemonic. This discursive
formation, with secularism, nationalism, positivistic science, and scripturalism at its core, is
hegemonic but not unchallenged. Within this scientists have the upper hand in communicating
and directing legitimate statements of knowledge qua the larger society, the bureaucracy, and
so forth. Because of this it may be as important to study how fishermen’s knowledges may be
‘muted’ (Ardener 1972) as they are being ‘tacit’. Chapter 3 surveyed the historical emergence
of a discursive formation that increasingly has made scientific statements about sea and fish
possible in Turkey. But to understand better the techniques of ‘muting’ fishermen’s
knowledges, I must discuss the pervasive tendency of accusing people of being cahil
(ignorant). This is connected to the very special role accorded education in the Turkish
development process, and the fact that schooling is needed in order to gain competence of
legitimate genre of articulations and statements.
11 THE CULTIVATION
OF IGNORANCE

Our most important duty is to win a victory in the field of education

Mustafa Kemal Atatürk

There can be no doubt that education, science, and knowledge were focal concerns in the
development strategy both during the last century of the Ottoman empire and in the young
Turkish Republic. It has been one of the primary instruments for social change and at the
same time an imperative frame of reference in interpersonal identification. In the Turkish
development process, education and science have been perceived as the primary vehicles for
social change and remains among the major ideological battlegrounds in Turkey. Education is
also one of the most important discursive frames for fishermen’s and scientists evaluation,
legitimisation, critique and assessment of both knowledges and holders of knowledge. It
would be impossible to understand the relations between, and relative positioning of,
fishermen and marine scientists in Trabzon without taking into account the very important
role of education.
While many scholars have remarked on the expressed cultural separation between the
urban educated and the rural uneducated, few studies have focused on education per se. True,
surveys of the educational sector abound, but as with the social sciences in Turkey these
studies seem to rely heavily on quantitative methods (questionnaires, forms, statistics), and
less on participant observation and interpretative methods. There is no ethnography of
education. I am not in a position to provide an ethnographic description of classroom activity,
but I can indicate the role of education in the relationship between fishermen’s and scientists’
knowledges. Rather than working in towards the material from a comprehensive theoretical
discussion, I focus on the degree to which education shapes the knowledges and views of
fishermen and scientists/bureaucrats respectively.
Education not only influences individuals’ knowledges and views, discourses about
and within education make up a profound part of the dynamics of the Turkish modernisation
project. Education was not simply appropriated and redesigned by modernisation reforms.
Education also became the main instrument for implementing reforms, and one of the major
areas for opposing and challenging it. Thus, in order to understand how references to
education and ignorance can have such potency in contemporary Turkey, I will outline some
of the history of education. But, before that I present an example of how the representatives of

311
312 CHAPTER 11

the state, including the scientists, have understood, or constructed, the fishermen through
statements that find their meaning within a discourse on education, broadly conceived. I
survey some of the available literature (mainly reports from symposiums etc. organised by
state institutions) and draw upon my own fieldwork experiences in order to outline both the
bureaucratic aims and ideals behind the ‘water produce’ cooperatives and the explanations
given for their failure. I discuss this at some length as it illustrates nicely how pervasive, both
in time and in social space, a very elitist view of development as dependent upon education
has been. It is also illustrative of the ‘governmentality’ approach of the bureaucracy.

Fishery cooperatives in Turkey: a persistent ideal

Attempts to establish fishery cooperatives during the beginning of the 1950s had not been
very successful (see Chapter 3). When a new initiative to develop fishery cooperatives was
taken in 1968, a delegation from the Ministry of Trade toured the eastern Black Sea coast and
enlivened eleven ‘sleeping' cooperatives and stimulated the establishment of 15 new ones.
Most of these cooperatives were ‘persuaded’ to go together into an ‘Association of Black Sea
Fishery Cooperatives’ (Karadeniz Balıkçı Kooperatifleri Birliği) (Çakıroğlu 1969:85-93).
From this time on cooperatives have played a central role in the structured interaction
between the fishermen and the Turkish state, and the official number of fishery cooperatives
has shown a fairly steady increase. The numbers for the Eastern Black Sea region are as
follows: 1969: 24 (Çakıroğlu 1969:97); 1973: 20 (MFAS 1975:65); 1980: 32 (MAF 1982:31);
1987: 43 (State Planning Organisation 1989:80-82); 1998: 38156.

The bureaucratic initiative and vision

This growth in the number of fishermen's organisations and the increase in credit (see e.g.
State Planning Organisation 1989:67, Knudsen 1997: 8-9) channelled through them may
suggest that the fisheries are well organised and that all fishermen have access to established
organisational channels to further their interests and present their views. The reader must,
however, bear in mind that the formation of these cooperatives did not surface from any
‘people's cooperative movement’, but was the result of deliberate top-down organising efforts
by the state bureaucracy. Said Bilal Çakıroğlu, a local of Trabzon who worked within both the
regional and the central trade bureaucracy and who himself took part in the ‘mission’ along
the Eastern Black Sea coast in 1968, writes in great detail about the work of the delegation
(1969: 85-93). The delegation got fishermen to organise general assemblies where the
delegation members took an active part. The comments from one of these meetings are very
typical:

156
Source: personal communication Berat Taşer, Water Produce Department, General Directorate for
Agricultural Production and Development, Ministry for Agriculture and Village Affairs (Su Ürünleri
Şube Müdürü, Tarımsal Üretim ve Geliştirme Genel Müdürlüğü, Tarım ve Köyişleri Bakanlığı).
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 313

...our delegation participated in the General Assembly and helped make the necessary
decisions for bringing the dealings of the cooperative into order. During this section real
cooperative espiri was related. A description was given of the advantages expected to be
brought about by the association and the partners present were persuaded (ikna edilmek) to
decide to let their cooperative be a member of the association (ibid: 86-87, see appendix 2,
item 10).

The state institutions have primarily seen cooperative organisation in the fisheries as a
necessary mechanism in the work towards fulfilling the aims of increasing production,
income and employment in the fisheries so that this sector could contribute to the country's
overall development and progress (kalkınma). Bureaucrats and scientists observed that in the
more developed fishery nations of the West and in Japan, cooperatives played an important
role in organising various activities within the fisheries. Therefore, along with the adoption of
technical aspects of the more developed fisheries, stimulation of fishery cooperatives was
seen as a precondition for success in development of this sector. Thus, the formation of
fishery cooperatives can be said to be a clear expression of the strong modernising or
westernising spirit and ambition within the Turkish development elite and bureaucracy.
My survey of the texts reveals that among managers, politicians and scientists there
has been some variation in the perceived aims and advantages of fishery cooperatives. It
ranges from solidarity and escape from capitalists, securing social security and education of
members, advantages with (rational) large units in production and marketing, to serving as
suitable vehicles for credit extension and interaction with state bureaucracy. During one phase
cooperatives were also seen as important to bring the organisational structure in the Turkish
fisheries in line with the cooperative structure which prevails in EU in order to ease future
Turkish entry into the Union (State Planning Organisation 1989, Çıkın ve Elbek 1991).
However, cooperative efforts in production and marketing have invariably been regarded as
the fishery cooperatives' main work and function. The ideal of cooperative organisation in the
fisheries has been put forward in numerous writings and symposiums in Turkey during the
last 30 years, and the lack of organisation within the fisheries has been regarded as a major
cause for the perceived lack of success in the fisheries. The central role of the cooperatives,
especially as channels for credit, is established in the Fishery Law, No. 1380/3288, paragraph
15. The pivotal role to be played by cooperatives has been further emphasised in various
annual programmes (Devlet Icra Planları) and long term (five years) development plans (Beş
Yıllık Kalkınma Planları) (See e.g. Çakıroğlu 1969:109-110). The sixth 5-year development
plan, for instance, states that:

As is well known, in the fisheries (‘water produce hunting’) it is necessary to work together. ...
In order to secure the continuity of this cooperation and partnership, the producers' (i.e. the
fishermen) financial opportunities should be brought together within cooperative units and
with the united power this should enable communal large-scale hunting (i.e. fishing) and attain
abundant produce by the use of modern gear and equipment as in large-scale system and
methods. To fulfil this aim the Agricultural Bank undertakes the required work and in line
with this gives credit support (State Planning Organisation 1989:71-72, see appendix 2, item
10).
314 CHAPTER 11

In 1969 a Trabzon MP wrote that:

To rescue our fisheries from the lack of guardians and organisation, an offensive for
fundamental change is necessary. Our position is as follows: The co-operativisation as
foreseen in our Constitution should proceed quickly. Fishermen should be saved from the
hands of exploiters and capitalists (sermayedar). ... The fisherman should get used to
managing, organising and making forward leaps himself. This is the solution (Orhon 1969:
116).

From these and other texts, one gets the impression that the cooperatives ideally should
organise all and every activity in the ‘fishery sector’. An adult education textbook on
cooperative activities includes a short section on ‘water produce’ cooperatives. Three photos
of fishing activities (pulling a seine, harbour activities, and auction of landed fish at a large
fish hall) are all accompanied by the text: “The activities of water produce cooperatives (Su
ürünleri kooperativlerinin faaliyetleri)” (Aydın et al 1995:28-29). No fisherman would
perceive these as activities of cooperatives! Today most managers and others concerned with
this sector acknowledge that the present situation is far from this ideal. However, my own
experience from interviews and informal conversations with bureaucrats who are responsible
for the fisheries within the Ministry for Agriculture and Rural Affairs indicates that they still
see the cooperatives as the main organising structure for representing (vis-à-vis the
bureaucracy) and empowering (vis-à-vis the fish traders) the fishermen. It is likewise also
common among scientists to claim that it should be state policy to strive to strengthen the
fishery cooperatives. It is notable that the texts that champion cooperative organisation are
suffused with tropes of rationality, modernisation, and large-scale industrial operation.
What I have presented thus far should suffice to make the point that among Turkish
bureaucrats, managers, and scientists cooperative organisation has persistently been presented
as an ideal for the fishing sector. But, how much is really known about the actual working of
the fishery cooperatives? Çıkın and Elbek compare development of fishery cooperatives in the
EU and in Turkey and implicitly acknowledge that there is a lack of detailed study of the
activities of the Turkish fishery cooperatives. “... [O]ne should undertake detailed studies and
assessments of the cooperatives, and the socio-economic factors which inhibit the workings of
the cooperatives in this sector should be identified” (Çıkın ve Elbek 1991: 177). The
authorities have taken some initiative in studying the activity and position of the cooperatives
(see esp. MFAS 1975 and MAF 1982). Data have been gathered primarily through
questionnaires and interviews. Although these studies have included some comments on the
actual workings and problems of the cooperatives, later commentators (e.g. Çıkın ve Elbek
1991, Demirci 1986) have focused primarily on the increase in the number of cooperatives
and amount of credit directed through them in an effort to demonstrate their increased
importance within the fishing sector. There is therefore a consistent lack of in-depth study and
there has never been any (public) hesitation nor doubt about the cooperative system as the
ideal way to organise the fisheries. I have seen no official call for readjusting the formal
framework. If not necessarily realised in active policy, in the state's rhetoric the advantages of
cooperative organisation in the fisheries have consistently been underscored.
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 315

An unfulfilled ideal
Towards the end of Chapter 5 I described the ineffectiveness of cooperative organisation in
the fisheries in Çarşıbaşı. Many fishery cooperatives in the Turkish Black Sea region seem to
be in a similar situation. Most fishermen I have spoken with along the Black Sea coast and in
Istanbul relate similar stories about the impotency of the cooperatives. The cooperative
associations (kooperatif birlikleri) show almost no activity. Some associations, such as the
Western Black Sea, Istanbul and Marmara associations seemed all but shut down. Although
the association of cooperatives in Istanbul had a new and spacious office in Kumkapı, the
office was not staffed and, according to the fishermen, the association was not working. I
found the same to be true many other places I visited along the Black Sea coast and in
Istanbul. Most cooperatives are either ‘sleeping’, or controlled by a little clique of big boat
fishermen. Even among the few who are active members cooperative cannot be said to work
as intended (see Chapter 6). In a study of Istanbul fishermen Taner (1991:136) notes in the
same vein that fishermen “...transmit their problems or requests through the Chamber of
Commerce or by personal relations which is definitely more influential than the union of
coops.” The customs union with the EU has removed import taxes on engines and the like
thereby diluting one important rationale for membership. Although it allegedly remains an
advantage to be a member of a cooperative when applying for credit from the Agriculture
Bank, it is not a formal requirement.
It is clear that the Çarşıbaşı cooperative fails to fulfil the aims of cooperatives as
formulated by bureaucrats: there is little internal solidarity, no distribution of profits, no
engagement in marketing and processing, no role in fishery management, and no contribution
to education of its members. Nevertheless, many bureaucrats in Ankara believe that this
particular cooperative is one of the most successful. They base their assertion primarily on the
capital (holding) and economic activity of the cooperative. True, large amounts of credit are
directed through the cooperative and it does have some assets. Yet, if fishermen could have
secured credit or grants as well as tax exemption on imports without being members of
cooperatives, there probably would not have been a role for most cooperatives. But the
development in the fisheries would likely have been very much the same! And the distribution
among the fishermen would not have been very different. There may even be reason to
believe that the successful and powerful have had greatest advantage from the cooperative
organisation since they have managed to secure a ‘lion’s share' of the credit, grants and tax
exemptions offered by cooperative membership.
The relevant authorities have indeed acknowledged that the cooperatives have not
taken the position in the fisheries that they had expected. This is often perceived as a lack of
organisation. During the ‘Marine Products Symposium' in 1986 Professor Rasih Demirci
(1986:172) at Gazi University said, when talking about fishery cooperatives in Turkey, that
“[o]ne of the most critical problems for the producers who are active within the marine
products sector in Turkey is their insufficient level of organisation (…yeterli olarak
316 CHAPTER 11

teşkilatmamalarıdır)”. The authorities have at various times been presented with the fact that
the cooperatives do not work according to their ideal. The 1973 study of the cooperatives
asserted that it was a problem that small and big boat fishermen, with different interests, were
brought together under the same cooperative roof (MFAS 1975:32). And, during the 1986
fisheries symposium, a cooperative representative responded to Prof. Demirci's presentation
(above) by exclaiming that: “...our teacher counted and found that today there are quite a few
cooperatives. But the doors of most of these are locked. And they are only unlocked for the
general assemblies. Yes, these are indeed only cooperatives in name (isim Kooperatifleri).
Cooperatives made to make it possible to receive credit” (Agricultural Bank 1986:180-1). In
his reply to the various discussants, the professor did not comment upon this.

Explaining the failure

Around the world, wide discrepancies between fishermen's perspectives and managers'
perspectives are quite common (see e.g. Jentoft 1993, Pálsson 1991), but in my experience
this discrepancy is particularly pronounced in Turkey. In Turkey managers often assume, or
find it convenient to assume, that the statistics on cooperative organisation represent actual
activity fairly well. In a situation characterised by movement towards a new management
structure in the Black Sea fisheries, one must acknowledge the discrepancy between the
bureaucratic ideal and the social dynamics behind the formal façade. In an effort to apply my
research I have discussed this elsewhere at some length (also published in Turkish). I have
claimed that the first step should be to examine the possible reasons why the fishery
cooperatives along Turkey's Black Sea coast do not work as intended by the managers. There
are no definite answers to this, but I have explored some possible reasons (Knudsen 1998,
2000).
One of the reasons cited most often among managers and others is a lack of regional
associations (birlikler) and especially a national confederation. I fail to see this as a primary
cause. Conflicting interests within cooperatives may be more important. Evidence from more
homogenous small-boat cooperatives such as in Gerze (in Sinop Province), Sinop and Faroz
(Trabzon) indicates that cooperation is facilitated where members share the same interests157.
Furthermore, general studies of cooperatives in Turkey emphasise that the lack of success of
the cooperatives must be understood within the context of the national political system
(Mülayim 1997, TKK 1997). After 1980 the state put greater restrictions on the activities of
cooperatives and brought them more firmly under state control. At the same time the
importance of cooperatives were downplayed in government programmes and policy (TKK
1997:17). This critique also applies to the fisheries. Previously, fishermen could only import
equipment through the cooperatives and obtain credit from the Agriculture Bank (Ziraat
Bankası) if they were cooperative members. This has now changed. There remain fewer

157
However, the current legislature makes it impossible to establish more than one cooperative in each
locality thereby making it impossible in heterogeneous communities for e.g. trawlers and small-boat
fishermen to organise into separate cooperatives.
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 317

incentives for fishermen to keep the cooperatives alive. Additionally, even though cooperative
organisation is claimed by the cultural elite to be a continuation of traditions of imece
(voluntary communal work) (TKK 1997:7), this is certainly not perceived as such locally. As
I have outlined in Chapters 5 and 6, local ideals of cooperative units, except for family, are
poorly developed. Traditional forms of village cooperation such as imece have gradually lost
their importance. Neither was cooperative organisation presented to the fishermen as such, it
was, rather, introduced as a modern structure that should replace traditional structures and
thereby contribute to development and progress.
When explaining why the fishery cooperatives remain inefficient, rather than citing
changes in politics and policy or bad fit with ‘local’ organisational culture, scientists and
bureaucrats tend to blame the ignorance (cehalet) of the fishermen. During an informal
conversation in the offices of a branch of the Ministry of Agriculture in Ankara, one
bureaucrat claimed that the perceived inadequate development of the cooperatives, epitomised
by the failure to found a national confederation of fishery associations, was a consequence of
a lack of cooperative spirit among the fishermen. “We didn't manage to teach the fishermen
(Balıkçıları öğretemedik)”. “Among the fishermen there is no compassion, they don't trust
each other (Balıkçılar arasında şefkatlık yok, birbirine güvenmiyorlar)”. One top bureaucrat
claimed that the cooperatives did not work well because the leaders were not knowledgeable
(bilgili değil). Another common claim is that fishermen do not think about the future. The
most frequently used terms to describe the ignorance and lack of civilisation of fishermen and
other ‘common’ people are eğitimsiz, cahil or bilinçsiz (uneducated, ignorant,
unconcious/unaware), and also kültürsüz (‘lacking in culture’, uncultivated).
Rather than being based in detailed study, such claims seem to draw both on a general
model of the masses as uncivilised and immature because of lack of education, as well as on
personal experience and reflection. This reason for lack of success in cooperative organisation
is frequently evoked also in reports and the like on fishery cooperatives. It has, for instance,
become commonplace to blame the lack of further progress of co-operativisation on the
fishermen's ignorance and insufficient education. In effect, the blame for the lack of efficient
cooperatives in the fishing sector is put to a certain extent on the fishermen themselves. It
becomes a problem of culture, not of policy and politics. Several issues are involved. First
there is the sense of a generally refined style and a mode of interpersonal interaction, difficult
to define, but seen by the cultivated elite as a prerequisite for the smooth working of a
modern, civilised society. The idealistic models of the educated elite require people to
develop selves that are responsible and put the interests of the society (‘solidarism’, see
Chapter 6) before individual, family and mahalle interests. Secondly, there are the more
concrete skills and knowledges that schooling develops, such as writing, mathematics, and so
on.
The reference to ‘cahil’ is a common explanation for many undesirable phenomena in
Turkish society. The educated elite more frequently evokes this, but the discourse is shared in
wider sectors of the society. I have heard cahil cited as the main reason for a wide range of
318 CHAPTER 11

problems: from scientists and others about the widespread practice of trawling, over-fishing,
and illegal practices among fishermen; from scientists about the common man’s support for
the MHP; from small-boat fisherman about Kurdish support for the PKK; from the Press
about the alarming number of traffic accidents and deaths; from fish salesman about people’s
preference for whole, uncut fish; from female scientists about the macho (erkeklik) culture in
Turkey, and so forth and so on. It is as if underlying all these claims is a general
understanding that Turkish society and culture is in a process of change, development or
progress, towards a more civilised condition, and that the main instrument for bringing this
about is education. The Turkish modernisation discourse has been and is still largely imbued
with the sense that the society is not (yet) as it should be and that institutions and individuals
should be transformed to reach those goals. What those goals are, and the means needed in
order to reach them, have increasingly been challenged, but that one is striving to reach an
ideal, and that education is the prime means and agent of this change, is hardly challenged in
the public modernisation discourse. It is almost a truism that education plays a primary role in
the development of most nation-states. This is no less true in Turkey. Turkey is, however, a
special case, partly because, early on, education became an instrument in a Western-oriented
modernisation drive, and partly because education, relatively speaking, has received
disproportional attention in the Turkish modernisation process.

Education in the Turkish modernisation process

A survey of changes in and importance of education during the 19th and 20th centuries
illuminates some of the more pervasive qualities of the Turkish bureaucracy and sciences.
This forms backdrop for understanding the central role education and science have attained in
the Turkish development discourse. Moreover, it demonstrates the continuity of the top-down,
idealistic, social engineering approach of the educated elite. Contrary to the history of
consumption patterns and seafood consumption, the history of education is richly documented
and studied. My exposition below is not an attempt at a comprehensive survey or summary of
those studies. I have focused, rather, on those aspects that I find of relevance for
contextualising the ethnography. So as to avoid a complex, overly detailed presentation, I
have put much of the ‘evidence’ in footnotes.

Ottoman concepts of knowledge, techniques for transmission/learning

In the Islamic-Ottoman context there were primarily two concepts of knowledge embedded in
two distinct traditions of knowledge: (1) İlm, learning and rational knowledge based on the
Koran and other written sources, was institutionalised in the Ulama and their schools
(medrese, mektep), and (2) İrfan denoted mystical, intuitive experience and knowledge (of the
divine) of the sufi brotherhoods, which were often closely associated with the practice-
oriented occupational guilds (Tapper & Tapper 1991:72). Teaching of İlm in religious schools
consisted primarily of the memorisation of a set body of knowledge in the form of (sacred)
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 319

texts and commentaries. This was the only form of formal education in the empire and the
responsibility of the Ulama, financed by their Evkaf possessions. The state did not have a
separate educational system, or educational policy for that matter.
The running of the state affairs, especially the tax system, required a large central
bureau of scribes who were state officials. Aspiring scribes may have received primary
education in the religious medrese, but were placed in the (‘secular’) bureau as apprentices
from the age of eleven or twelve (Mardin 1997:195). This informal education in the bureau
and in the elite sectors of the military reproduced the adab, variously described as an elite
code of conduct and taste that a Muslim gentleman should have at his command (Zürcher
1993:14, Mardin 1994:164) and as a secular and state-oriented tradition of ideals and values
of the ruling strata (Heper 1985:25). In both the medrese and the bureau the relationship
between the student/novice and the teacher/mentor (hoca) was very personal, and knowledge
was seen as a limited fund to be acquired by known techniques of repetition and
memorisation under personal guidance. Although texts gave ultimate authority to knowledge
in the medreses, the knowledge was always conveyed by means of personal instruction,
hardly (for the students) by individual study of the text (Mardin 1997b:205).

Educational reform
To counter military defeats, the Sultans from the end of the 18th century on, desired a
new, salaried and professional army. In order to achieve (i.e. finance) this, the tax system had
to be run more efficiently. To produce new types of military and civil servants that could
work more efficiently and help re-establish the power and authority of the Sultan and the
empire, the Sultan needed new types of education (Zürcher 1993:41)158. Starting earlier here
than anywhere else in the Middle East (Winter 1984:183), educational reforms took place
from the 1770s onwards, and during the 19th century the bureaucracy was gradually
transformed of from kalemiye to mülkiye, from scribal service (learning by apprenticeship) to
civil officialdom (training in schools) (Findley 1989:88). Despite ambitious reform plans159,
improvement in educational achievement was very slow, especially in primary education, and
a new class of secularly trained officials did not emerge before the end of the 19th century.
Two educational systems continued to exist side by side nearly until the Independence War.
Ultimately, at the beginning of the 20th century, before the Republic was established, it was
becoming clear that Westernised education was winning out over the Islamic educational

158
According to Göçek (1996:18) The Sultan’s educational reform was an effort to create a new, loyal
(and more effective) officer corps in response to the challenge by parts of the governing households.
Educational reform was also part of a strategy to achieve a higher degree of centralisation (Findley
1989:132). The very effort to create a system of formal state education can in itself be seen as a step
towards Westernisation, in that this move was inspired by the idea of copying the West.
159
The first modern military school was established in the 1770s, and the first secular civil school in the
1830s (Findley 1989:132). A plan of educational reform intended to redesign the entire system was
presented in 1845 and at approximately the same time a ministry of education was established. On the
advice of the French Ministry of Education, in 1869 a secular three-tier system of education was
envisaged in a new Regulation for Public Education (Rüşdiye-İdadiye-Sultaniye) (Zürcher 1993:65).
After several attempts the first university (Dar ül-fünun) was established in Istanbul in 1900.
320 CHAPTER 11

system (Davison 1990:174). But it was primarily the İlm of the Ulama that gradually lost out
during the 19th century160. The new knowledges were often called fen, meaning ‘art’ or
‘practical skill’, and the scientist was not called alim (religious scholar, learned man), but
mütefennin (‘jack-of-all-trades’) (Berkes 1998:100). Note that the introduction of Western
ideas of science and education was not limited to state initiatives. As early as the beginning of
19th century voluntary organisations started to develop similar ideas. In this context
newspapers and novels had a great importance. Newspapers and journals brought translated
reference to developments in Western science (Göçek 1996:131).
Thus, while the population at large was educated within a tradition of knowledge
framed by Islamic epistemology and conducted as ‘traditional’ practices, many of the elite
(especially military) were trained in higher educational establishments that emphasised ‘new’
learning (Berkes 1998:110). In effect, the new schools were instrumental in creating a cultural
dualism during the 19th century, a cultural dualism that was to a large degree expressed in
lifestyles and consumption patterns, such as the elite Istanbul seafood culture. Institutional
choices were simultaneously seen as cultural choices, especially epitomised by a person’s
knowledge of languages. Proficiency in French was seen as a clear indication of cultural
orientation (Findley 1989:144).
Although the two systems of schools epitomised, and came to symbolise, a cultural
dichotomy, there were also continuities. The new secular schools were not too different from
the Islamic ones: the same principles of instruction were employed, the curricula were not too
different, and often the teachers at the Islamic medrese and mekteb schools taught at the
secular schools. A very authoritarian teacher-pupil culture prevailed in both systems
(Szyliowicz 1996:286). The pupils were considered the personal assistants of the teachers,
and while new appointment-making procedures (based on training/skill) were introduced,
they continued to coexist with older patterns of patronage and influence (Findley 1989). Until
the new constitution in 1961, an academic career was still very dependent on an
apprenticeship system. (Öncü 1993:164). While this system has formally been discontinued, it
is, in practice, still very much in force. It is also claimed that the ‘medrese (Islamic school)
mentality’ was reproduced in the new schools. In the state schools it was presupposed that
knowledge could best be acquired by memorising specific texts and studying commentaries.
Memorisation (ezberleme) and hard work (çalışkanlık) have remained core features of the
educational system to the present time (Tapper & Tapper 1991). The memorisation system is
today especially preserved in the university entrance exams (see Chapter 8).

160
While sections of the Ulama tended to regard both irfan and the new technical studies as
inappropriate for the masses, the sufi orders were more positive to the new knowledges. The sufi, or
dervish, orders flourished, and many sufi leaders were sympathetic towards the new science. A leading
sufi and intellectual at the end of the empire wrote: “There is no difference between the spirit of Sufism
and that of modern science.” (cited in Mansel 1995).
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 321

Development of a new educated elite

The effect of the higher educational institutions was out of proportion to their small number.
By 1875 the new schools produced a significant portion of the empire’s leadership (Davison
1990 [1961]:171) and the traditional links between the religious and military institutions had
been decisively broken (Berkes 1998:111). It was the men of this generation, educated in the
secular law, medicine and military schools of the late 19th century, that later came to lead the
Young Turk movement and the Independence War and subsequently to constitute the core of
the Kemalist elite. Possibly because the new state schools were meant to substitute for
apprenticeship training in the bureau, they came to be seen simply as a way into official
service and were attended primarily by Muslim groups161. Since most of the minorities
(especially Greeks and Armenians) that came to dominate the commercial bourgeoisie of the
late Ottoman period made up only a very minor part of the new Turkish society after the
Independence War, the elite of the new Republic came to be primarily bureaucrats (Göçek
1996:19).
Initially, therefore, elite identity in the Republic became to a large extent associated
with politicians, bureaucrats and other state employees (e.g. military and scientists, who in
effect are also bureaucrats, memur). At the turn of the century there still had not developed a
clear distinction between clerical (memur) and professional (e.g. researcher, araştırmacı)
employment within the civil officialdom (Findley 1989:165). Thus, the political leaders of the
Kemalist revolution were intellectuals (aydin), specifically intellectuals of the state (Frey
1965:42). Teachers, however, never became an elite profession (though an important career
possibility for poorer people who received higher education). Memur and politicians (never
totally separate during the one-party Kemalist regime) came to be the primary elite statuses.
Today this has changed to a large degree. The politician is more likely a successful
entrepreneur, and being a memur increasingly carries associations of relative poverty,
especially in the larger cities. But for the urban unemployed and the rural poor, such as small-
boat fishermen, being a memur means having a secure future and being provided for by the
state. Also, as we saw in Chapter 8, being state bureaucrats (memur) is important within the
two marine research institutions in Trabzon.
Elitism, as in education, is clearly inherited from the Ottoman society, but
fundamental social changes have decisively changed elitist expression. The success of the
Young Turks in creating the Turkish Republic was seen by them as, and was sociologically, a
result of westernised education and knowledge (positivist science) winning out over Islamic
and traditional teaching. Science attained a special symbolic significance in the ideological
defence of the new regime. This was also reflected on the level of language. New terms of

161
The level of formal education among the ‘national minorities’, primarily the Greeks and the
Armenians, was in general much higher, but they preferred to attended their own non-governmental
schools or the missionary schools that in the main were of better quality. After the disappearance of the
minorities and the establishment of the new Republic, the Muslim commercial bourgeoisie was slow to
emerge and the nascent commercial elite (and the big landowners) only achieved political power with
the victory of the Demokrat Parti (DP) in 1950.
322 CHAPTER 11

education and science were coined to emphasise the difference between the new and the
‘backward’. While maarif162, the word the Ottoman reformers coined to mean ‘education’ is
still used in many Islamic countries today, in the Turkish Republic the struggle to gain
distancefrom the Islamic heritage was furthered by the creation of neologisms such as eğitim
(education) and öğretmen (teacher). Bilim (science) was designed by a combination of the old
Turkish verb bilmek (to know) and İlm to denote rational, Western science.
The Turkish revolution was a top-down revolution by secularly educated officials that
championed Western science and educational reform as main pillars of a national, populist
policy. But until around 1970 higher education remained a privilege of the very few, of
certain groups within the established elite. Thus, initially, the aim of continued educational
reform (i.e. purging Islam from education and bringing all education under strict state
control163) was not primarily to educate the masses. Rather, it was to effect a transformation
and consolidation within the elite of a certain vision, of a specific ideology, and of certain
moralities, knowledges, and so forth (Frey 1965:40-41). These policies effected a “uniform
cultural discourse wherein the vocabulary of protest lost its legitimacy, to be replaced by the
official language of the State” (Öncü 1993:152). During the 1930s and 1940s the universities
became the embodiment of the State’s bureaucratic centralism and the “breeding ground for
its cadres” (Öncü 1993:156-7). The approach of this westernised elite was Jacobin164. The
elite saw themselves as a kadro (‘cadre’) that had the responsibility to spread their message
and, by social engineering, transform society, in line with ideals of ‘governmentality’, to fit an
ideal template, for instance of how the fisheries should be organised or what food the
populace should consume (Chapter 3). Into at least the 1960s students saw themselves as
guardians of Atatürk and as a moving force in society (Zürcher 1993:267-8, Eren 1964:196).
The elite groups’ emphasis on higher education as a prerequisite for taking on ‘guiding’ roles
in society is reflected, among other things, in a strong tendency to stipulate legislatively
higher education as an eligibility requirement for important professions and positions, such as
president or editor165.

162
While İlm represented the traditional, unchanging knowledges, maarif – the process of becoming
acquainted with things unknown – came to mean the learning of new knowledges. İlm was so associated
with the learning of the Ulama that it was difficult to apply it to the new sciences without qualification,
for instance Mektep-i Ulum-ı Edebiye (‘School of Literary Sciences’) and müspet ilimler (positive
sciences). Maarif, the word that came to be most used for the new education during the 19th century,
actually had its etymological roots in irfan. With the development of a concern for pedagogy during the
second constitutional period, maarif, which symbolised the educational reforms during the 19th century,
was substituted by terbiye to denote ‘education’ (Berkes 1998:404-5, Winter 1984:184).
163
The purge of more than half of the professors at the Darülfünun (University in Istanbul, established
in 1900) and its transformation into the Istanbul University in 1933 is indicative of regime’s
authoritative cultural policies.
164
Jacobin ideology, the French revolutionary elite approach to remaking of state and society, was in
the eyes of the Ottoman reformes also coupled with positivism (Ahmad 1993:77, Kasaba 1997:24).
165
The 1961 constitution required the members of the Senate (one of two chambers of the parliament)
as well as the President to have higher education (Frey 1965:48-9). Recently, Prime Minister Ecevit was
not eligible for the post as President at the retirement of Demirel since he did not have university
degree.
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 323

At least until the 1960s the fundamental social division in Turkey was based primarily on the
distinction between (educated) bureaucrat/politician and the (uneducated) rest166. Students of
middle and upper class parents from Istanbul and Ankara have only since the 1960s been
joined by lower class students and students from rural areas (Landau 1997:4). Educational
possibilities have greatly expanded since the 1950s, especially after the 1980 coup167. The
post-coup regime, worried about the role of the Universities in extremist activity, violence
and general societal unrest, reestablished control of higher education, chiefly through the
establishment of the centralised YÖK (Yüksek Öğretim Kurulu, the Board of Higher
Education). YÖK received sweeping powers over most aspects of higher education and
worked towards stemming public distress by grossly increasing enrolment to higher
education168.
While this expansion in higher education could have helped to diminish the gap
between the elite and the masses, various factors have conspired to sustain the differences.
First, even though educational opportunities have expanded, the system of higher education
can still offer places for only about one fifth of those who graduate from the lises (high
schools). Second, students from the more developed Marmara region (including Istanbul) are
generally much more successful at the national entrance exam than those from eastern parts of
the country (Szyliowicz 1994:148). Third, the system has, by internal differentiation (quality
differences between elite schools/universities and ordinary schools/taşra universities),
maintained existing inequalities. As a result, disproportionately many students and university
graduates in Turkey come from the three major cities (Istanbul, Ankara and Izmir). Moreover,
most students have urban, middle or upper class backgrounds. This is especially so at the
prestigious universities in Istanbul, Ankara and Izmir (6-10 universities). With regard to
prerequisites for educational success, coming from an educated family (i.e. memur family)
used to be the main asset for a would-be student. But today the economic power of the parents
to buy their hopefuls a high quality education is increasingly becoming the primary asset.
Today there is no longer self-evident congruence between higher education, position
and wealth, ‘urban’ lifestyle, and a Kemalist outlook. Social and economic distinctions are
much more complex than they used to be, even with new groups that do not conform to the

166
The educational component of elite status is starkly portrayed by the observation that “[o]ver 60 per
cent of all [MP] deputies [1920-57] were university-educated in a nation where about 60 per cent of the
male population, on the average in the same period, were illiterate.”(Frey 1965:70) While only 2% of
youths of proper age proceeded to higher education in 1957-58, 77 per cent of the MPs (1954-57) had a
university education (being a generation older, having received their training when the general
proportion of university educated was even lower) (Frey 1965:44,46). Moreover, many of the deputies
received their university education abroad, and on average knew two foreign languages (ibid.).
167
Enrolment has risen from 20.000 (1946) to 159.000 (1970), 554.000 (1988), 1.160.000 in 1995-96,
and has passed 1.5 million by 2000 (Landau 1997, Öncü 1993:163, State Institute of Statistics). In the
end of the 1990s as many as almost 300.000 entered higher education each year.
168
At the same time as higher education became more tightly controlled, it was also seen as an
instrument by the power holders (in the beginning of the 1980s effectively the military) for quieting
oppositional youths. Educational capacity was expanded by measures such as transforming old
institutions, creating new ones, and increasing the number of students in existing ones (being ‘cheaper’,
mainly the social sciences and humanities). Enrolment almost doubled during five years in the mid-80s
to 11.2 % (of 19-22 years) (Szyliowicz 1994:152-3).
324 CHAPTER 11

classical Kemalist elite ideals competing for elite status (Göle 1997). The educational system
no longer manages to urbanise the growing number of aspiring youths and make them eligible
for the elite (Tachau 1984:72) in the eyes of the old guard. These changes, together with the
influx of poor peasants to the gecekondu (‘put up at night’) ‘squatters’, have led many of the
classical urban Kemalist elite to complain about degeneration (yozlaşma), resurgence of
Islam, the peasantisation of Beyoğlu (Chapters 1 and 2), the spread of arabesk, and the
uncultivated style of the noveau riche. This is expressed, for instance, by stigmatising young
men of this style as maganda (a word often used to denote kaba (unmannered), uncivilised,
young macho men, often nouveaux riches). This critique has been exacerbated by
developments in the educational and bureaucratic sectors of society. The expansion of the
university sector has effected a relative decrease in income and status of the academics, but
short-time gains for those in the provincial (taşra) universities that ‘overnight’ received
promotion (Öncü 1993:170). The neo-liberal economic policies of post-1980 governments
have also contributed to a relative loss in income and prestige for many bureaucrats and
academics. State salaried scientists are still well off in the ‘provinces’, such as in Trabzon.
But their relative income has decreased as compared with the engineers, managers, and the
like who are employed by large corporations in the areas of rapid industrial growth and in the
‘internationalised’ service sector (marketing, banking, design etc.), mostly in the
Marmara/Istanbul region (Keyder 1999:19). With the expansion of the educational system and
the greater dynamism of State and society since the 1950s, especially since the middle of the
1980s, education has increasingly been “…coupled with the symbolism of achievement
through individual effort”(Öncü 1993:158). I have heard people say that, while education
gave prestige in itself earlier, it must now be converted into money to convey prestige status.
Education remains one of the spheres of Turkish society where an overt conflict
between two competing ideological models is most explicitly played out. This is one of the
most widely discussed issues among the Turkish public. Here I can only indicate some very
general trends. In contemporary debates in Turkey the hard-handed authority of the teacher
and the emphasis on memorisation (ezberleme) are often criticised as being backward, non-
modern and non-European traits. This criticism, together with the desire to have ‘relaxed’
(rahat) students (see Chapter 8), indicate that although there are continuities with Ottoman
pedagogical practice, there is certainly also change. Education continues to be a battleground,
there is no victory yet. Many observers perceive a ‘return’ of Islam in education after 1980,
although it is a development that has its roots in the 1950s. Religious teaching has gradually
been integrated into the primary school curriculum, but still only amounts to one hour lecture
per week. Religious instruction was first an option that the students could select, then became
an option that had to be specifically selected against if parents did not want their children to
receive such teaching. Outside of the structure of the state schools, Islamic organisations have
established many Koran courses that pupils attend in addition to the state schools, and
brotherhoods also run boarding schools that prepare students for higher levels of education.
The ‘Kemalist’ establishment has watched this development with suspicion, and the extension
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 325

of compulsory education from five to eight years was one of the central issues when the
Welfare Party was pressed out of Government by the Military in 1997169. Eight years
compulsory education was seen by anti-Islamic forces as a strategy to curb the activities of
the Islamic schools.
On the level of higher education, the most contended issue has been, and remains, the
public expression of Islamic identity and morals as in terms of women’s attire (tesettür),
especially the headscarf (türban) (Özdalga 1998). On another level, the state has allowed
great expansion of the Faculties of Theology. Parallel with the rise of new elite groups, some
of which is expressly Islamist, new Muslim intellectuals have surfaced (Meeker 1994), with
their own magazines and newspapers. Many of the Islamic organisations in Turkey, most
notably the Nur/Fetullah movement, fuse Islamic prescripts with a very positive attitude to
science and technology. For the ‘secular’ elite groups the main challenge in education and
science is to keep political Islam at bay. That is the main ‘other’, the force the ‘Kemalist’
establishment defines itself as against. But the contest between ‘secular’ and Islamic
education is primarily perceived as a conflict over ideology. It is particularly notable that the
opposing parties do not seem to differ with regard to the role given to ‘technical’ or practical
training.

The step-child of formal education: technical training

Technical and vocational schools could be a possible intermediary between science and other
kinds of knowledges, such as fishermen’s knowledges. We might envisage that such schools
could help bring about some convergence and lines of dialogue between ‘communities of
crafts’ and ‘communities of science’. However, technical and vocational schools are probably
among the least developed parts of the Turkish educational system. One tradition from the
Ottomans that the Republic apparently inherited was the general disinterest in formal
technical training. While this attracted little interest in the Ottoman society, technical training
was mainly organised as apprenticeship systems within the guilds. That the guilds could have
formed a bridge between traditional crafts and new schooling is attested to by the fact that the
curriculum of the School for Industry (founded 1868) was based on the gradation of the guild
system (Göçek 1996:111). However, the guilds were increasingly seen as repositories of
tradition and stagnation by the reformers and new commercial classes. During the second
constitutional period the guilds in Constantinople were banned for a period by the Young
Turks in an effort to stimulate innovation and industrial development (Mansel 1995:353,
Zürrcher 1993:130). In the early Republic the guilds, together with the sufi orders, were
further suppressed and lost their role as institutional framework for practical, technical
learning.

169
The Welfare Party was not confronted with a military coup. But the Military was the main player in
ousting the Islamists from governmental power as they in the National Security Council – which is the
legal body through which the Military retains power over governmental affairs - presented the Erbakan
government with a kind of memorandum (28 Feb. 1997) containing 18 articles where the Government
were required to change the direction of its policies.
326 CHAPTER 11

Forms of knowledge other than theoretical knowledge (e.g. irfan, adet, etc.) were
stamped out with the Young Turk revolutions and the reforms aimed at suppressing
superstition, religion and tradition (including the guilds). The new science vocabulary does
not have a suitable word for practical skill. Thus the Ottoman-Arabic tecrübe is used
informally, but usually not in scientific texts. Deneyim (experimentation), the proper Turkish
neologism that substitutes for tecrübe, is very much connected to formalised scientific
methodology, and does not frame non-structured, non-controlled practice. Concurrently, the
Kemalist educational system has ignored vocational or practical education. From the early
1920s until the middle of the 1930s the new regime was busy consolidating its hold on the
intelligentsia and urban classes. However, a combination of various factors induced the State
to focus on technical training from the mid-1930s onwards170. Most important of these
initiatives was the formation of the Village Institutes in 1940 (trial period from 1937). It is
worthwhile to delve a little into the Village Institute experience since it sheds light on the
dilemmas of educational policy and pedagogical practices. Did the Institutes manage to
integrate formal and practical training?

The Village Institutes171

The Village Institutes produced the first cadre of teachers to serve the countryside. Almost all
village teachers Stirling met in the Anatolian villages in which he worked during the 1950s
were trained at the Village Institutes. He observed that they tried to act as ‘missionaries of
scientific enlightenment and progress’ (Stirling 1965). The Village Institutes were almost the
only serious attempt during the early republic to integrate theoretical learning and practical
skills. The objective of the Institutes was to educate peasants to the level where they
themselves could teach other peasants. Very young students were enrolled and they lived,
worked and studied for several years at the Institutes.
The 1930s saw an intense discussion about education and pedagogical techniques. One
of the prominent players in this debate was Tonguç who became Director of Elementary
Education in 1935 and came to have a decisive influence on the design of the Village
Institutes. The Village Institute experiment was more than an educational undertaking. He
supported the ‘solidarism’ ideas of Gökalp and he and others advocated a kind of populist,
peasantist strategy for reaching the hearts and minds of the peasants172. Inspired by among
others Kerschensteiner’s ideas (“the source of culture is not books but work”) he advocated
‘education for work’, with ‘learning by doing’ as methodological principle. His stance was

170
First, there was stalemate in the educational system, the “…graduates had not acquired the necessary
practical skills to benefit the economic life of the country…[, their]…education only enabled them to
replace the older, less qualified bureaucracy” (Karaömerlioğlu 1998:54). Furthermore, the difficult
economic situation after the onset of the depression brought the need to increase rural production and
productivity. Moreover, the State wanted to increase its hold on the rural areas. The State draw up plans
for extensive formal technical training (Ritter von Kral 1938:58) in the cities, but this remained
primarily ‘technology’ oriented.
171
The following outline draws heavily on Karaömerlioğlu’s excellent study of the Village Institute
experience (1998).
172
Such ideas were fairly widespread in Europe at that time, especially in Italy and Germany.
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 327

fairly anti-intellectual, and the professors at Istanbul University (the only university at the
time) strongly opposed the implementation of these ideas. They despised the idea of ‘learning
by doing’. This urban and scriptural bias, the idea of the inferiority of manual work, was even
internalised by the peasants themselves. Many scholars claimed that the institutes neglected
cultural development. On the other hand, the Turkish intelligentsia, even those advocating
these ideas, knew nothing about rural life. When the Western-trained educators were sent to
remote villages to teach, the cultural abyss between themselves and the villagers often
shocked them173. One of the main advocates of peasantist ideology, even the ideologue
Köymen, who wrote extensively about the peasants, only saw the villages as he was travelling
from Istanbul to Ankara. It is well worth reiterating a citation from Karaömerlioğlu’s work:

None of the people who wrote on the ‘village issue’ could dare to stay even one night in a
Turkish village. When those intellectuals intended to go to the villages – as exemplified in the
campaign for peasantism organized by Ankara People’s House in 1933 – they did so as if they
were foreign tourists or like travellers who try to discover the dark corners of Africa (Kirby
1962:60, cited in Karaömerlioğlu 1998:59).

Even though this peasantist approach more that others acknowledges the potentials and
capacities of the peasants, it remained elitist in that it held the peasants to be bad at even what
they were usually doing: they were seen as incompetent in the struggle against the rural
environment. They were increasingly accused for being centres of communist propaganda.
The CHP government turned them into standard teacher colleges or closed them down before
the election in 1950174. But the 21 institutes that operated for some years did have a very
market effect on both the (40.000) students and the local culture. The politicisation of this
kind of teaching probably forestalled later experiments in the same direction:
institutionalisation of ‘Learning by Doing’ became discredited. Technical training has
remained the stepchild of education in Turkey175.
The lack of appeal of technical and vocational training has been a continued problem
that is reflected in the failure to develop a sector of vocational and technical schools and high
schools after 1950. The students do not regard these schools as attractive. Many technical
high schools have been organised within the university structure. They have had a primarily

173
The well know best selling novels (especially Bizim Köy, ‘Our Village’) by the village teacher Makal
who encountered ‘stubborn’ opposition and massive ‘ignorance’ when he went to teach in Anatolian
villages during the early 1950s is indicative of the problems this cultural conflict created.
174
The surprising critical attitude that many students developed may be one of the reasons why the
establishment grew sceptical about the experiment. The use of coerced labour (neighbouring villagers
were forced to work 20 days a year for the Institutes), the advocating of secular ideology, as well as the
fact that the CHP had vested interests in the Institutes may explain why the new opposition (from 1946)
fiercely opposed them.
175
This reproduction in the Republic of the authority and legitimacy of only textual knowledge (İlm),
only one strand of the two kinds of knowledge, irfan and İlm, acknowledged in Islam, has naturally
‘discredited’ practical skills, traditions, and so on. If we use the distinction between civilisation
(medeniyet) and (national) culture (hars) set up by Gökalp, we may say that on the level of civilisation
and science, Western civilisation won out over eastern (Islamic) civilisation, while on the level of
national culture, recreation (never successful) from tales, archaeology etc. were to recapture the true
Turkish folk culture.
328 CHAPTER 11

theoretical approach and lacked interaction with industry. Training at these high schools tends
to be abstract and engineering-oriented (Szyliowicz 1994:157). Today many university and
high school courses include short practice (staj) periods. However, it does not seem as if the
students are expected to really ‘go into’ the work. During my first period of fieldwork my
presence was often interpreted as a kind of staj. I was supposedly sent by the Norwegian State
(university) in order to learn about the Turkish fisheries. Yet, people did not really expect me
to participate. They were hesitant about bringing me out on the small fishing boats, fearing
that I would be too ‘fine’ to endure the hardships (the cold, the waves etc.). More than once
they were surprised to find that I could handle the oars and did not get seasick in rough seas.
We saw in Chapters 8 and 10 how ‘experience’ (tecrübe) is to a large degree excluded
from the training in marine sciences. Many of the technical high schools have, through local
politics, been transformed to university faculties and lost much of their ‘applied’ focus. Such
has, for instance, happened to many of the ‘water produce’ high schools established during
the 1980s. On the other hand, the first choice among students is no longer disciplines that lead
them into a job with the state. They prefer disciplines that can secure high incomes in the
private sector, such as architecture, law, and medicine. They also gravitate towards various
technical disciplines that qualify them for well-paid professions as mühendis (engineer) and
the like. The attractiveness of the engineering profession does not apply to all engineering
specialities, such as agricultural engineers who generally find positions with the state. There
are said to be 30.000 unemployed agricultural engineers. The attractive mühendis positions
are to be found with the large corporations. A two-year study published in 2000 (Hürriyet
20.06.2000:7) shows that industrial engineer, computer engineer and electronic engineer,
together with media (radio/television/cinema), are the most attractive professions when
measured by beginner’s salaries and mean salaries. Mühendis is indeed perceived in post-
1980 Turkey as one of the most attractive professions/titles. However, the education and
practice of a mühendis may still have a very theoretical, or ‘technological’ (Ingold 1993a),
emphasis and lack practical involvement.

Idealistic elite, ignorant people

The unlucky history of the Village Institutes may have helped to impede integration between
practice and theory, industry and schools, in Turkey. But, it has been claimed (see e.g.
Crofoot 1993) that the Young Ottoman thinkers and intellectuals were inclined to abstract
thought and paid little attention to practical aspects of reform, such as, for example, economic
theory or strategy. This is in a sense a paradox since the reforms were started with the limited
intention of changing technology and economy. In practice, though, there was less focus on
industry and economy. In the new Ottoman schools that were to train the new officials (the
Mülkiye, later also the Rüşdiye) students were removed from the practical context of official
transactions and were instead studying (directly from books, often in French)
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 329

…principles and laws which were abstractions from reality, and had an artificial internal
consistency. It was as if the generation of the 1890s thought that life as described in books was
more real than life itself….Science then appeared to the students in the form of abstract
models of reality, a characteristic also emphasised by the lack of experimentation and the
parlous state of laboratories. It was through an assimilation of theory that science was gaining
a foothold among them (Mardin 1997b:205).

Science was adopted in the vein of idealism. ‘Magicians’’ and alchemists’ practical concerns
with technology and material outcomes played an important role in the formation of early
science in Europe (Tambiah 1990). Such concerns were also important in parts of the early
Ottoman sciences (e.g. medicine) (İhsanoğlu 1992:38). Contrary to this, the idea of science
that the Kemalist regime inherited from the Young Turks was an idealistic one. Reşat Kasaba
(1997:26) has claimed that the Ottoman-Turk reformers had “a total admiration for science,
not as something one engages in critically but as an omnipotent tool…”. This approach was
fairly void of experimentation and geared towards the mental manipulation of models to form
internally consistent systems often by importing wholesale blueprints from the West. This
idealistic approach was evident in the model for ‘water produce’ cooperatives and in the ideas
about technological development in the fisheries that bureaucrats endorsed during the 1950s
and 1960s. The idealistic approach is reflected for example in many of the articles in the EBK
journal (Fish and Fishing). A short article by the EBK Transport Director in the book ‘Our
Fisheries in the Black Sea’ (Çakıroğlu 1969) was titled ‘The use of factory vessels in the
Black Sea should (also) be considered’ (Karadeniz için Fabrika Gemiler de Düşünülmelidir).
The article included detailed sketches of a large Russian factory vessel (Gedik 1969:128-130).
In contrast there is a telling paucity of studies concerning kinds of crafts and technology that
were actually used by the fishermen. That Devedjian’s study (1926) remained the main
reference work until the 1980s and 1990s, when the new water produce faculties slowly
started to come to grips with the technological developments in the fisheries, attests to this
idealistic approach. For instance, Sarıkaya’s textbook from 1980 is basically a mixture of
material from Devedjian’s study and knowledge gleaned from international textbooks.
Şerif Mardin claims that the idealism of the bureaucratic-military elite groups was
characterised by a pervasive focus on a certain kind of European thought. I touched on this in
the discussion of ‘The social web’ in Chapter 6 in which I referred to Mardin’s claim that
most social science approaches in Turkey have been ‘Macro’. “Naive positivism, the
prevailing world-view in the first years of the Turkish Republic, acted to erase a number of
‘culturological’ approaches [phenomenology, hermeneutics, linguistics and semiology] to the
study of society...” (Mardin 1989:165). The Kemalists, inspired by the ideas of Gökalp (the
main ideologue among the Young Turks), perceived a need to develop social solidarities
(‘solidarism’) directed towards the society, the nation (and not the state) within a populist (i.e.
the peaceful co-existence of different functional groups) framework. In this picture ‘mahalle
(quarter) norms’ were seen as undesirable as they were directed towards small groups and not
society. The mahalle norms, specifically those associated with Islam, were considered to
inhibit individual development; a prerequisite for a dynamic, progressive society. Therefore
330 CHAPTER 11

tradition and Islam had to be stamped out, and new selves created through education. In 1928
a Turkish government-appointed committee stated that “religious life, like moral and
economic life, must be reformed on scientific lines” (cited in Kasaba 1997:25).
Already before the establishment of the Republic, the Young Turks held education to
be the main tool for shaping new kinds of individuals, or selves, that were to be the very
opposite of the types present in the existing society. Education was a tool for ‘uneducating’
tradition and preparing people for change, for accepting ‘useful’ knowledge and practice
(Berkes 1998:401-3). Education, specifically secular education, was seen as a prerequisite if
individuals were to take part in, contribute to, and feel allegiance to a new kind of society
(Mardin 1997b:212-216). When the bureaucrats in the 1990s claim that the fishermen do not
manage to organise cooperatives properly because they are cahil, they implicitly base their
argument on this model. The fishermen have allegedly not received enough education to have
had their selves sufficiently transformed; they are not mature enough to interact in accordance
with ‘society ethics’; they behave according to ‘backward’ mahalle, or rather köy (village),
ethics and, therefore, do not trust each other and lack cooperative spirit. Thus, the educated
elite may find it difficult to accept the social webbing approach to social reality, as described
in Chapters 5 and 6176. During an (taped) informal conversation with a marine scientist in
Trabzon, I raised the issue of the ignorance of the fishermen. He responded by claiming that

one of the weakest matters in Turkey is that because of the low cultural level of the fishermen
there is no unity and cooperation. They think individual. For instance, if I have my profit
today, let come tomorrow what may come, that’s of no importance at all. Because they do not
act within unity and cooperation they enter a race. (see appendix 2, item 11)

He illustrated this with an example of fishermen not being able to cooperate about
diminishing effort when catches of hamsi surpass the demand for fresh fish, bringing ‘ruin’ to
all. A little later I ask him why fishermen have not been able to organise themselves into
cooperatives.

I just told you the reason why [the cooperatives] haven’t taken roots. Both our members and
our leaders are cahil people. It is very difficult to do business with such cahil people. To tell
them this is very difficult because he says ‘I know’. (see appendix 2, item 12)

Cultivation and ignorance

The effort to develop the nation by (the right) education can be interpreted as a fight against
the human condition of ignorance (cehalet, cahiliyet). That the accusations of ignorance are so
widespread, and that so many undesired phenomena are explained by this, can be seen as
emphasis on, and belief in, the superiority of scholarly, bookish knowledge as a road to
personal knowledge, insight and enlightenment, and as guide for the organisation of society. It
is text and those who have privileged knowledge of texts, that supply the ultimate yardstick,

176
However, there may also be reason to argue that the elite reproduce non-solidarism forms of social
interaction, a more refined form of social webbing in the guise of modernism. This social webbing is in
public discourse seen to a large degree as corruption.
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 331

the standard, as well as the answers and commands for humans. Goody has remarked that in
literate societies the written version of something is commonly accorded a truth-value that no
single oral (or ‘embodied’) version possesses due to the fetishisation of writing
(Scripturalism) (e.g. Goody 1987:299). Islam more than any other religion emphasises the
importance of the written text and the book; that is where ultimate meaning and Truth are
found, outside of the individual lives of humans and not embedded in practice.
Lambek (1993) has shown that the actual work of the Islamic texts in society and for
individuals may depend as much on embodied aspects of the engagement with texts as on an
objectifying stance. However, the holy text is generally perceived as something beyond the
human and society, as expression of universal truths that humans can only gain access to
through the Book(s). Thus, the period before Muhammad is called the age of cahiliyet (Koran
48.26). It is generally regarded as a Dark Age; the age before the humans acquire
enlightenment from the book. The search for and reproduction of İlm has been a critical focus
in Islam since it keeps alive the knowledge of how to avoid the cahiliyet. Some Muslim
intellectuals write about the modern, secular way of life as a return to the cahiliyet (see
Meeker 1994). Thus, the term cahil has its origin in the Islamic cultural universe; this was still
the primary frame of reference when Stirling (1965) did his fieldwork in an Anatolian village
in the 1950s. When measuring people “…on a religious scale in terms of piety and learning,
Cahil, ignorant, is a common term of abuse…”.
While bureaucrats and scientists in reports and other kinds of texts may prefer to use
the term eğitimsiz (uneducated), in the vernacular it is now common to use cahil to indicate
ignorance in a general and not only a religious sense. The concept of cahil has moved from an
Islamic context into a more ‘neutral’ one. Now schooling/education in general is the primary
frame of reference. Today defenders of Kemalist modernity still evoke Atatürk’s sayings. One
of these demonstrate precisely how he tried to re-define cehalet to mean searching for
guidance outside of Islam: “The truest guide in life is science and technology. To search for
guides outside of science and technology is carelessness, cehalet, wrong thinking/error
(Yaşamda en gerçek yol gösterici bilimdir, fendir. Bilim ve fen dışında yol gösterici aramak
gaflettir, cehalettir, dalalettir)”. But, the Islamist thinkers, and the Islamist discourse in
general, have not given up on the concept and commonly portray materialism, secularism and
westernised modernisation, for example, as a return to the cehalet/cahiliyet.
The double edge of the accusations of cehalet/being cahil can be illustrated by the
response of the Minister of Law to a tragic disaster in Beşikdüzü, just west of Çarşıbaşı.
During the ‘Seventh of May’ sea festival on the 20th of May 2000 (see ‘The Black Sea
seaside’, Chapter 2), two small fishing boats that carried people to the hollow stone (delikli
taş) that gives luck and secures fertility, capsized. The boats were overloaded and 38 people
died. The DSP (Democratic Left Party, the party of Ecevit) Minister of Law Hikmet Sami
Türk visited the Beşikdüzü Kaymakamlık (state office at district level) together with the
Trabzon governor, the kaymakam (state district governor) of Beşikdüzü, several MPs and the
head of YÖK. According to the newspaper reports, the Minister stressed that “one of the
332 CHAPTER 11

primary reasons for the tragedy was empty beliefs (boş inançlar) that stemmed from cehalet.”
He is cited as having said, “We should not give permission to fishing boats carrying
passengers. It is also necessary for us to enlighten the citizens” (Vatandaşları da
aydınlatmamız gerekir) (Akşam Gazetesi 23.05.2000, Cumhuriyet Gazetesi 23.05.2000).177
According to friends in Çarşıbaşı this festival has now been banned.
Rather than being a secular and bureaucratic critique of ‘traditional Islamic practices’,
this accusation of fishermen’s and participants ignorance is rather a shared secular-Islamic
scholarly, textual, idealism slap on ‘backward rural practices and beliefs’. Orthodox Islam and
the secular elite share a discourse of rational ideals inscribed in texts as the norm for
behaviour. Thus, the cultivated critique of undesired practices in society is not necessarily
directed towards ‘Islamic practices’, but rather addresses ‘tradition’ as the problem. Education
is seen as the tool for putting things right. But there is fairly widespread criticism of the
current educational system, including from secular, scientific corners. It supposedly does not
meet the requirements of a modern society. In an interview in the ‘Kemalist’ daily
Cumhuriyet, an educational specialist claimed that it should be the role of the schools to break
the country’s traditional thought patterns (Ülkedeki geleneksel düşünce biçimini okullarda
kırılması gerek…). But, he maintains, the present educational system regrettably still relies
too much on the traditional culture (geleneksel kültür) and this results in traffic accidents,
work accidents, corruption, favouritism, and neglect of duties (Cumhuriyet Gazetesi
23.09.1998).

The official ignorance of the local

I have earlier discussed the very limited official recognition of local and informal practices of
regulations in the fisheries (Chapters 3 and 5). Why could reference to ‘tradition’, to
‘customary law’, and so on not be mobilised as a strategic or rhetoric resource for legitimising
such local practices in the Turkish fisheries? In colonial Indonesia the Dutch administrators
codified customary law as adat, which also become incorporated in the new national ideology
(Geertz 1983). The continued pervasive use of this in the new Indonesian State has been
criticised for stimulating reification of local practice and ‘invention of tradition’. However,
based on a very detailed ethnography of adat (village institutions) and dinas (Indonesian
state), Carol Warren (1993:299) concludes that “[a]dat institutions in Bali offer a legitimate
frame of discourse and an organisational base through which power can be asserted at local
level in the ongoing negotiations or relations between village and state”. In Chapter 3 I noted
that local management forms in the Japanese coastal fisheries can bolster their authority by
reference to customary law (Ruddle 1987, 1991). Also well known is the potency of ‘Kastom’
in the Oceanic context as a legitimising frame for claims to authenticity of local practices
(Keesing 1989, 1992, Hviding 1996a).

177
I suspected that my original source, the internet news bulletin Superonline Haber that is administered
by the Akşam Gazetesi with Turk-Islam synthesis leanings, may have had distorted the statements of
the Minister. However, the authoritative Cumhuriyet Gazetesi gives the same citation, while the Akşam
Gazetesi proper have omitted the reference to ‘empty beliefs’.
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 333

As in so many nationalisms (Gellner 1983, Anderson 1991), national culture was to a

large degree folklorised in Turkey. Local culture was idealised, and only superficially based
upon existing practices, living traditions. However, in Turkey this process may have been
extreme. While Devedjian in his book about ‘Fish and Fisheries’ (original Ottoman edition
1915) wrote widely about what he in the French 1926 edition termed ‘us et coutumes’
(Devejian 1926), later official approaches to the fisheries have largely ignored this aspect.
Republican science and bureaucracy have, unlike Devedjian, not been concerned with
documenting and inscribing small-scale fishing practices. The State representatives have
principally focused on the ‘developed’ sector of the fisheries and documented, and conveyed in
teaching, primarily the technology and catch technique of big boat fishing.
In a study of systems of law and practices of conflict resolution, June Starr speculates
about the possible reasons for the non-codified status of customary law in Turkey. She argues
that in Africa, and we may add Indonesia, it was the experience with colonial rule that
stimulated the codification of ‘local law’. “Because Turkey was never colonized, local actors
never had to maneuver to safeguard their leadership positions, and no localized ‘law-ways’
developed as a preserve of local leaders that paralleled the preserve of African colonial
leaders, namely customary law” (Starr 1992:179-181). Tradition was rejected in toto by the
Kemalists. National culture was rather something to be sought for or recreated. An important
consequence was that most practices, institutions and knowledges of the people became
suspect or undesirable.
In the Turkish version of modernism/nationalism less credit was given to ‘living’
‘traditions’, practices, and codes. Official discourse and ideology did idealise tradition, but as
a particular kind of imagined tradition, which has been articulated by many as a search for and
desire to re-invent pre-Islamic traditions (cf. Gökalp). This ideology has not left much room
for legitimising current local practices by claiming them to be ‘custom’. Islam was excluded
because of its presumed lack of rationality, because it put ‘belief’ above ‘knowledge’. With
the Turkish-Islamic synthesis the pre-Islamic tradition has to a large extent been replaced by
‘universal’ Sunni Islam, while the ‘local’ remains suspect. Local ‘living’ custom is, as is the
‘Seventh of May’ ritual in Beşikdüzü, seen either as backward tradition or as superstition
(batıl inançlar). There did, and do, exist terms for traditional practices and institutions in
Turkey, such as adet, örf (or urf, customary law) aneane/gelenek/görenek (tradition), that
could have been developed along the same lines as, for example, adat in Indonesia to give
recognition and legitimacy to local practice and law. None of these, however, fell within the
new, idealistic scheme of national development: tradition and custom were contrary to
rationality, reason, logic and science. A Turkish professor comments critically upon this:
334 CHAPTER 11

According to the University of Ankara societies (toplumlar) are in the condition of change.
Customs (örfler), on the other hand, do not change. For this reason, a society (cemiyet) bonded
to customs does not change. Customs are regional. In the Turkish Republic there are
absolutely no customs. Customs and mores (örf, adetler) are also incongruous with the
Atatürk revolution. Because the Atatürk revolution is rationalistic (akılıcı). Customs and
mores do not rest upon reason (akıl), but on unconsciously held faith (nakil) (Akder 1976178).

I have already showed how such ideas find expression in scientists’ explanation for lack of
cooperation among fishermen. It is echoed even in the thinking of some fishermen. On old
fisherman in Trabzon explained to me that fishermen could not cooperate because of lack of
reason (akıl yok). He maintained that there was no solidarity (dayanışma), no belief in each
other because of ignorance (birbirine inanç yok, cahillikten).

Ignorance and lifestyle

The concept of cahil is often used to denote more than lack of reason or bookish knowledge.
Once I chatted with a marine scientist in Trabzon who commented on a recent MHP rally in
the main square of the city. He asked me whether I had noticed what kind of people attended
the rally. He had been standing close to the front of the crowd and observed the most ardent
supporters. “There were many poor people among them, that was evident from their illfitting
clothes (kıyafet uyumsuz), their unshaven faces and their moustaches.” He said that they were
mostly cahil people, mostly young men that needed some sort of ‘releasing’ (boşalma,
emptying), in this case with clear connotation of sexual ejaculation, the pouring out of
inhibited feelings, caused by unsound and uncivilised family life among the poor. He
concluded by exclaiming, “they are maganda, I despise them (nefret ediyorum onlardan)”. In
this case the use of the concept cahil points not only at the lack of bookish knowledge, but all
that comes with it: the ignorant person, broadly conceived. There is a connection between
studying (okumak), education (eğitim) and manners/cultivation (kültürlü, sosyal/rahat). It
varies (across persons and situations) how much the okumak component is emphasised in
understandings of eğitim and cultivation. But they certainly are supposed to come together: a
university graduate should also have good manners. Eğitim is widely seen as more than
studying books and passing the exams. It is necessary for cooperation and civilised
interaction.
I indicated above that the secular elite that gradually came to control the State during
the last years of the Ottoman Empire believed that education was the main tool for shaping
the new selves required by the new kind of society envisaged. But what content was to be put
into these new selves? Expressions of refined elite manners that are acquired through
education may have changed, from reading Persian poetry to going to theatre, from writing
ornate Ottoman Turkish, to a new Turkish so full of neologisms that ordinary people could
not understand it. But elite culture seems to have remained the ideal for educational
achievement. We could perhaps say that the old code of adab was transformed into new codes

178
The copy made for me at the Istanbul Central Library (İstanbul Merkez Kütüphanesi) does not
include pagination.
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 335

of being cultivated, educated, well-mannered, and refined (kültürlü, eğitimli, terbiyeli and
kibar, see also Chapter 8). Heper (1985:45) claims that the elite ‘adab tradition was revived in
its most secular form’ already in the first half of the 19th century (during the reign of Mahmud
II). Traditional Islamic İlm was challenged since the elite increasingly emphasised
enlightenment, education and reason. There may also have been a concomitant redirection in
lifestyles, including such things as going to the theatre, adopting the practice of eating with
fork and knife, and enjoying cultivated seafood dining. While many explicit Islamic elements
of the code thereby gradually disappeared, there is nevertheless probably a high degree of
continuity from the 19th to the 20th century.
It is common belief in Turkey that people in the eastern regions of the country have
not only received less schooling, but are less educated in the wider sense (cultivated,
civilised) than people in the west of the country. ‘Modern-traditional’ is very commonly
operationalised along such a west-east axis. The Black Sea region falls somewhere in
between. Within the framework of a project aimed at ‘improving the quality of the human
resources’ (Insan Kaynakları Kalitesini Artırma Projesi), a foundation named Akın Education
and Health Foundation, distributes scholarships to successful students from the Southeast. In
addition to the financial support, the foundation also gives the students ‘orientation education’
that include classes in English, computing, Turkish ‘use and beautiful talk’, as well as
education that intended to raise the students’ social and cultural repertoire (‘rigging’), such as
dance, music, painting etc. (Milliyet 12.08.1999). In the same vein, a girl in Çarşıbaşı told me
that she tried to ‘continue’ (devam etmek) even though she had recently finished her schooling
as a nurse (hemşire). As examples of the ‘continuation’ (of education) she mentioned going to
cinema and theatre.
A whole range of manners and skills - bodily, social and intellectual - are seen to come
with education. A scientist in Trabzon opined that people should receive behavioural
(davranış) education, social (sosyal) education, in order to teach them to feel shame when
they break rules. Cleanness, being rahat/sosyal, having good manners, and so forth (see
Chapter 8) are of course aspects of the selves that come with, or ideally should come with,
university education. These are not concerns inscribed in laws or explicit rules, but are rather
maintained by small tokens in everyday action. We may say that this constitutes a stock of
ethical know-how of how to behave in an elite manner and express an elite lifestyle.

I have already outlined ways in which the elitist idea of educating the populace to behave in a
responsible and civilised manner was expressed through bureaucrats’ and scientists’
explanations of the failure of the cooperatives. However, a whole range of problems in the
fisheries is explained by declaring the fishermen as eğitmimsiz, kültürsüz (uneducated,
uncultivated/sophisticated), bilinçsiz (unconscious, without foresight), or more commonly as
cahil. The accusations made against the fishermen by the scientists include claims that they
do not use new technology efficiently because they are cahil, they do not have trust in each
other because they are cahil, they involve themselves in illegal trawling because they are
336 CHAPTER 11

cahil, and so on. I spoke with a scientist whose origins were in a fishing community about a
small-boat fisherman that was a mutual acquaintance of ours. He wondered whether this
fisherman pursued illegal trawling at night. The scientist gave the answer himself, that our
friend probably did not involve in nocturnal small-boat trawling, because he is more kültürlü
than most other fishermen (since he has completed lise). During an informal conversation
with me, another scientist was quite indignant about the illegal trawling. He said that
fishermen do not think about tomorrow, they are cahil, and have a reactionary mentality
(gerici zihniyeti). In another context (taped interview) he said that the problems in Turkey are
two-fold: “(1) the political system, and (2) the bad condition/badness of the humans, that is,
the [lack of] education (insanların kötülüğü ile, yani eğitim ile alakalı)”.

Formal education and fishermen

What is the degree of the fishermen’s interaction with formal education and science? In their
surveys of fishing cultures, both Acheson (1981) and McGoodwin (1990:25-26) point out that
fishermen are generally less educated than the non-fishermen. This also seems to be the case
in Turkey. A survey of most adult males in Keremköy reveals that the educational level of
fishermen is much lower than among most other occupational groups (see figure 24). This
seems to conform roughly with the general educational level of fishermen in the Black Sea
region (Çelikkale et al 1999:368), except that more fishermen in Keremköy have completed
lise. A survey of more than a thousand fishermen in three communities in north-western
Turkey (Tekirdağ, Çanakkale and Kıyıköy) produced similar numbers: around 70% have only
a primary education or less while almost none have any higher education (Güngör 1998:318).
The percentage of men with higher education is very high in Keremköy. The reason is most
likely their relative wealth (making it possible to educate their offspring) that stems from
success in fishing and from so many men being state employed thanks to their good political
connections. But, many fishermen have even less education than the completion of primary
school because they dropped out of school before finishing their first five compulsory years.
On the other hand the windfall profits that can sometimes be secured from only a few months
work fishing made it seem much more attractive when they would probably not manage to
continue to university anyway. After the onset of the resource crisis in 1989 and several years
with very small or no shares distributed to crew, fishing was generally not seen as being that
attractive (cazip) any longer, and many now regret that they did not continue school.
According to the fishermen themselves it used to be fairly popular to work as crew,
and until 1985-86 they had to have a torpil in order to manage to sign on the attractive teams.
One lise-educated man from Keremköy had a good position as memur in a bank. But during
the early 1980s he left this job in order to join his brothers working on their carrier vessel.
Like many others they harboured hopes and aspirations for expanding into purse seining and
becoming rich. However, the resource crisis struck them severely and they went bankrupt. He
is now unemployed and works with his brothers on their small fishing boat. Fishing is not so
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 337

attractive any longer. The boat owners increasingly have to pay advances, cover marriage
expenses, and the like in order to bind the crew. Now, state memur is seen as being much
more attractive than fishing, especially because it is much more secure (salary, insurance,
permanence). In order to be eligible for a position as state memur it is most often necessary to
have completed lise (and to have a torpil).

Level of educ. 5 years 8 years 11 years Higher

Profession primary (ilk) junior high high school education Total
school(orta) (lise)
Total
Fishermen 71 6 14 91
Boat
Owners 12 1 8 21
‘Small
fishermen’ 59 5 6 70
Workers (işçi)
State/private 4 4
Self employed
(small scale) 4 4 3 11
Memur
(state) 4 3 12 2 21
Memur
(private) 1 4 5
Entrepreneurs
Businessmen 1 1 2
Teachers
1 1 9 11
University
students 12 12

Total 84 13 32 28 157
Figure 24 Educational level of different occupational groups in Keremköy
Survey spring 1998 of males in Keremköy. A few men with origins in and continued strong links to
Keremköy are included, while for the purpose of this table I have included only men between 20 and
55 years of age. ‘Private memur’ includes various clerical work in the private sector. ‘State memur’ is
somewhat broad but primarily refers to white-collar workers.

Still, fishermen will not accept all state positions. Being çöpçü (employed as garbage
collector by the municipality) is too base. The dream of the chance for large profits still lives
among the fishermen, and the examples of success, the big boat owners, live in their midst.
Once I talked with a group of the boys in Keremköy (aged approximately seven to twelve) on
the beach in front of the village. I asked them what they wanted to become, whether they
wanted to become fishermen. “No, I’m going to read” one answered. Others said that they
wanted to become medical doctors and the like. I asked whether becoming a fisherman is
good. They hesitated, tilted their hands back and forth (meaning so-so, in the middle). One
kid stressed that he was a boat owner (mal sahibi). Many a small-boat fisherman in Çarşıbaşı
told me that “no, they would not bring their son(s) to sea”. It is the aim of most, if not all,
338 CHAPTER 11

fishermen – even the wealthy big boat fishermen, to educate their sons and daughters. Sons of
boat owners only settle for a career in fishing if and when they fail to pass the university
entrance exam. This stands in contrast to what Erginsoy observed in a small fishing
community in the vicinity of Istanbul. Here sons of big boat fishermen are less likely to
search for alternative opportunities through educational success (Erginsoy 1998:143).
The low level of education among fishermen is something everyone is very aware of,
and the social distinction between the teachers and fishermen, while intermingling in the
kahve, is indeed pronounced. The difference in educational level is of course also reflected in
mastery of general ‘book knowledge’. Once I was sitting by a table in the kahve discussing
the climate in Norway with three fishermen. A pensioned teacher who overheard our
conversation came to our table and began explaining where Norway is. He drew a very
correct map, and explained in fair detail the location of Scandinavia, Norway, surrounding
seas, and so on. In order to explain the cold climate in Norway, he drew a picture of the earth,
with the poles, the polar circles and the Tropics of Cancer/Capricorn, creating three zones
(cold, temperate and warm). He situated Norway in the cold zone and Turkey in the temperate
one. The fishermen watched with interest. An elderly small-boat fisherman (with three years
schooling), pointing on the sketch, asked whether any people live in the warm zone (tropics).
Such interaction reaffirms, in the eyes of the educated, the view that the fishermen are
ignorant. It is also common that when people discuss some issue, they may ask one of the
teachers for information about some ‘fact’. Indeed, fishermen are relatively ignorant with
regard to the general knowledges taught in school. On the other hand, there seems to be some
discrepancy between the claims of the cultivated elite with regard to fishermen’s ignorance
and the actual situation among the fishermen, even when the elite’s own criteria are
employed. In my opinion the issue of lack of knowledge among fishermen has been
overemphasised among managers. For instance, the incompetence in accounting among the
cooperative leadership and the lack of a cooperative mentality among fishermen is, to my
knowledge, not as serious as is often believed. Most big boat fishermen are accustomed to
bookkeeping and bureaucratic procedures, and most fishermen have a fair idea of how a
cooperative should work. Moreover, fishermen have in general a very precise understanding
of the interrelation between capitalisation, open access, too high fishing effort, and resource
depletion179. Also, in some communities especially ‘urban’ ones such as Sinop, many of the
small-boat fishermen have more extensive formal schooling and are retired teachers or other
lower level state memur. In Keremköy there seems to be a moral barrier discouraging memur,
retired or not, from engaging in fishing. It is formally illegal for them to be professional
fishermen, and, with few other employment opportunities, fishing is seen as the prerogative of
those who are not cared for by the state.
Articulation between fishermen’s knowledges and the ‘formal’ knowledges of the
bureaucrats and scientists is also compounded by the hesitation fishermen feel towards

179
A survey of fishermen in Keremköy revealed that more than 70% held ‘too high fishing effort’ to be
one of the primary reasons for problems in the fisheries (Knudsen 1997: table 8).
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 339

transforming their speech to writing. Although all fishermen know how to write and read,
they generally do very little writing (or reading for that matter). In this respect, Turkish
fishermen seem to inscribe less of their knowledge than do fishermen in the North Atlantic
region. In Iceland every skipper keeps a personal ‘diary’, some of which is stored in a
computer in the wheel-house (Pálsson 1995:21). I have seen no indication of there being
similar diaries in use among the Turkish fishermen. Fishermen’s articulations of their
knowledge often takes the form of creative sayings. Several times, when the fishermen have
said something very poignantly or on the spot created a new tack on a standard saying, I have
wanted them to write it down. This has proven difficult. Sometimes they have written a few
words after I have insisted, but generally I would have to put it down on paper myself. My
impression is that they hesitate because they feel that their oral language is too different from
the accepted scriptural norms; it’s too saturated with swearing, gender metaphors, irony and
grammatical deficiencies to fit the literary style.
It is of course very difficult to find appropriate examples for readers unfamiliar with
Turkish. In the following example not grammar, but content and style, is the ‘problem’. One
fisherman had seen a state representative of Somalia in the Kumkapı fish halls in Istanbul.
Addressing a group of fishermen and me around a table in the kahve he commented that:
“Somalia has got a Ministry for fisheries, we have not. We have got a Ministry for cunts
(Somali’nin balıkçılık bakanlığı var, bizim yok. Bizde am bakanlığı var.)”. Here ‘cunt’ is an
ironic reference to Western female tourists, in other words the Ministry for Tourism. This is a
very typical example of the informal verbal creativity and humour among men in the fishing
community (but not among scientists). Such statements are directed at one’s immediate social
context, friends upon whom a man may want to make an impression. Spontaneous creations
of sayings like this are highly cherished and may be asked to be repeated. This oral style is
clearly part of a kind of social intimacy and expression of manhood that shows clear parallels
to the ‘poetics of manhood’ among Cretan mountain dwellers (Herzfeld 1985). The
expression of manhood lies as much in the creativity and style as in the ‘content’ of the
saying. It is not ‘literal’ talk. What makes this style poignant is that it is felt to be ‘our’ style,
and part of what makes it ‘our’ style are the moral barriers against inscribing the genre. It is
‘ours’ since it is couched in a style that the scholars would not like to see in script.
The emphasis on ‘correct’ language is inculcated by the state on many levels of
Turkish society. In school, pupils’ oral language is corrected. During a class in Turkish at a
primary school in Çarşıbaşı I noted that one child was put right by the teacher when he said
that he intended to serve the state. The pupil said yardım (help, assistance), while he should
have said hizmet (service). Yardım is part of the locals’ vocabulary for interpersonal relations
and morality. The educated elite may, however, see this as an expression of introvert ‘mahalle
culture’, and advocate hizmet as a kind of impersonal service that is directed towards the
society, in accordance with ideals of ‘solidarism’. The teacher also corrected every single
dialect deviation from standard Turkish while pupils read poetry. On television there is
relatively little ‘street language’. Even Turkish films are commonly dubbed in order for the
340 CHAPTER 11

language to be correct (standard Istanbul Turkish). Thus people get many messages that their
everyday language is not acceptable in public contexts. Things have become more relaxed
after 1980, with politicians such as Özal employing more popular language and even
embracing ‘folk’ culture such as arabesk music. Many private television channels now freely
broadcast ‘street’ or ‘village’ language. Even so, the hegemony of the learned remains in most
written media. In Norway there would be nothing exceptional about a fisherman’s letter being
published in a newspaper. In Turkey such voices are mediated by the educated, either by a
journalist interviewing the fisherman, or by a columnist excerpting and commenting on letters
from the public.

İskefiye is a big enough place for different kinds of men to come together in fairly
homogenous arenas outside of the ‘village’ context. There are for example a kahve known to
be the stronghold for the most religiously ardent ones, a teachers’ house, new modern-style
hamburger bars for teenagers after school, and so on. In Keremköy most kinds of men still
frequent the same kahve; young and old, educated and uneducated, rich and poor. In the
neighbourhood kahves genuine and ‘real’ interaction among different kinds of people takes
place. However, many young men think that different kinds of life-courses separate people.
Young men complain that mates growing up together part ways and do not remain samimi
(intimate) as they make different experiences and lead different lives. Especially
reading/studying is considered to change people. Thus, although all kinds of young men in the
village come together to play cards or talk football, there is a tendency among the educated
ones to hang together more. The hearts and minds of many have already left the village, only
economy and family relations bind them to the village.
The most common social distinctions applied in the kahve milieu are big versus small-
boat fisherman, and learned (okumuş) versus unlearned (okumamış). But, whereas being
learned carries more weight in the public sphere, in the fishermen’s world formal education
does not count for much. For several weeks In 1990 I joined a boat from Çarşıbaşı that
trawled outside of Samsun. The crew was composed of three brothers (boat owners) as well as
two fellow villagers. The eldest of the brothers had completed lise (eleven years schooling).
Because he went to school he had developed neither skills nor a liking for fishing. One of his
younger brothers was assigned the duty of being reis, and he directed the operations with
authority, even harshly criticising his elder brother. Although the elder brother had passed the
exam for using boat radio, he never used the telephone located in the bridge (or captain’s
cabin). The main symbol of the captain’s authority is the bridge. The elder brother was the
only one on the boat who never went on the bridge, perhaps so as not to accentuate the
implicit role conflict, and his own insufficiency. Being the elder brother and well educated, he
should have been of higher authority than his brother-captain. But in the work environment at
sea things are different. I even heard the elder brother addressing his younger captain-brother
as abi (ağabey, older brother). Book knowledge counts for nothing at sea. As we saw in
Chapter 9, new technology is not approached through texts, by a ‘bookish’ or ‘technology’
 CULTIVATION OF IGNORANCE 341

(Ingold 1993a) approach, but rather through social relations of learning and apprenticeship in
practical engagement with the tasks.

Bureaucrats’ and scientists’ approach to fishermen’s knowledge

How then does the state approach fishermen’s knowledge? First of all, as mentioned in
Chapter 8, scientists and bureaucrats have very little practical experience at sea. There is in
general almost no education directed towards fishermen. Yet, when state representatives do
try to address the skills fishermen have/should have, the approach is very ‘textual’ and
formalistic. To gain the right to pilot the larger boats, the fishermen are required to pass a
‘skippers exam’. Many small-boat fishermen try to pass this exam in order to be eligible for
employment as a skipper on other (non-fishing) boats. The exam is entirely a written/textual
(yazılı) affair, after the same pattern as the university exams, and the result is measured in
points. Candidates have to achieve more that a set amount of points to pass. Fishermen say
that it is memorisation of texts that counts. Their practical knowledge at sea has no relevance
whatsoever in this exam. The belief in schooling as a remedy for all evils is also reflected in a
recent regulation that requires all fishermen to show their primary school (five years) diploma
in order to receive the ‘seamanship wallet’ (gemicilik cüzdanı), a license that entitles the
holder to work at sea. Thus, the state imposes some schooling and book knowledge
requirements of the fishermen, but little is integrated with the practical realities of fishing.
The education at the ‘water produce’ faculties is supposed to produce graduates that can go
into the fishing sector. However, I know no example of this happening. The common
explanation is that those with a higher education are too ‘fine’ to work on boats. Once you
have passed through higher education, expectations of lifestyle do not conform to life on a
fishing boat.
Conclusion

The way the processes of westernisation, modernisation and nationalism were introduced in
Turkey has had far-reaching consequences for the condition of knowledges. The very elitist
and idealistic approach to education, together with its politicisation, has resulted in the neglect
of technical training, a Jacobin approach to societal development, and accusations of
ignorance being readily invoked for explaining all kinds of evils or undesired phenomena.
While many reasons for the failure of the ‘water produce’ cooperatives can be cited, the
bureaucrats and scientists emphasise the fishermen’s lack of education, their ignorance. In the
educated elite’s comments on the failure of the cooperatives, fishermen are construed as
immature, as egoists, and as being non-social. Fishermen do not conform to the ‘scientific’
ideal of a civilised citizen. Defence of scientific objectivism and positivism has importance
not only within science but also in society at large. Advocating a positivist vision of scientific
objectivism is done in opposition to Islam and tradition. For the Kemalist elite the whole
project of modernisation/westernisation/nationalism depends upon this vision of science.
342 CHAPTER 11

Therefore, when marine scientists in Trabzon go to such lengths in order to present

their knowledge as objective, the institutional context of their statements is not only science
proper, but the larger project of Turkish modernisation. To admit to a flaw in the scientific
set-up of a concrete project may amount to opening the door for extensive critique of the
Turkish modernisation project and thereby the authority of the educated elite. In the
metropolis of Istanbul, and among the students and the intellectual elite, there may have been
a tendency to give way on this rigid conception of science and modernisation. But in the
provinces this combining of positivist science, Turkish modernisation, and educated elite still
remains in force. The tragedy in Beşikdüzü shows that this combination is also reproduced at
top state level, with the ambivalent inclusion of orthodox Islam in the set-up. But how is this
framework actually worked and drawn upon in interactions between marine scientists and
fishermen? Do the fishermen passively succumb to such discourse? These are the topics of the
next chapter.
12 FROM CULTIVATION TO
POLITICS AND MORALITIES

It has been my ambition to take heed of the fact that although fishermen and scientists for the
most part live separate lives, they do take part in the same society and the same social system,
especially related to fishery management and other scientised aspects of the fisheries. They
interact indirectly through for example the institutional and procedural frames for the fisheries
as formalised in the Law and the annual circular of regulations. The scientists have a role in
designing the system, as have the fishermen. The system also constitutes an important context
for fishermen’s daily activities. But I am more interested here in how things are played out in
personal face-to-face encounters. How and in what contexts do fishermen and scientists meet?
What kinds of interpersonal interaction are there between them? I have previously touched on
this when I discussed fishermen, scientists and others’ debate about the sonar (Chapter 9), the
fishermen’s participation in scientists’ research cruises (Chapter 10), and when I indicated
how the fisherman’s critical voice was ignored by the ‘expert’ in a symposium meeting about
the cooperatives (Chapter 11). It is notable that in all these cases it was the fishermen that
were drawn into or had to accommodate to the world of bureaucracy and science. In the cases
below it will emerge that scientists bring to situations, and have reconfirmed, their
conceptualisation of fishermen being cahil. The second part of this chapter discusses how
fishermen respond to these claims and how they conceptualise their encounters with, and the
activities of, the scientists cum bureaucrats. This leads to an ethnographically-based
discussion of a very vocal and pervasive discursive trope in Turkey of the latter 1990s: the
accusation of corruption. What does this discourse of ‘morality’ effect?

During fieldwork, especially in the later stays, I often felt as though I was continually
travelling (both physically and mentally) between two worlds. In my experience there were
very few situations in daily life that brought scientists and fishermen together in personal
interaction. Also, outside of a ‘capacity’ as scientist or fisherman, there are few situations in
which they meet as neighbour or friend. These are important observations in themselves.
Since there generally is little interaction, I have not observed much of it. However, the few
encounters I did observe were very illuminating. I will mention some of them here and
describe one in detail. In addition I will address the meeting of different lifestyles and
lifeworlds by focusing on persons that are involved or situated in some way or another in both

343
344 CHAPTER 12

fishing communities and local science. In these cases it will become evident how much those
who are educated emphasise precisely the importance of being educated and commanding a
particular lifestyle.

Individuals at the interface

In Chapter 8 I sketched briefly the importance of certain styles and manners in the articulation
of elite status among scientists. As a counterpoint to the last section in the previous chapter
(on fishermen and formal education), I will here indicate the pivotal importance of some
lifestyle aspects, notably education and cultivation, for individuals at the interface between
the worlds of fishing and academia. There are few who know both worlds, but I was lucky to
get to know a few interesting persons whose life-courses and/or daily lives span both the
world of the fishing communities and the marine sciences. One is a retired university lecturer
at Sürmene MSF who grew up in the Faroz fishing community in Trabzon. His father was a
lower state memur, while his grandfather and uncles were fishermen. He spent his youth both
at sea and at school and eventually graduated from Istanbul University. He was posted as a
teacher at several places in Turkey before he was called upon to become a lecturer at Sürmene
MSF. He then resettled in Faroz. He was, and is, an active diver - a skill he also taught at
Sürmene.
When I got to know him he had a small shop with fishing tackle and other equipment
for small-boat fishermen and amateur fishermen, on the main road running through Faroz. He
is a very talkative and likeable man and has friends in both camps. He is able to look at both
at some distance, and I have profited immensely from conversations with him, especially
from his ability to articulate aspects of the fisheries and its history. However, both in the
fishing community and in his own self-presentation, his identity and practice as university
lecturer seems to take pre-eminence. Fishermen address him and talk about him as hoca and
he himself stresses that the fishermen are uneducated and cahil. He also champions the
scientific approach in front of them, to the irritation of many fishermen who see this as a kind
of arrogance. Although he is sceptical of much of science, I cannot see that he tries to
advocate fishermen’s knowledges in the scientific environment. In addition to siding with
scientific knowledge, his lifestyle is conspicuously ‘cultivated’. He speaks a beautiful Istanbul
Turkish and he and his family live a typical ‘Western, liberal’ life (wife ‘uncovered’, daughter
active in sports, etc.).
The scientists at Sürmene MSF had understood that I studied interactions and
differences between scientists and fishermen. During one of my visits they arranged for me to
meet a student who came from a fishing community near Trabzon. I interviewed the boy in
the office of one of the scientists. The father of the boy used to be a memur, but had taken up
small-boat fishing after retirement. The student worked as fisherman, including diving for
seasnails. I asked him about the difference between the knowledges of science and fishing. He
said that science looks at details, have other names for fish, while fishermen name fish
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 345

according to folk language (halk ağız ile, ‘with the folk mouth’). When I said midye (as
fishermen do for the seasnail), he did not understand. He by all probability was familiar with
the fishermen’s usage of the term but in the context of the University got confused. He
himself, he stressed, looks to science, “fishermen are cahil (Kendim bilime bakiyorum, balıkçı
cahil)”. When I asked him about his opinion about why there is overfishing, he promptly
responded “it’s because of the [state of] ignorance (cahillıktan)”. He spoke a very pure
Istanbul Turkish, almost totally purged of dialect. He wanted to continue studying to become
a scientist. Fishing would be last resort.
A doktora student of marine sciences in Trabzon with origins in a fishing community
near Trabzon received all his education in Trabzon. He had had to work during his
undergraduate education in order to secure a living. Not being from a very educated family
and not going away to a prestige university had restricted his socialisation into ‘educated’
lifestyle. In contrast to most scientists he has a much more jocular style, is more ‘physical’,
and has retained most of his native dialect. He himself seems to be conscious of this and has
the courage to stand up for it. However, although liked by most, one other marine scientist –
during a discussion with me about the meaning of the concepts okumuş (‘having read’) and
eğitimli (‘educated’) – mentioned him as an example of a person who even though he is
okumuş, is less eğitimli than many other scientists at the university. She said that his
perspective (bakış) is not very broad. This is a clear demonstration that eğitim is taken to
mean more than the formal training. It includes certain perspectives and tastes.
These three brief cases indicate how the ‘academic’ part of their selves tends to take
predominance. It constitutes in a way the primary place from where they can view other
aspects of their lives, and the part that they prefer to present to the world, as it is the one that
confers most prestige. These cases, especially the last, show that ‘being educated’ is regarded
not simply as acquiring some professional skill, but should imply a total transformation of the
individual and is to be expressed in a whole lifestyle. In Chapter 8 I indicated that such
lifestyle qualities were important in creating a barrier for scientists against participation in the
lives of fishermen. The following detailed case concerning a young female scientist at
Sürmene MSF demonstrates that being an academician is a question of lifestyle and that the
gulf between academic and the kaba (coarse) and ‘unclean’ taşra/köylü (provincial/villager) is
experienced as being huge.

‘Deniz’ (pseudonym) was born as a poor villager in a coastal rural area in Trabzon in the early
1960s and has a fascinating life story. I had met her on several occasions and had had
glimpses of her life. On my request she told me (in her office) her life story. The taped
interview is rather long (1½ hours) and I regret that I can only include parts of it here. She
started out in her near fluent English, but almost immediately switched to Turkish.
While Deniz’ mother came from a somewhat wealthy (öyle biraz varlıklı) family, her
father was very poor and went to Germany to work180. In practice she came from a broken

180
That was one of the few options open (at that time) for men without fields, education or connections.
346 CHAPTER 12

home. But she was a good pupil and the teacher wanted her to continue her schooling. Her
mother, however, would not let her; she wanted her help in the fields and in looking after the
cows. When the day came to sign on for junior high (orta) school around the age of twelve,
she protested when her mother did not want to let her go. “No matter how successful I was, it
did not matter. Then I realised that I would have to fight.” Together with her elder brother she
went for the first time beyond the small market town close to their village, to a larger town
nearby, to have her photograph taken. “When I started at the junior high school, the city
(şehir) dwellers – well, although not yet a city, even though only a small town (kasaba) – the
children of the families living there saw those coming from the villages as small (küçük
görürler), in other words they were looking at our clothes, they looked down on us
(küçümselerdi). I was fighting that.” She was lucky because she was seated next to the
daughter of the school director. Deniz helped the director’s daughter with the homework and
in return she got Deniz accepted among the other pupils. “Yes, the rich children went [to the
middle school], the children of the poor families could not go. Or, more correctly, their
families did not send them. Then, there was also the culture issue (kültür konusu). It was
difficult, but I was a successful pupil.”
Already during the fifth grade she had entered the exam for a boarding high school
(yatılı lise) in Istanbul. At the beginning of the second grade of the middle school she
received the news that she had ‘won’ the right to study at the lise in Istanbul. Again, her
family did not want her to go. “ ‘You have only been once to the town [where she had her
photo taken]’. Once more I put up a fight. I realised that if I read here, no matter how
successful I might be, I could not win [the right to enter] the university. … The quality of the
school…, the teachers may be good, but how good? I thought that there [at the boarding
school] the opportunities will not be similar, and I put up a fight, I opposed my mother. … I
did not envisage a very important job, but I did want to have a job (iş), to have some power
(güç sahibi olmak), to acquire the ‘right to talk’ (söz sahibi olabilmek), to have material
(maddi) opportunities in accordance with this, I wanted to win my independence
(bağımsızlık), and I fought for that.” As she left for Istanbul her mother tried to stop her by
throwing herself in front of the bus.
The first month at the boarding school in Istanbul was difficult. There were people
from many places, and even more than in the junior high school people looked down on her.
But she had luck on her side. With regard to clothes, they used school uniform (or rather a
‘cover’ or apron, önlük). Speech was very important, but she rapidly and easily picked up the
‘Istanbul accent’. She stayed. The educational level was very high, “so advanced that the
English teacher never spoke Turkish.” The school was so good that she managed to ‘win’
university even without having attended dershane (see Chapter 8). “The school was very
disciplined. The political atmosphere was very bad [this was the end of the 1970s]. I lived far
away from that. For five years on end I lived behind closed gates.” When making her choices
of universities and studies, she was greatly aided by her “successful and efendi (gentlemanly)

Another option would have been to sign on as crew on a fishing boat.

 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 347

dayı (maternal uncle)” who was living in Trabzon. She was persuaded to apply for the
university in Trabzon. She had become fond of painting and music and wanted to study that.
But she realised that the employment opportunities were very limited. She ended up with a
priority list that had architecture at Karadeniz Technical University (KTÜ) at top, forestry at
KTÜ at second, and biology teacher at the Education Faculty in Trabzon as third choice. She
got the third, started her studies, and came to like her new profession.
Although the lise in Istanbul formed a very closed or segregated milieu, she “picked
up some culture” there, for instance she began wearing trousers. “When I returned to Trabzon
and went to the village I did not wear trousers, and it was necessary to cover my hair. Even
when arriving in Trabzon [city] I covered my hair. I just didn’t want to ‘open up’ [açılmak,
uncover] all of a sudden here.” She wanted to wait until others little by little started to
uncover and wear trousers. “Because I knew that also after me families would send their
daughters away to schools, and so it happened [mentions examples].” She became an
example, and it was important that the villagers did not find anything to criticise. She was
especially stringent as regarded contact with men since this was very important from the
perspective of honour (namus). The villagers found that she had not changed (she also
switched back to native dialect). But she could not enjoy her youth (gençliğimi
yaşayamadım). That was her first sacrifice (fedakârlık). Her second sacrifice was giving up
the arts. In Trabzon both her dayı as well as her maternal grandfather, a very pious man, gave
her some financial support. At the university she was among the five best. She also, unusual
for women, got responsibilities such as being class head (sınıf başkanı). “I was not timid
(çekingen) in front of men.” She had learned in Istanbul to talk to men, and to persons of
higher standing. “There I learned how I can defend myself, to speak for myself, to not be
restrained (çekinmeme), to be relaxed (rahat). Thanks to my friends in Istanbul, thanks to the
milieu (çevre) there.”
She was urged to apply for a position as ‘research employee’ at Sürmene MSF when
the position was announced. Also here her being a woman was an issue, but since she was the
only one who passed the exams, she had no competition and got the position. Two years later
a series of coincidences suddenly left open a YÖK scholarship for PhD study abroad and she
was asked to go. Again the family opposed the move, and, again, she went anyway. She
successfully completed her PhD abroad, had her first boyfriends, realised that Islam was
important to her and returned with more confidence: “The family culture that I had earlier
acquired, that was given me, restricted me in doing certain things. That I could never break
and throw away. Well, perhaps I wanted to throw it away, but something restricted me. This
continues. In other words, be as free as you possibly can, but some things restrict your
behaviour. Perhaps my family also knew this, but I am not sure. After I returned here from
abroad, it was as if some things finally opened up, everybody accepted it, I could easily go on
holiday on my own, I could dress as I wanted…it did not bring any criticism.”
During her first years as a ‘research employee’ before she went abroad she started to
wear a bathing suit (mayo) when swimming. The social circle (çevre) was very modern,
348 CHAPTER 12

everybody used mayo. However, she wore shorts over the mayo, she could not manage
otherwise. They made fun of her (dalga geçtiler), joked about it. Several years later, when
Deniz was back from her studies abroad, one of those modern women who criticised her then,
wanted to wear shorts over her mayo. Deniz then joked about it, said it was comical (komik)
and shameful (ayıp) and reminded her of her earlier criticism, which the ‘modern’ woman did
not remember. “That woman felt uneasy (rahatsız) there. Why did she feel uneasy? Because
she had lived for a long time in Trabzon. There was something about the life (yaşam) in
Trabzon. For example, another very close (samimi) female friend. She studied in Istanbul, her
father is from Izmir, Giresun [on the Black Sea coast] is a somewhat modern place, she lived
there. Her father was [medical] doctor. She was the daughter of a modern family, but here [in
Trabzon] she did not manage to dress very open (açık).” She stresses that she herself had
acquired the ability to ‘open’ by fighting for it. She knows both societies (toplumlar), the
different cultures (kültür) and can assess how things are seen from both an open (açık) and a
closed/covered (kapalı) perspective. “ Since they [the modern ones] have been raised
exclusively within one culture (kültür), they feel a desire to imitate others, sometimes they
strive to exaggerate (özenti duyuyorlar, bazen çok aşırı yapmayı çalışıyorlar).”
We touched on religion, and she stated that she is a very religious (dindar) person.
“Very few know that I am religious. That’s because someone who [only] looks at the outside
appearance would assume that I in my lifetime haven’t made the namaz prayer. But I may
have made the namaz many more times than that person. I also keep the fast (oruç). In my life
I have skipped the fast only one time, and that was during my first year abroad. I do this
because I believe. It’s a thing between me and God (Tanrı).”… “I am both a Muslim
(Müslüman) and an Atatürkist, even a passionate Atatürkist (koyu bir Atatürkçüyüm).
Anyway, this was really what Atatürk wanted.” She mentions the well-known principles of
laicism, that religion and state should be separate and that belief is a private matter. This
reference to laicism is a defence of her belief, and she concludes the issue with “some of my
friends ask me ‘as a scientists, how can you believe?’ Yes, that criticism [was levelled against
me]. But I reached a decision by thinking, not by being influenced by anyone.”
Towards the end of our conversation, I brought her attention to the distance between
the scientists and the fishermen. We had talked about this before and she recapitulated and
elaborated some of her points. She admits that the fishermen with their extensive experience
(tecrübe) may make extensive observations, but the difference, she says, lies in the fact that
scientists ask about the reasons (nedenleri) and study them in detail. On the idea of having
better communication between fishermen and scientist, on the scientists better being able to
serve the fishermen, she says that fishermen could request education (eğitim). They may for
example organise a ‘fishermen education programme’ at Sürmene MSF. But she does not
have much belief that this could come true. Either the state must perceive the need, or the
fishermen must request it. But the fishermen think that they are educated, they do not believe
that they are uneducated (eğitimsiz). And, when it comes to the state, “those in the leadership,
because they have come there of political reasons, think as ignorant persons (cahil düşünen
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 349

insanlar). At that level nobody thinks about the state (Devletini düşünen insanlar şu etapta
yok).”

Her life history illustrates what hurdles had to be cleared, what sacrifices (violate bond with
family, no youth) had to be made to make this improbable transformation from poor village
girl to top academician. She sees this transformation as an acquisition of modern culture, a
modern lifestyle. The mapping of culture/town/rich versus ignorance/village/poor is apparent
already at junior high school. Education is that which enabled her to ‘achieve’ another
lifestyle, the modern lifestyle. The modern lifestyle is a package of traits that goes together:
having a medical doctor as father, higher education, being açık and rahat, wearing trousers
and mayo. On the other side of the divide there are, among other things, lifestyle traits such as
being kapalı (‘closed’, being covered) and namus (modest). Geography is also part of the
staging, with Istanbul and Izmir being centres of modernity, and Giresun on the Black Sea
coast qualifying as modern in that regional context. Here the whole west/Istanbul/modern
versus East/Anatolia/traditional opposition comes into play, not as poles within a continuum,
but - in her own words - as two different cultures. The same opposition is copied at regional
Black Sea level, with an increasing degree of modernity as one goes from Rize towards
Samsun. Islam is often also part of this mapping, but Deniz departs somewhat from this. Her
belief is the kind of belief that is accommodated to the ‘modern’ Turk.
The change of lifestyle has not been easy for Deniz. She has had to make many
sacrifices along her way. Moreover, as acquiring ‘culture’ has implied such things as new
ways of dressing (wearing trouser as ‘picking up culture’), there has been bodily resistance
against embodying the culture. It probably never would have been possible without her re-
socialisation in the ‘total institution’, the closed girls lise in Istanbul, during a very formative
phase in her life. In order to become cultivated, she had to both adopt a new body hexis, and
at the same time, when visiting the village, make sure to behave according to ‘traditional’
ideals of female decency. The high quality state-sponsored lise is open only to a very few
from the poorer classes. The military high school (same grades as lise) similarly recruits and
re-socialises young men. A large number (perhaps three fourths) of the pupils come from
families that otherwise would not be able to finance their children’s education (Birand 1991).
But it is only a minority of the poorer classes that becomes re-socialised in such state high
schools.
What all this again demonstrates is that education is not only about ‘knowledge’ and is
not only an intellectual transformation, but also a transformation of ways of living. That was
also Deniz’s motive for continuing her education. It was not yearning for knowledge, but the
desire to make for herself a kind of life other than that her mother had that motivated her. She
wanted to be master of her own life. Her achievement would not have been possible without
her own determination and courage and her willingness to make sacrifices. Since the
education, broadly conceived, is something that she herself has achieved through individual
effort, she may be particularly inclined to emphasise the importance of education. She has
350 CHAPTER 12

been socialised into a world that makes her see education as the solution to all kinds of
problems. For instance, she believes that fishermen and scientists can come closer to one
another by fishermen receiving ‘water produce’ education. And the politicians are bad
because they are cahil.

Encounters

The state-organised structure for the stimulation and control of the fisheries requires that
fishermen have sporadic contact with the bureaucracy. Fishermen will sometimes need to visit
the provincial bureaucracy to see to matters such as a personal license for fishing and licenses
for their boats. Larger boats must be registered with one of the harbour offices. The ‘harbour
chief’ (Liman başkanı) closest to Çarşıbaşı is found in Vakfıkebir. Some fishermen seem to
develop good informal relations with this chief, but he has little or no importance in fishery
management questions. Also, fishermen will sometimes at sea, in the harbour, or at the fish
hall encounter officials from the Province Control and Protection Agency. The only officials
that boat-owners go to see in İskefiye are the bank clerks in the local branch of the
Agricultural Bank. Most boat owners call upon the branch once a year to arrange for the
annual low interest rate credit that the state supplies specifically for the fisheries. These clerks
are also state employees, and the fishermen usually have no regular contact with them.
All in all, for most fishermen the presence of the state fishery bureaucracy and marine
science representatives in their daily life is negligible. But as became evident in Chapter 6,
owners of the largest family fishing companies, cooperative leaders (often, but not always the
same persons), ‘water produce’ factory owners, as well as large kabzımal/fish traders fairly
often visit or make telephone calls to bureaucrats both within the region and in Ankara. Now
and then they may also call upon a scientist, but that is not very common. According to the
scientists at Sürmene MSF most of the people that approach them are small-scale freshwater
fish farmers. They only come when an operation runs into difficulties (‘why did the fish
die?’). In general, the encounters fishermen have with officials seldom involve scientists.
They are more likely to meet scientists when the scientists approach the fishermen, usually
through visits to their harbours or kahves, or occasionally through scientists ‘signing on’ a
fishing boat for a defined period for research reasons. However, fishermen are generally
unable to see any difference between the bureaucrats and the scientists whom they usually
subsume under the category ‘water produce’ (su ürünleri, i.e. ‘water produce’ bureaucrats)
and generally regard as memur of the state.

Formal meetings
The Control and Protection Directorate organises regional meetings once a year with the
fishermen. Thus, there is annually one possibility for the fishermen in the Black Sea region to
attend a meeting in their own area. However, only cooperative leaders and/or ‘big’ fishermen
(and factory owners) attend these meetings. As I understand it scientists are generally not
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 351

present. Printed reports show that fishermen have also been represented and taken part in
panels and symposiums. They have voiced their opinions in an astute and critical way. Yet,
they have seldom been called upon to give a presentation on a certain topic; that is done by
the ‘experts’. Fishermen’s involvement has been limited to discussions; they ask questions
and occasionally participate in panels. Fishermen’s attitudes to such meetings seem to be
ambivalent. On the one hand they say that such meetings are only a formality (formalite) that
produce no results. Many say that such meetings are none of their business. On the contrary,
what they actually say at such meetings indicates that they see them as occasions for
presenting their needs and requests to state representatives, especially as pertains credit and
infrastructure. I have never participated in these meetings. My fishermen friends hardly knew
about them, and did not care anyway. ‘It’s not of my business’ (İşim olmaz). I have only
participated in two formal meetings where fishermen were present. At the first, an
international conference in Istanbul in 1991 about the ‘Ecological Problems and Economic
Potentials of the Black Sea’, only one fisherman was present (despite the desire of the
organisers to have more fishermen there). The one there, a rich fisherman and leader of a
cooperative association, told me that he was compelled (zorlanmak) to come. But he was
afraid of creating a scandal (rezillik). The rich and well-educated members of the ‘Black Sea
Foundation’ (Karadeniz Vakfı) that organised the conference acknowledged that fishermen
did not want to be present because they did not feel themselves to be sufficiently learned and
cultivated.
The scientific meeting FISHECO’98 in Trabzon gathered scientists, primarily from the
Black Sea countries, for a three day conference. The meeting included a panel discussion that
was in the conference program entitled ‘Multi-Factorial Changes in Marine Ecosystems: The
Case of Black Sea’181. The organisers (scientists at Sürmene MSF) wanted to have fishermen
present during the panel discussions and therefore sent an invitation to the cooperative in
Faroz. The invitation was signed by the dekan and worded relatively plainly, in other words
not very elaborately or formally. It said that ‘we want to see you among us’. Interestingly, in
the letter sent to the fishermen, the title of the panel was rendered ‘Black Sea Fisheries and its
Problems’ (Karadeniz Balıkçılığı ve Sorunları). Only around ten fishermen showed up: the
cooperative leaders from Faroz and Akçaabat together with some elderly fishermen. The
panel included scientists from Turkey and other Black Sea countries as well as the leading
‘water produce’ industrialist in Trabzon. All presentations were translated so that everything
was presented in both English and Turkish.
The expressed intention of the panel was to discuss the problems, and the
presentations were to be followed by questions from the audience. However, the men on the
panel, especially the Turkish ones, spent so much time on their presentations that there was
little time left for questions and discussion. All the translations of course compounded the
problem. Many left during the presentations, including several of the fishermen. There was

181
In the proceedings the title of the panel was given as ‘Ecological Problems of the Black Sea and
Solutions’.
352 CHAPTER 12

only time for one question. Before the panel proper started, however, organisers wanted to
‘honour’ some of the ‘producers’ of ‘water produce’ for their efforts. Accordingly plakets
(plaquette, a common practice in Turkey) were presented to a ‘water produce’ industrialist,
four or five fish farmers, and six fishermen. It was more than evident that the organisers
(scientists) wanted to convey some kind of ‘inclusiveness’, but my impression is that the
fishermen were drawn in as a kind of alibi, so that the scientists could demonstrate that they
care and listen to the fishermen. It probably was a genuine and honest attempt at
acknowledging the ‘producers’, but their presence at the panel discussion hardly had the
desired effect.
I sat together with the fishermen, several of whom I knew, during the panel. They
were very restless, talked together a lot, and several left in the middle of the presentations.
The abstract topics of the presentations could not rise their interest. I suggested to Ahmet, the
leader of the Faroz cooperative, that he should have been on the panel. He agreed and told me
that this was initially the intention, but in the final program he was taken out. When the panel
finally came to an end, Ahmet turned towards me: “Didn’t I tell you, it’s only formalities (o
sadece formalite)”. One of the organisers (a scientist) of the conference approached Ahmet
afterwards. He was irritated because so few fishermen and fish farmers had shown up. “All
these translations only for you…” he complained. Ahmet tried to explain to him that it was a
very bad time for fishermen. All the big teams had just started the season, palamut had arrived
and the small-boat fishermen were eager to go to sea to secure a good spot (the panel took
place in the late afternoon, see Chapter 5).
The fishermen’s presence during the panel was therefore not an expression of pre-
existing relations and cooperation. Neither did it contribute to any exchange of information or
views. Rather, it only worked to confirm pre-existing (mutual) stereotypes. It was also notable
that the fishermen who do have political influence were not present during the panel
discussion. Ahmet tries to create lines of dialogue between bureaucrats and fishermen. But in
this case fishermen were called in by the scientists only as tokens, symbols that intended to
convey to the world a picture in accordance with the bureaucratic ideal of dialogue and
cooperation. The fishermen of course realised this, and as acts of mute resistance most of
them left during the panel presentations. It had been hard for Ahmet to convince them to
come in the first place. The fishermen did not feel especially honoured by their reception of
the plakets.

Visiting an istasyon/an unwelcome memur

A research project at Trabzon WPRI included eleven stations along the Black Sea coast that
the researchers tried to visit four times a year. Çarşıbaşı was one of these stations, and Ömer
(pseudonym), researcher on the project, wanted to come there when I was around during the
spring of 1998 because he thought he might benefit from my ‘good relations with the
fishermen’. We arranged a date, and he told me that he intended to come with another
researcher on the project and stay the entire morning. They arrived at 7.00 a.m., earlier than
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 353

expected while I was still at sea lifting whiting nets with Keremköy fishermen Metin and his
father. When we arrived at the harbour Ömer was already busy interviewing the fishermen on
another small fishing boat. He had arrived by one of the Institute cars together with a driver
and a (passive) assistant. The other researcher on the project did not come. He was busy
finalising a report on another project. For the study Ömer wanted to take all the fish Metin
and his father had caught. Ömer asked what it would cost at market. Metin said that it might
be 300.000 TL a kilo, and estimated it to be six kilos (a moderate estimate, at sea he said it
might be eight kilos. In addition the fish were relatively large and would probably have
cached more than 300.000 TL a kilo). Ömer gave them 2 MTL (approximately US$ 8).
We then all assembled in the cabin (kamara) of the boat Ömer had already boarded. I
knew all the fishermen fairly well, and they knew me. I kept a low profile and said almost
nothing, feeling ill at ease with this unusual double set of allegiances. Ömer did not know any
of the fishermen, and none of the fishermen gave the impression of having seen Ömer before.
There was not much in the way of greetings or formal introductions. The encounter had all in
all a very businesslike character. Ömer stressed that he had a form that he was to fill in. The
form contained parameters such as: name of boat owner, name of boat, length, engine HP,
gear/tool used today, mesh width, length of fishing trip (hours), how often this particular type
of fishing was undertaken, other kinds of fishing engaged in, catch, estimated sales value (for
fisherman, for fishmonger) of catch. He first filled in the form for Metin, which was a fairly
straightforward business. They gave the right answer concerning mesh width (20 and 22
mm.), then turned to me when the issue of the length of the fishing trip was raised.
But there were some misunderstandings. Ömer asked whether they had used uzatma
nets. This left the fishermen confused. The fishermen usually apply this term to the long
floating gillnets, normally wide meshed, that they use to catch palamut and other large pelagic
fish (see Chapters 3 and 5). They do not use uzatma to catch whiting. ‘Didn’t this man even
know what nets catch what kinds of fish?’ However, the term uzatma is used differently
among scientists. For them it is a generic that includes all kinds of ‘common’ passive nets that
are set straight, including the bottom nets that are used to capture whiting182. Further
confusion arose when Metin was telling about the other kinds of fishing they usually to do
and said that they also were dredging for midye (‘mussel’, here meaning seasnail). Ömer did
not understand this at first, and they could only proceed after they had agreed that they were
talking about deniz salyangozu (seasnail).
Filling in the form for the other boat proved much more difficult. They had started
before I arrived. Ömer had seen the plastic bags on deck filled with fish such as whiting,
flounder and turbot, and had written on his form that they had been fishing with molozma (a
‘catch all’ bottom trammelnet, see Chapter 5). It was evident to me, however, that they had
been trawling illegally. Otter boards (kapı, ‘door’, to keep the trawl open) and the trawl net
were stuffed away somewhere. But the rigging and the coils of thick rope on deck clearly

182
The other generic terms being sürütme (trawls etc.) and çevirme (encircling) nets (TWPRI 1992:70-
71).
354 CHAPTER 12

showed what they had been up to (could have been dredging for seasnails, but that season had
not started yet). Most of the catch probably had already been dispatched to Trabzon. The
fishermen were very vague when giving information, preferring to answer in the general and
not giving details about that night’s trip.
Ömer tried to explain that he did this research to benefit the fishermen: ‘in order to
manage the fish resources better, we must first acquire knowledge about today’s condition’.
Touching on the issue of illegal trawling, he maintained that fishermen should be better at
policing one other. He received no answer to this. One fisherman started to talk about the
‘expensive’ credit, complaining to Ömer as if he were responsible. Fishermen clearly saw him
as a state representative, and did not perceive any difference between him and those policing
the fishing. Neither did Ömer clarify his own position. One of the men on the boat that had
been trawling, a 19 year old from Burunbaşı, asked Ömer “did you ask us whether we have
got bread at home? (sordun mu, evde ekmek var mı?)”. Although this is a very common
expression of poverty among fishermen and other ‘villagers’, Ömer did not understand, and
the young man had to explain that “we stay hungry (aç kalıyoruz)”. I had known this young
man since he was a boy. He comes from one of the poorest families in Çarşıbaşı and took up
fishing very early on to earn some money. He was now working as crew on the only small
boat in Çarşıbaşı that was not operated by its owner (a small entrepreneur). Although he
probably did not lack bread at home, he was nontheless ‘justified’ in raising the question. As a
response, Ömer stressed that they had to think about tomorrow.
Other small-boat fishermen arrived, and the encounter soon developed into a tirade of
complaints, focusing especially on the harmful nature of the sonar. After a little while Ömer
became fed up. He turned sour and shut off the discussion. Instead he directed attention to a
more immediate concern: the fish on the deck. He wanted samples from the ‘molozma’ catch,
but the fishermen claimed that they had put it aside for a friend. Ömer first politely requested
it (rica ediyorum), maintaining that their friend could get fish from some other friend. The
fishermen still resisted (the promise to the friend probably being real plus the added fear that
the fish might be used as evidence of trawling). Ömer had had enough. “Now it’s enough. I
must use some of my bureaucratic authority (memur emrim).” He then, after some more
‘haggling’, got the larger of the two bags. He was to send the money for the fish with the crew
of the Institute research vessel since they were living in Çarşıbaşı. It was only 8.30 a.m. when
Ömer and his team left for the Institute. He needed time to do the analyses of the samples.

As in the previous case, this encounter seemed to enforce existing antagonisms. Fishermen
saw Ömer primarily as a memur, a state representative. They feared that he could be an agent
of supervision, but they also saw him, in the capacity as state representative, as ‘responsible’.
They therefore bombarded him with questions and criticism. Ömer himself wavered a little
between a scientific and bureaucratic identity, but when things got tense it was the
bureaucratic approach that came to the fore. When I later met Ömer he lamented how cahil
and uncivilised the fishermen were. The encounter had not stimulated any degree of
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 355

‘intersubjective’ sharing. Catherine Alexander’s ethnography of sugar production in Erzurum

provides an interesting contrast. In discussing the sugar contracts between the state factories
and villagers in Erzurum, she points out how it is in the interest of both the agricultural
engineers, who represent the factory, and the villagers to cooperate in a flexible manner to
ensure a consummation of the contract.

Knowing that the farmers accepted advice more readily when they felt a bond or connection
with the visiting engineer, Bayram would enact familiar roles of respect to facilitate the sense
of intimacy…[T]he engineers would visit some farmers for lunch, or take their wives with
them, all of which encouraged the farmers to trust them as individuals rather than faceless
representatives of the factory (Alexander 1997:188).

Such close and friendly interaction between state representatives and ‘villagers’ is hardly
found in the fisheries (although there are exceptions). Not unexpectedly, as a result of the
frequent and polite interaction that Alexander describes, the villagers speak of the engineers
(as well as workers at the factory) with great affection and respect. “This last was due, in part
to the farming origin of all the engineers of which they made great play but also by the
readiness of the çavuş [here: local agricultural experts without formal training working for the
factory] and engineers to show respect themselves to village custom and hierarchies”
(Alexander 1997:189). In contrast the marine scientists play on local culture to a lesser
degree. They do not depend on continued interaction with the fishermen. Neither can they
capitalise on some shared occupational or (quasi-) lifestyle background (origin) with
fishermen. Except for the few powerful big boat fishermen, most fishermen seem to try to
avoid interaction with state representatives. For many it may be an advantage for the
fishermen that scientists are not familiar with their practice. The scientists’ ignorance makes it
easier to go about business unhindered and, for example, pursue illegal trawling or dredging.
There is so little interaction that even basic vocabulary (midye/deniz salyangozu, uzatma) is
not shared.
There are some examples of marine scientists who have shared more of their lives with
the fishermen. A few men have spent considerable time on purse seiners during seasons in
order to gather material for their research on pelagic fish. These men generally have a much
more nuanced understanding of the fishermen’s lives and are much more respected among the
fishermen since they ‘know the practice’. In the same vein Alexander (1997:205) tells that
agricultural engineers that were known to have practical experience from agriculture were
more popular than other engineers. While there are no ‘water produce’ officials living or
working in Çarşıbaşı, there is an office for agricultural affairs at the District Administration in
İskefiye, and agricultural engineers mingle with the local population in kahves in the town
(though not in Keremköy).
The small-boat fisherman Şaban often hangs out with an agricultural engineer. Şaban
used to make fun of him, grabbing his hand and showing it to the ‘audience’. ‘Look what
clean hands he has got. They have never been in the soil, they are women’s hands.’ The
engineer did not reply. He was not as skilled at this ‘poetics of manhood’ as Şaban. While this
356 CHAPTER 12

may be perceived as an incisive critique, it is also a statement of affection and friendship. The
ambivalence of such interpersonal teasing is nicely summed up in one man’s comment on a
man ‘hitting’ a mate: “Yes, that’s it. Strike your very best friend! (Evet, işte, en iyi arkadaşına
vur!)” There may be aspects of fisheries in general that work as ‘natural’ barriers against
scientist’s and bureaucrats’ participation in them. The fisheries to an extent greater than
agriculture constitutes an alien physical context: it is less accessible, involves more travel,
lacks regulated work hours, and so forth. In Turkey this difference is exacerbated by the lack
of a local fisheries bureaucracy. The bureaucrat is not a ‘familiar face’, not a friend to tease.

Fishermen’s response: ‘we are unconscious, they’re corrupt’

Ignorance and unconsciousness

Fishermen are aware of the accusations levelled against them that they are cahil (see e.g. case
under ‘Idealistic elite, ignorant people’, Chapter 11). How do the fishermen respond? What
accusations do they make? Rather than accepting that they are cahil, fishermen tend to say
that they behave bilinçsiz (‘unconscious’), for example when they engage in illegal trawling.
Alternatively, they may state that they involve themselves in bilinçsiz catching when they
catch too much hamsi. It has been a challenge for me to understand the import of this widely
used concept. In many contexts it seems to be used synonymously with cahil. However,
bilinçsiz is often explained as ‘not thinking about the future’ (geleceği düşünmemek) and
being irresponsible (sorumlusuz). Thus, a man behaves bilinçsiz when he knows that trawling
is harmful, but still does it. The capacity to be bilinçli (conscious, have foresight) is seen as a
kind of knowledge, emanating from education. I spoke with a schoolteacher in Çarşıbaşı
about this. He explained bilinçsiz as ‘not thinking about the day tomorrow’. He agreed with
me that it is not the same as bilgi (knowledge). A few moments later I asked him whether
bilinçsiz is the same as cahil. He answered in the affirmative and added that fishermen are
very bilgisiz (lack knowledge, not knowledgeable).
We may say that the fishermen have internalised a hegemonic discourse, the elite
discourse about education as necessary for conscious, coordinated action, about the privileged
position of written knowledge. Fishermen acknowledge that they have little education and
regret that their lack of schooling limits their vision and ability to cooperate with others.
Small-boat fishermen in Keremköy told me that “since the fisherman lack education, he does
not think about the future (tahsil olmadığı dolaysıyla balıkçı geleceği düşünmüyor)”.
Remember also the former cooperative leader who held that fishermen cannot manage to
cooperate because they lack reason (akıl), because they are cahil (Chapter 11). Does this
internalisation of the elite discourse make alternative interpretations impossible? No, but they
may be muted somewhat in certain contexts. Also, fishermen’s interpretations and
perspectives are not wholly congruent with the elite perspective. They typically talk about
being bilinçsiz, not about being cahil.
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 357

For fishermen, bilinçli can lose its association with book knowledge. Once when I was
at sea lifting turbot nets with Nailon (see Chapter 4) he said that turbot nets can be placed
close together because the fish do not wander very much. Also, they hide in the sand. “Don’t
you read that?” he asked. I replied that I was no technical expert. He thought a little, and then
said, “the sea cannot be learned from books, only when doing the practice. But you will have
to be bilinçli when doing the practice.” Right afterwards, however, he went on to emphasise
that he was very bilgili (knowledgeable), in for example geography and history. “I know”
(Ben bilirim). He claimed that in his time they learned just as much geography at primary
school as they do at lise today. During a conversation with another fisherman about the
harmfulness of some fishing practices, he said that “the fishermen know, but are unconscious,
irresponsible (biliyor, ama bilinçsiz, sorumlusuz)”. About the practical knowledge of kuyus
another small-boat fisherman said that, “it is not a conscious knowledge (bilinçli bir bilgi
değil)”.
Note that in this native discourse, reason and reflection are seen as possible without
extensive schooling. However, underlying this may be an idea that there is a difference
between the ‘practical’ knowledge (tecrübe) and the knowledge that they are aware of, the
reflexive knowledge that they can reason about. And, it is this last kind of knowledge that can
be elaborated and extended in formal education. In Chapter 10 I argued that fishermen tend to
stress a model of knowledge that gives priority to experience (tecrübe) and externalisation in
terms of body metaphors. However, this description can now be seen to be somewhat
simplistic. When fishermen speak about the kind of knowledge they command they use the
concepts bilgi, bilgili (knowledge, knowledgeable), but also tecrübe, yaşamak, görmek
(experience, living, seeing). This last set of categories they view as opposite to tahsil
(education, Arabic concept). There certainly seems to be a degree of ambivalence here, a
switching back and forth from a model derived from scriptural or bookish definition of
knowledge (bilgi) to an alternative model of knowledge (tecrübe, body metaphors).
The ambivalence with regard to the evaluation of different kinds of knowledge and the
effort at appropriation or redefinition is also apparent in the following account. Once while
talking with some of my fishermen friends in Keremköy I told them that I found much of the
scientists' knowledge to be very narrow, whereas fishermen know a little about a range of
different things. We had just touched on the concept of alim (the old Ottoman-Arabic concept
for being educated, being a scholar), and they responded that that (i.e. the broad knowledge)
is what characterises an alim. They illustrated this with what they called an ‘old saying’:

As there emerge cahil people from among the educated, there emerge alim from among the
uneducated.

Okumuş insanlardan cahil insanlar çıktığı gibi okumamış insanlardan alim çıkar.

This proverb is by all accounts a simplified version of one of Atatürk’s famous sayings:
358 CHAPTER 12

When we say cahil, then we are not talking about those that have not read in the mektep. What
we talk about is to know ilim, the truth. Otherwise, as the most cahil may emerge from among
the educated, there may emerge from among those who cannot read at all real alims that can
see the truth. (see appendix 2, item 13)

While this saying was originally a critique directed against the religious scholars (‘those who
have read in the mekteps’), the fishermen use the very same proverb to shatter the authority of
the secular scientists. Note also that Atatürk’s saying presents knowledge as ‘seeing the
Truth’.

Corruption and politics

I had some trouble understanding the fishermen’s claim that they engaged in unwanted
practices because they were bilinçsiz or cahil. As I saw it, fishermen knew better than anyone
that the processes of competition, capitalisation, technological development, and so forth lead
to overfishing, diminishing resources, and in the long run, ‘ruin’ for all. I saw a paradox: since
they could articulate this, they were conscious (i.e. ‘bilinçli’) of it after all. They ‘know’, but
claim to be bilinçsiz. They are therefore in some respects aware that they are unconscious or
unaware (bilinçsiz). I presented this paradox to one of the reflective (but not very educated)
among the younger small-boat fishermen who very explicitly said that trawling is harmful and
that he did not like to do the illegal small-boat trawling that he and his brothers sometimes
undertook. He said that fishermen being cahil was the reason for previous over-fishing, that it
is responsible for the difficult situation that they have run into. Now, however, it is poverty
(aç, ‘hunger’) that forces them to illegal practices such as trawling. I often heard this
connection made among fishermen, especially that aç led them to bilinçsiz fishing. They
construct the bilinçsiz fishing as a situation that has been forced upon them. Perhaps
bilinçli/bilinçsiz is used to characterise actions, but to a lesser degree persons? To be cahil, on
the other hand, is a characterisation of the person, of a lifestyle, a mode of being in the world?
Being cahil may of course lead a person to bilinçsiz actions. As some of the examples above
indicate, the fishermen admit to being bilinçsiz but often deny being cahil.
Their line of reasoning thereby goes from denying being cahil, or denying the
relevance of education at all, to diverting responsibility from the person to the context for
their actions. They say that they are ‘forced’ to behave bilinçsiz by circumstances, which are
characterised by the dominance of immoral ‘eaters’ that do not comply with the laws. It will
be interesting to look more closely at the claim that they behave as they do because they are
‘hungry’. This ‘legitimate’ hunger, as articulated by the young fisherman in the encounter
with the scientist cum bureaucrat, is often implicitly contrasted with the morally suspect
‘eating’ by those with money and/or positions (see end of ‘The social web’, Chapter 6).
Because of the presence of ‘big men’ in Çarşıbaşı who had close relations to ANAP and the
regime, the criticisms of the rich and the politicians were somewhat subdued or muted there,
especially in Keremköy. The critiques came primarily out in small group conversation. When
I went to another small fishing community nearby, the views only hinted at by some in
Keremköy, were spelled out in large letters, or rather (to use a non-scriptural metaphor),
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 359

yelled out loud. I visited the village Akçakale one day during the spring of 1998. The
fishermen there did not know me, but after I had presented myself to some men outside of a
kahve, a group of fishermen quickly gathered around me, as in so many other places I had
visited. I taped the conversation, which lasted for about 40 minutes. Many topics pertaining to
fishing were raised, such as sonar, dolphins, adas, and so on. I asked whether the ‘water
produce’ sometimes comes there to do research.

- Nooo, never.
- There came someone on our kayık, students probably. Those people do not know the fish.
You know there are poisonous fish here, iskorpit, tırvana. Well, about the tekir [very similar
to the barbunya] a man asks if it strikes men, the tekir. Only think, the state of the ‘water
produce’ is not good…[‘everybody’ knows that tekir is not poisonous].
- In Turkey the laws (yasalar) have been wiped out. Let’s say that a man doesn’t do his duty
(görev), but I don’t know whether he knows how to do it. Well, the man does not know the
work…but he has friends, he is rich, has got an MP friend, has dost (friend)…

They discuss how the rich manage to get laws changed, for example by prolonging the season
for seasnail fishing.

- This government is a corrupt (yiyeci) government. The seasnails bring dollars, the
prohibitions are not logical, the punishments (ceza) too lenient, but the government closes
their eyes.
- The fishermen should show respect for the prohibitions (yasaklara saygılı olmalı). If the
government had wanted, it could have caught both [of the corrupt rich men].

They complain about Çarşıbaşı being the source of the lawlessness.

- The fishermen sector is generally cahil. Such things [illegal trawling, dredging for seasnails]
are being done. Wherever a man sees profits…in other words one is chasing after the profits.
- That’s it, There is no law (Kanun), the punishments are too low.
- The coast guard controls, but it cannot take the man, it’s not possible.
- All the faults lie with the ‘water produce’.
S: Who do you mean, the scientists?
- Yes, the researchers. Those people that make the laws of the sea. They do not manage to put
it right.
- The control bureaucrat (kontrol memur).
S: Well then, not the researchers?
- Both researcher and control.
- They do it themselves, those men do both research, for instance, and according to that make
the laws (kanunları).
- They even give the punishments. Anyway, there is no research. Research takes place on
shore (dışarıda), not at sea. They are afraid of the sea.
- If you go to them with a kilo of fish, its OK (tamam).
- There is the barbunya [remember that this is a very prestigious fish]. If you give one case of
it, everything is fine (her şey tamam). ‘I did not see you’, ‘I was not here’. [fish as bribe, here
the ‘eating’ is very literal!]
- They don’t understand.
- A man who has never seen the sea becomes ‘water produce’ – what is that? – müsteşar183. He
does not know where the sea is. He stays in Ankara.

183
There is no such thing as ‘water produce’ müsteşar (see Chapter 3).
360 CHAPTER 12

There is talk about politics, that they do not support ANAP.

- Earlier on the Turkish nation (millet) used to be cahil, unlearned (okumamış). You could buy
votes for only a kilo of sugar. Now, the nation has finally woken up (uyandı artık). The [new,
young] generation (nesil) reads, becomes educated (tahsilaçır/tahsil ediyor), and what
happens? They can better foresee the outcome of things. They now look: ‘who makes the best
[policy]? To that one we give our votes’.
- There is the system, the system. It makes the rich (zengin) rich, the poor (fakir) poor.
- There is a plain word for Turkey: torpil. The one who sees to the business of the rich
(Türkiyenin açıkçası var ya. Torpil. Zenginin işi yürür…).
- Prohibited, means prohibited for the poor, for the rich there is no prohibition.
- Fakir must show guarantor (kefil) or give property as guaranty in order to receive credit, but
rich ones receive credit without. They take cheap state credit, put the money in the bank and
live on the interest. 70% of the rich in Turkey do this.
- They all receive everything on a silver platter. Take/get, eat. (Hep hazırcı oldu. Al, ye)
………………………….

S: It is sometimes said that prohibitions are not adhered to because fishermen are cahil. Do
you agree with this?
- There is no relation.
- Fishermen are not cahil [note contradiction with opposite claim by another fisherman earlier
on in this conversation].
- One is afraid of the law. It’s not acceptable not behaving according to the law (‘Ben
kanundan korkmam’ var. Kanunu yapamadığı olmaz).
- Do you know who does not comply with the laws? The big fishermen do not comply. The
small fishermen always comply….Who does not comply with the laws here? The rich ones,
the persons with education (tahsil), persons in politics even. …Not the cahil ones, the learned
ones (okumuş) do not comply. That’s the condition of Turkey. The man of the cahil society
(toplum) complies in every respect (her yol uyar). If there were law, if a Ministry for the seas
were founded,…
- …if restrictions were implemented…
- Control! Those persons we call ‘water produce’…they should not give any pardon. The rich
population (kitle) does not comply [mentions well known local example, and how the state
chooses to close its eyes to it]. It’s forbidden, but it [the state] does not see it. Because, in
Turkey many things are wrong (yanlış çok).
- Oh, don’t go on about those wrongs. He [i.e. the anthropologist] wants knowledge (bilgi)
about fishing. Can’t you see that there are cahil ones among the men?
- In our Turkey, the cahil ones are the rich.
- Those you call cahil are those who do not comply with the law (kanun), is that a lie? But all
the poor ones here always comply, because they are afraid.
- You speak as if you were one with a mouth (Ağzı olan konuşuyorsun) [a very popular saying
those days, e.g. on television].
- Not those with a mouth, but those with money speak (Ağzı olan değil, parası olan konuşur).
- Those with money means the rich ones, isn’t that so?
- If I had money, I would have educated all my family (…cocuğum coluğum okuturum)
(ridiculing laughter).
- Now you talk on top of your head. Those with money talk. (Sen şimdi ağzını başına
konuştun. Parası alan konuşur.)
- What does a poor man do? He neither educates [his children] or is able to read [himself]
(Fakir adam ne yapar? Ne okutur ne okuyabilir).

Several criticisms of the scientists/memur emerge from this conversation. One very specific
accusation against especially state memurs is that they are lazy, that they sit all day in their
office and drink tea just to pass time (gün geçirmek için). This stereotype is connected to the
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 361

widespread presumption that most state memurs got their positions not because of their
abilities, but as a result of connections to important and influential men (torpil, adam, dayı,
see Chapter 6). Also, small-boat fishermen complain that when the ‘water produce’ do come
to their kahve, they only speak with the ‘big ones’, the property owners (mal sahibler).
However, according to the fishermen the most striking and pervasive characterisation of the
elite is that it is corrupt, yiyeci. While ethnographies set in Turkey have paid some attention to
bribery and torpils, I have seen no mention of the idioms of ‘eating’ and ‘eater’. Yet, in my
experience it is a very widespread figure of speech. It was certainly common when I did my
first fieldwork in 1990/91, and issues such as mafya, yiyecilik (‘eating’, i.e. corruption), are
now standard topics in the national media. When people discuss such issues, they often make
an aside: “yes, you have seen it on television, haven’t you?”
The concern about the yiyecilik has become so pervasive, so widespread and shared,
that it can effectively be drawn upon by ads on television. During the spring of 1998 an ad for
an insurance company went something like this: Several businessmen get into a dolmuş (large
taxi). One man says that his house went up in flames, another that his car was stolen, and so
forth. Throughout the men laugh and laugh. The driver becomes more and more confused and
finally asks, ‘I suppose you have torpils?’ The businessmen answer that ‘No, we have
insurance in the NN insurance company.’ They arrive, and the ad ends with the driver looking
into an aquarium with fish and says ‘Now gluk-gluk remains only here’. The gluk-gluk is
onomatopoetic for swallowing and a common way to express ‘eating’ (yemek), thereby a
metaphor for yiyecilik. It could be claimed that the metaphor is so conventionalised that it is
spurious to assume that the expression indicates anything about an underlying model.
However, the frequent use of body language (e.g. imitating the act of ‘swallowing’) as an
alternative to verbal utterance indicates that the bodily model of ‘eating’ is actively drawn on
to construct meaning in the use of the metaphor. In the ad the ‘eating’ is explicitly coupled
with the role of the torpils.
This figure of speak is so pervasive that my fieldnotes abound with examples. People
say that politicians and bureaucrats are all (hep) yiyeci. It is common to invoke the saying that
‘Big fish always eat the small fish’ (Büyük balık her zaman küçük balığı yer). “That’s how
nature and the world (Dünya) is”, says one old fisherman. ‘Everyone, from politicians
downwards, ‘eats’’. It is power (güç), and especially money-power, that counts. It is very
common, as expressed in the conversation in Akçakale, to say that the ‘big men’ do not
comply with the laws, and connect this to the prevalence of yiyecilik. Small-boat fishermen in
Keremköy claim that there is no point in cooperating or having a leader because everything is
directed towards politics (siyasi amaçlı) and based on money-power (para gücü). In Eynesil,
a community where all small-boat fishermen oppose illegal trawling, the fishermen assert that
there is no point in filing a lawsuit against those that they sometimes capture trawling in
‘their’ waters. The trawlers will be protected by ‘big men’. Corruption (yedirme) and bribes
(rüşvet) will ‘solve’ the case. They cannot police the waters near Eynesil themselves because
they would be accused of being a band of rebels (çete), which is illegal.
362 CHAPTER 12

Accusations of yiyecilik are not directed only towards the state and state
representatives. Businessmen and others that ‘eat the produce/toil of others’ are commonly
referred to as yiyeci. Accusations of yiyecilik are seldom directed towards specific scientists,
but fairly often at big fishermen and factory owners, especially those who are seen to have
close connections with politicians. But fishermen often disclaim the scientific knowledge on
the ground that when there is so much yiyecilik and politika, knowledge does not count. Even
if the scientists produced good knowledge, it would not help. Sometimes the scientists are
accused of being ‘eaters’, but on a minor scale. Some small-boat fishermen asked me, “what
is the point with the ‘water produce’ science? For ten years they have been trawling, selling
the fish to the çevre, or eating it (yer) [themselves], but there is no outcome (sonuç yok).” The
‘eating’ can be very literal, as when the ‘water produce’ officials are offered barbunya as an
appeasement. It is also said to be common to bring the ‘water produce’, or inspectors
(müfettiş) coming to inspect factories, to a good lokanta and offer them a meal.
Although I have seen no ethnographic account of the use of the idiom of ‘eating’ in
Turkey, a few prominent ethnographies from the eastern Mediterranean indicate that this may
be a fairly common figure of speech in the region. Herzfeld, in The Poetics of Manhood
(1985) portrays how Cretan mountain dwellers apply the metaphor of ‘eating’ to ‘stealing’ of
animals as part of a local code of social reciprocity. ‘Stealing’ is a way of demonstrating
manhood that may ultimately result in a lasting alliance between the ‘thief’ and the owner of
the animals. In Lords of the Lebanese marches (1996), Gilsenan emphasises that the wealthy
and powerful ones are those who ‘know how to eat’, to ‘eat’ others. It is the ‘eaters’ who have
the power to speak. A real man is one who knows how to ‘consume’ according to his
‘appetites’. While the metaphors of ‘appetite’ and ‘eating’ are used to explain the success of
the powerful on the Lebanese Marches, among the mountain Cretans ‘hunger’ is used to
legitimate the deprived ones’ ‘eating’. However, in both cases hunger and eating seem to be
part of a ‘poetics of manhood’. And the ‘eating’ is at the expense of others, it is ‘consuming’
others.
‘Eating’ is certainly a powerful bodily metaphor, and its use as I have observed it has
many similarities with its use in Lebanon and Crete. In Turkey ‘eating’ is also seen as an
integral part of being or becoming powerful and rich and behaving ‘powerful-like’. But
contrary to its use in Crete and Lebanon, ‘eating’ has mostly negative connotations in Turkey.
The idiom of ‘hunger’, on the other hand, is - as in Crete - used to give legitimacy to actions.
When the young fisherman in the encounter with the scientist stated that ‘we remain hungry’
he legitimised his involvement in illegal trawling. Herzfeld notes (1985:230) that when the
stealing of animals was increasingly removed from the context of local social reciprocity, as
the stealing became more instrumentalised and directed at monetary profit, the ‘eating’
metaphor tended to attain more negative connotations: ‘Those with money eat’. We may
speculate whether there has been a similar displacement of the metaphor in Turkey. In both
Turkey and Crete this discourse is intertwined with people’s regrets about the violation of
friendship bonds, the moral failure of the leaders, the increasing individualism and egoism,
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 363

and the commoditisation of social relations. There are elements of ‘structural nostalgia’ and a
strong moral component.

Politics, pollution, and morals

While corruption and the like have been the subject of nationwide discourse in Turkey for a
long time, these topics received especially focused attention in the second half of the 1990s.
Keyder claims that the way the state and the economy were restructured during the 1980s and
1990s enlarged the scope for corruption, particularly for turning political position into
economic advantage (Keyder 1999:21). The rhetoric of corruption is a discourse most people
can share in without regard for political position, whether they are Islamists, secularists or
nationalists. Thus, while different political forces fought over the symbolism of Beyoğlu (see
Chapter 2), the inhabitants themselves “preferred to talk about this change [in policy towards
the quarter] through a rhetoric of corruption” (Bartu 1999:42).

Figure 25 Caricature: The politician ‘turns the corner’.

Newspaper caricature, Milliyet 12.10.1994. To the left, the ‘politician’ ‘turns the corner’, while the
‘people’ at the right is ‘squeezed into the corner’.

The 1996 Susurluk scandal (see Chapter 6) more than ever before put corruption on the
national agenda. It resulted in a huge ‘civil society’ campaign in all the major cities during
364 CHAPTER 12

early 1997. At 9.00 p.m. people shut off the lights for one minute to protest the corruption of
the state in general and the Refah government in particular. The campaign was called ‘One
minute of darkness for enlightenment/a bright future’ (Aydınlık için bir dakıka karanlık). At
the same time, there were loud calls for restoring the ‘purity’ of the state. On a black
background the front page of the weekly Nokta cried out ‘Turkey cannot fall victim to the
darkness. A CLEAN STATE, A CLEAN SOCIETY IMMEDIATELY, NOW!’ (Türkiye
karanlığa mahkum olamaz. TEMİZ DEVLET, TEMİZ TOPLUM HEMEN, ŞİMDİ!) (Nokta
10-16 November 1996).
On one level, accusations of corruption are accusations of impurity, of moral
defilement. A newspaper headline (Milliyet 11.03.1999) before upcoming national elections
stated that “The voter’s reason for choosing [Ecevit]: A clean man does not eat (Seçmenin
seçme nedeni: Temiz adam yemez)”. I have touched upon many issues of lifestyles and morals
that involve some idea of cleanness and pollution. It shows up in many contexts, such as in
seafood consumption (uncleanness of alcohol), scientists’ manners (uncleanness of language
and style), local ethics (the ‘uncleanness’ of not living up to standards of friendship), religious
morals, the impure Beyoğlu/Istanbul, the unsuitable arabesk, the dirty fishermen (smell etc.),
the impure Nataşas (AIDS etc.), the dirty non-believers (body hair, lack of proper cover, etc.),
the assertion that the politicians, the government, even the state have become unclean. All
these concerns address moral standards and social borders. Knowledges are also framed by
this, since they are not usually separated from the ‘knowers’, and the ‘knowers’ are evaluated
according to ethical standards that involve moral borders such as those mentioned above. A
scientist must be socially and morally acceptable in order to ‘be right’. The potency of the
lifestyle symbolism becomes particularly important in Turkey since the state has had a very
authoritarian approach to lifestyle articulations and attempted to develop a homogenous,
‘modern’ lifestyle with such zeal.
‘Ignorance’ and ‘corruption’ are only two of many possible models that actors can
draw on in identifying and characterising others in a moral discourse. Cahillık/scripturalism
and ‘eating’/’hunger’ are not the only models. There is for instance the Devlet Baba (Father
State) model, where the ‘father’ both provides for but also directs and punishes his ‘sons’. In
fishermen’s discourses about knowledges and illegal fishing this comes out in expressions
such as “The State must enforce prohibitions. That’s education! (Devlet yasak koysun. O
eğitim!)”. On the other hand, there is an entrenched tradition in the Black Sea region of
defying the state. Smuggling was rampant during the 1970s, and despite the illegality, most
men are said to have at least one gun. The weapons tend to be brought out during weddings
and other festive occasions. Such defiance of the state, as the small-boat’ illegal trawling, can
be articulated as claims to manhood.
I cannot go into detail about these and other models here. Generally, models may
constitute very concrete alternatives of interpretation in many contexts. The same activity
may be explained differently, depending, among other things, on the personal position relative
to the situation. Thus, the resource of the aç/yiyecilik rhetoric can be drawn upon for different
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 365

purposes, even to strike out against illegal trawling. On a visit to Keremköy, İsmail, a small-
boat fisherman from Faroz, was discussing illegal trawling with his relative Nailon who was
not doing any trawling (too small a boat). İsmail claimed that those involved in illegal
trawling were powerful (güçlü) politically. Nailon held them to be drunkards (şarapçı). İsmail
did not agree, and said that “in Turkey only those with money power ‘talk’ (Türkiye’de
sadece para gücü olan konuşuyor)”. İsmail and Nailon referred to alternative models, but
both models are steeped in a world of moral concerns.
The marine scientists in Turkey draw less on metaphors of yiyecilik. They often
criticised the ‘regrettable’ use of ‘personal relations’ (kişisel ilişkiler) in science and politics,
which makes it difficult to arrive at ‘rational’ decisions. Thus, they seem to refer to another
ideal model (‘solidarism’?) than the fishermen. This model is less overtly a model of morality,
as it is couched in a ‘social scientific’ language. It is indicative that the terms used by the
scientists are typical Turkish neologisms not in common use among fishermen. Also, as seen
at the end of the interview with Deniz, politicians are accused of being cahil. Academicians in
general emphasise that politicians are uneducated, for example by claiming that fewer of the
MPs have higher education than used to be the case. Although there are many alternative
models that can be mobilised, there is a certain pattern to what accusations are levelled by
whom against whom. Scientists/bureaucrats accuse fishermen/villagers, even politicians, of
being cahil, ‘small fishermen’ and ‘villagers’ accuse the ‘big men’, politicians and – to a
lesser extent - bureaucrats and scientists of being corrupt. The educated criticise the
educational erosion among politicians while the common folk complain about the moral
degeneration of politicians. This is of course not a pattern unique to Turkey. In ‘exploring the
symbolic rots of Western bureaucracy’, Herzfeld (1992:164) writes that, “[t]he bureaucrat can
disguise self interest as service to the unchanging public interest. The client has no such
recourse, except by castigating the bureaucrat as ‘corrupt’ – which is the symbolic converse of
the bureaucrat’s treatment of the client as ‘dirt’. Client and bureaucrat alike use the rhetoric of
purity and pollution to advance specific ends”.
How are the fishermen treated as ‘dirt’? They are stigmatised as cahil and kaba
(coarse) or simply ignored. The accusations of ignorance/corruption may be typical for
modern nation states. A nation state ideology based upon ‘familism’ (blood, fatherland, etc.),
that is articulated and inculcated through a national educational system, paradoxically shares
the symbolism with the critique of corruption (critique of priority given in practice to kinship
and kinship-like relations) (Herzfeld 1992). This also seems to be the case in Turkey. But
although there may be structural similarities, I believe that in each nation state the rhetoric is
differently constituted and coloured. With the propensity to denigrate ‘villagers’ as cahil,
scripturalism attains a very central position in the Turkish elite’s articulation of their
privileged status. Scripturalism may, moreover, be differently configured within different
kinds of elite formations. In modern Turkey, the Ottoman heritage and its transformation
through the historical experience of the Kemalist revolution has made its particular imprint on
the role of education. Scriptualism is configured in a special way to other codes of elite
366 CHAPTER 12

expression. Because the elite themselves to such an extent integrate scripturalism with other
elite ideals and practices (good manners, language, refined taste, etc.) - a whole lifestyle in
essence - attacking bureaucrats’ and scientists’ moralities, manners and lifestyles, such as
their consumption patterns (e.g. Istanbul seafood culture), becomes a feasible and pertinent
criticism. Hence, one of the most frequently heard criticisms that fishermen direct at scientists
(and ‘water produce’ bureaucrats) is that ‘they only know how to eat the fish!’ One of the
marine scientists who is most familiar with the fishermen’s practices told me the following
story. Once during a meeting at the Ministry offices in Ankara in the mid-1990s, one
fisherman held up a ‘Russian’ kefal and yelled at the Minister directing the meeting: “Do you
know what fish this is? No, you only know how to eat it!”
Fishermen elsewhere, including Norway, for example, make similar claims about
politicians and bureaucrats184. But in Turkey, such a critique is especially weighty. It sums up
several of the distinctions fishermen draw between themselves and the politico-bureaucratic
or scientific elite. First, the memur knows only how to eat the fish: he does not know the
practice of catching it. He has no bodily experience, no substantial knowledge. His knowledge
is only ‘pretence’. He is not even competent according to science’s own standards (a scientists
should know that the tekir is not poisonous). Secondly, the only way the memur knows the
fish is through ‘immoral’ Istanbul style consumption (with its associations with alcohol etc.).
Finally, the expression harbours a claim that the memur is an ‘eater’, he is corrupt.
Consequently, both parts construe the other’s (lack of) knowledge as connected to the other’s
‘bad human condition’, be it their lack of education (see end of ‘Cultivation and ignorance’,
Chapter 11), or their immoral consumption and corruption. And their respective rhetoric
styles have little persuasive force with the ‘other’.

One day in the spring of 1998 a fisherman whom I knew only superficially sat with me at a
small pier inside the harbour in Çarşıbaşı. We talked about fish and fishing. The conversation
took us from one issue to another, from one concern to another. Towards the end he criticised
the corrupt and immoral MPs for using their positions to enrich themselves and keep lovers,
for not working, not making new laws. When we finally rose and ended the conversation, he
reflectively commented on our conversation: “We started at sea and ended up on politics.”
This reflects a very common conception; ‘Everything is politics’. Every discussion, every
topic ends up on politics. During a very intense period of fieldwork in the spring of 1998, I
decided to take a ‘day off’ and went hiking in the Kaçar mountains south of Trabzon together
with the mountain-sport group in Trabzon. One of my fellow hikers, a young midlevel memur
told me that the hiking was so fine, it helped him to reduce the level of stress and tension. I
agreed, and instinctively thought of the Norwegian culture of hiking that emphasises getting

184
See especially Müller (2000:144) for such ‘claims’ in the Norwegian context, where fishermen
accuse the Ministry of Fisheries for not knowing the difference between two of the most important
commercial species. See also Pálsson (1991:152) for more general exploration of how seafood has had a
changing role as mediator of social differences in Iceland.
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 367

away from the crowds and noise. My friend stressed, however, that it felt so good to get away
from politika.
At one level this preoccupation with ‘politics’ may be claimed to be a shared
characteristic of most Middle Eastern societies. There are more politics in the Middle East
than anywhere else, claims Bates and Rassam (1983:242). Theirs is the analysts’ point of
view of ‘The Politics of Sociability’. They find that there are geographical and material
reasons underlying the “intensity with which individuals pursue social relations with others”
(Bates and Rassam 1983:243). I also indicated in my discussion about social webbing
(Chapter 6), that there is no definite border between formal politics and other social processes.
When politics are social relations, social relations become politics. Friendships, clients’
support of a patron, the way one dress and behave and eat, all become subsumed by or have
the potential for being ‘politics’. But one must separate anthropological analysis from
people’s own discourse about ‘politics’, and here I want to stress that among people in the
Black Sea region the understanding of almost any problem is at the end of the day turned into
‘politika’. ‘Everything is politics’. And politics are, of course, to a large degree about
moralities. The explicit ‘indigenous’ lament about ‘everything being politics’ may be a
response to the kind of politics that are pursued in the face of a rapidly changing society. It is
not only that so much is political. Politics are increasingly perceived as a ‘dirty’ activity: MPs
care only for their own wealth as they use their position to ‘turn the corner’, politics,
corruption, Mafia activities are blended, and the politicians’ elite manners are suspect.

A discourse of resistance?

In Chapter 1 I argued that the task of anthropology is not only to represent ‘Others’ narratives,
but also to attempt to understand their social embedding and effect. I have argued that there is
widespread discourse critical of politicians, ‘big men’ and others with power and influence.
What does this discourse of ‘hunger’ and ‘eating’ do or effect? Is it ‘only talk’? What is the
power of the rhetoric about ‘eaters’? Can it be seen as a language of resistance? If so, what
kind of resistance?
Such rhetoric is not the only way of expressing hostility or dislike of those in/with
power. As I touched on in Chapter 5, ‘big men’ may be criticised for trying to become aga
and make all the rest ‘slaves’ (köle). In other instances criticism may be raised against acts of
violence. But this is an ambivalent issue, since violence, in proper ‘contexts’ (defending the
family’s honour or the interests of the group), is also cherished. I have also claimed that the
critique of the sonar may be interpreted as a ‘language of resistance’. It is significant, though,
that none of these idioms seems to stimulate any kind of social mobilisation, organised and
collective acts of opposition. Yet, if we were to apply Jim Scott’s (1986:22) definition of
‘everyday resistance’, which makes “no requirement that resistance take the form of collective
action”, and also “recognises what we might call symbolic or ideological resistance”, the
criticisms of ‘eaters’, the sonar and so on are clearly forms of resistance.
368 CHAPTER 12

The forms of everyday resistance that I have described are indeed symbolic, but only
to a lesser degree ‘ideological’. The metaphors do not gain their potency and meaning within
an ideological system. Not all conflicts in Turkey are couched in terms of Islam versus the
West. It would be far too simplistic to analyse the relationships between fishermen and
scientists as Islam versus Western symbols, knowledges, and ideas. The issues of corruption
and ignorance are more fundamental in some respects. If I had started out with Islam-West as
my primary analytical focus I may not have been able to recognise this. However, the Islamic
idiom constitutes a ‘ready package’ of embodied symbols and historical-moral legitimacy that
can be mobilised to create a shared, objectified language out of ‘individual’ ethical
sensibilities. ‘Eaters’ is not an Islamic idiom, but it is the Islamic authorities’ ability to
address the common concerns that this rhetoric is an expression of which renders them so
popular. Interestingly, the main election slogan of the Islamist Welfare Party in 1996 was Adil
Düzen (Just Order), and not some more explicit Islamic rhetoric. The slogan addressed the
general population’s concern about the moral standard of the politicians and not the status of
Islam in Turkey. Thus the observation of people’s concern about individual morality, ‘eaters’,
and so on may also contribute to reshaping our understanding of Islamic activism, politics and
voting in Turkey. It is not Islam ‘in itself’ that comes to the fore or is the major concern for
most people. But, Islam seems to provide one of the most accessible idioms for articulating
concerns about morality in a situation of rapid social change. The sentiment of morality plays
easily into Islamic idioms and has the potential for mobilising Islamic organisations and votes
for the Islamist party.
On the other hand, language of resistance does not capitalise much on idioms from
socialist/communist ideology, at least not in Çarşıbaşı. One small-boat fisherman once
exclaimed that they were being ‘exploited’ (bizi sömürüyor). But this criticism was directed
against Japan (that buys their seasnail produce) and therefore constitutes ‘acceptable’ anti-
imperialist rhetoric. Salamone (1987) has described how men in Ammouliani, southeastern
Greece, formed a labour union of crews working on purse seiners. These men originated from
the island of Marmaras in the Sea of Marmara (see also Chapter 3) and endorsed local ideals
of manhood and local big men (nikokireoi) very similar to those I have described for
Çarşıbaşı. The ethnography of Salamone gives reason to believe that it was general national
political developments in Greece, with the development of a strong socialist party and a
powerful labour union movement that included the fisheries, that enabled the crew to take
such action. The labour union even managed to do away with the old system of shares (which
was very similar to the one still in operation in the Black Sea fisheries of Turkey) and
establish more formal, contractual relations of work and enumeration. In Turkey I have not
even heard voiced thoughts of a labour union for fishing boat crew.
So, what does the critique of ‘eaters’ actually do? This rhetoric does not seem to have
much potential for mobilising collective acts of resistance, except being channelled into
support for political parties and organised Islam. For instance, many poor small-boat
fishermen in Keremköy started to support the MHP openly during the latter half of the 1990s
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 369

as they felt that their established allegiance to ANAP had not paid off. But does the rhetoric of
‘hunger’ and ‘eaters’ have any further effect? Nükhet Sirman (1994:191) has claimed that the
arabesk music and culture in Turkey “depicts honor as the only, but impotent, course of
action open to the powerless”. Much the same can be said about the moral discourse engaged
by fishermen when criticising bureaucrats for their ‘Istanbul ways’ or politicians for being
‘eaters’. As I indicated in Chapter 2, fishermen and others construct an alternative frame of
reference. It is a discourse that sets up a moral hierarchy of social honour where the standards
of lifestyle, scripturalism, wealth, and so on are side-stepped, but not overturned. Although
not effecting collective acts of resistance, this rhetoric may be enough to create contexts in
daily life in which the speaker can be in control or experience moral superiority, as when the
purse seine owner quietly admitted that the sonar is harmful (Chapter 9). Such discourse may
create spaces of experienced moral community among the ‘suppressed’, where everyday
practices can be framed by local poetics and ethical sensibilities that make them meaningful.
It is as if people say: ‘If we are not rich and powerful, we are at least decent and honourable’.
Furthermore, this rhetoric about ‘eaters’ and the like gives legitimacy to individual
‘acts of resistance’, such as illegal small-boat trawling (which is of course not only
resistance). People often say things in the vein of, ‘Why should we stick to the laws when we
are ‘hungry’, and the ‘eaters’ do not comply with the laws?’ However, such acts, as well as
the resistance to the sonars, contribute to reinforce the educated ones’ stereotypes of the
‘common man’ as being cahil and kaba. They thereby work to uphold the social barrier
between different kinds of ‘knowers’. When knowledges meet, it is knowledgeable persons
that meet. The value of the knowledge, the standard for validation, is not primarily
transcendental criteria for reference and truth, but a moral evaluation of the knowledgeable
persons. There is no ‘pure’ knowledge. The scientists, too, anchor their knowledge in the
‘moral superiority’ of scientific modernity.

Knowledges as moralities

In philosophical approaches to knowledge it is eminently possible to solve the dilemma of

objectivist realism versus extreme relativism by positing the existence of alternative realities.
Different systems, or cultures, may have different criteria for belief or truth, but we are as
human beings bound to some basic reality. Thus, for example, the ‘internal realism’ view of
Hilary Putnam (1981) “…permits the existence of alternative, incompatible conceptual
schemes. It is not a total relativism because of the limits placed on it by experience of the real
world” (Lakoff 1987:264). This is all very well, but in the real social world knowledges,
different ‘internal realisms’ are not separate systems or ‘realities’, but meet in conflict,
ignorance, exploitation, and sometimes with curiosity. Differences between knowledges are
not only, or even primarily, on the level of principles, abstract concepts, and the like. There
can be no pure epistemological/theoretical fusing of traditions of knowledge because no
traditions of knowledge are made up only of theory and epistemology. Differences cannot be
370 CHAPTER 12

settled simply by seeking a theoretical solution, trying to establish a congruence of

epistemologies, bridging the traditions, or making the incommensurable commensurable. If
knowledge is embedded in practice, in individuals, in nature, society, language and body,
there can only be practical cum theoretical working settlements or solutions. Therefore,
knowledge will always be an issue of power, temporary settlements, and moralities. Most, if
not all, kinds of knowledge are in some way or other bound up with, or at least not isolated
from, ethical or moral coping, often as parts of larger projects or discourses (be it
‘modernisation’ or the maintenance of moral integrity in the local community).
A hundred years ago it would have been totally irrelevant, even impossible, to ask
about the knowledge differences between fishermen and marine scientists in Turkey. Fishing
is intimately bound up with social pragmatics that are inherently ‘moral’. In Turkey the
sciences, and the associated scripturalism and literalism, are closely connected to the moral
thrust of the national modernisation project. We should not be paralysed by this insight, nor
should we discredit knowledge in general. However, it may imply that we enlarge the scope
of who is entitled to speak. But in so doing, there is reason for caution. The moral foundation
of a ‘clearing of the horizon’ of knowledges (Lambek 1993) should not be sought in
‘epistemologised’ and ‘technologised’ ethical know-that, in moral rules and laws. People
situated within different traditions of knowledge, whether marine scientist, fisherman or
anthropologist, should be guided rather by ethical sensibilities. I believe that such an approach
would make it easier to transcend the boundaries of reified entities such as laws, cultures,
disciplines, schools, classes, and so on. However, to bring this about, it may be imperative to
share practice and interact face to face. This sharing is not only in order to have similar
experiences of an environment and to ‘know the ways of the others’, but also to know others
intersubjectively, to engage in each other. This of course all sounds very idealistic, and it is.
Huge barriers of instituted practice, accumulated mistrust, and conflicting interests must be
overcome. One of the largest challenges is to develop an understanding of science as socially
embedded and constituted without removing totally the credibility of science, without
perceiving all scientific knowledge as false.
Such a reconstitution of science must address the dangers that lie in science’s constant
drive to objectify and reify knowledge, to purge it of all ‘disturbing’ associations. To frame
the conflicts that we have observed as controversies over knowledge may be to succumb to
the hegemonic scientific discourse of knowledge, a discourse that has elevated knowledge,
‘sterilised’ it, made it transcendental and non-subjective. To raise the question of knowledge
in the first place, and have it as the main topic of this dissertation, is of course a reflection of
this. Statements about knowledge are legitimate within the historical-social context in which
we are living. But the concerns of the people whom I met with and have written about here
were not primarily sterile knowledge or Truth. Rather, they were concerned about power,
moral standing, the name or taste of a fish, love, the value of the catch, intimacy, sharing, and
a host of other things. The conflicts are just as much about power, dignity and sociality as
 POLITICS AND MORALITIES 371

about knowledge. Therefore, to regard for example the implementation of a potential quota
system in the fisheries as only a question of knowledge would be insufficient.
In an introductory chapter to an edited volume on The Ethnography of Moralities,
Signe Howell (1997:8-9) claims that most humans, even in the West, generally do not
separate fact and value. “Moral principles…express simultaneously an inherent dynamic
relationship between the ‘ought’ and the ‘is’”. She cites ‘sex’ and ‘politics’ as prime examples
of entangled fact and value within the ‘modern’ world. The separation of value and fact is
specific to science and a cornerstone of its credibility and cultural authority in society (Nader
1996:25). Kirsten Hastrup (1995:173), drawing on Putnam (1981), makes a comparable claim
and ventures that “[w]ithout values we would have no facts, not even a world. We would also
have no science”. She calls for the ‘disengaged scientists’ to be replaced by the ‘scholar who
achieves understanding by way of involvement”. Although Lambek (1997) does not explicitly
discuss science, the thrust of his approach goes in much the same direction, especially in his
elaboration of dynamic ‘ethical know-how’ (phronesis), although he is careful to distinguish
analytically, as I do, ethical know-how from techne (or technique). I have claimed that
morality not only impinges upon knowledge, or knowledge become simply a resource in
ethical or moral discourses. Knowledge is already ethically impregnated by being socially
constituted. We may say that in engaged practice, technical and ethical know-how is very
much intertwined, but when the practice is objectified, fact and value are purified into two
different systems: epistemology and moral rules/discourse. Latour (1999) is similarly
concerned with deconstructing a comparable dichotomy, namely ‘knowledge’ versus ‘belief’.
We saw in the introduction to Chapter 9 how a British scientist brought this kind of
interpretation to his understanding of the conflict over the sonar, and I subsequently
demonstrated that an understanding of ‘the sonar’, as engaged by the fishermen and scientists,
required us to situate it somewhere between ‘belief’ and knowledge’, as well as ‘ethics’.
Latour (1999:275) has suggested that in place of the concepts ‘fetish’ (i.e. belief) and ‘fact’
(i.e. knowledge), we speak of ‘factish’ as “…it is because it is constructed that it is so very
real”. The sonar as I have described it is a typical ‘factish’: a collage of fact and fetish. But
where did the ‘etchics’ go?
I concluded Chapter 7 with some reflections about the suitability of a latourian
approach to non-scientific knowledges. I observed there that the very definition of knowledge
that he uses privileges a view from a distance. I would add here that this approach to
knowledge leads to a preoccupation with truth and belief. This comes to be because Latour
tries almost exclusively to understand scientific practice. His strategy is to focus on the facts/
collectives/factishes – or simply the things – instead of centering the analysis on humans. A
study of scientific knowledge as engaged in the lives of scientists (experiences, lifestyles,
moralities) within a wider socio-cultural and historical framework – as I have tried to pursue
here – is necessary for a fuller understanding of the role of knowledge in society. I have
demonstrated how important scripturalism is in the lifestyle formation of scientists and how
the scientific knowledge is instrument and ideal in the nation state’s move towards
372 CHAPTER 12

governmentality. One implication of this ‘governmentalisation’ and ‘scientification’ of the

state’s approach to development and modernisation, has been, on the level of ideology, a
separation of ‘fact’ and ‘value’. In a recent article on the involvement of local, national, and
international environmental organisations in a international rain forest campaign focused on
Sarawak, East Malaysia, Peter Brosius (1999:51) argues that the ‘indifferent bureaucratic and
technoscientific forms’ of intervention by these institutions resulted in the exclusion of moral
and political issues. He fears that there may be a “danger of displacing the moral/political…to
such an extent that it is regarded as disruptive or irrelevant, or can no longer be heard at all”.
If we accept that value and fact are inseparable and that knowledge is socially
constituted, questions like “Who is the knower?” and “Who are you that can claim to know?”
will always be legitimate. In practice both fishermen and scientists do ask such questions and
evaluate the other’s knowledge in the (moral) frameworks of scripturalim/ignorance and
politics/corruption respectively. Fishermen tend to see only (bad) morals, and scientists see
only (wrong) facts (i.e. belief) in the other part. Scientists do not realise that their
characterisation of the fishermen is morally founded. Paradoxically, scientists’ ‘asking’
removes fishermen’s access to facts (‘they do not have knowledge’), and fishermen’s ‘asking’
removes scientists’ access to morals (‘they are not moral’). How could fishermen and
scientists come to ‘ask’ in a more ‘symmetrical’ manner? Perhaps by sharing more practice,
through which they by necessity have to relate more with one another as both moral and
knowledgeable persons. And there is indeed a fundament for such sharing, in the ‘unseen’
scientific practice, in the fishermen’s reference to scientific knowledge, and not least in
roughly common codes of sharing, politeness, hospitality, and so forth.
In order to understand the condition of knowledges in modern Turkey and beyond, it is
critical to study knowledges at the interface between ‘communities of practitioners’, between
‘traditions of knowledge’. For ethnography of knowledge it is, as Nader (1996) has argued,
profitable to focus on the borders. As we come to acknowledge that there are neither pure
facts nor pure fetishes or pure ethics, anthropology, as a science, is empowered to disclose,
build theories, and give advice, but also called on to be responsible.
 373

APPENDIX 1:

NAMES OF FISH, CRUSTACEANS, MOLLUSCS AND

MAMMALS

Turkish English Latin scientific name

________________________________________________________________

SEA FISH
Barbunya Red mullet Mullus barbatus (2)
(Mahmuzlu) Camgöz Spur dog (shark) Squalus acanthias (1,2)
Çipura Gilt-head bream Sparus aurata/Chrysophrys aurata (2)
Deniz iğnesi Pipefish Families Entelurus, Nerophis and Sygnathus (7)
Dil balığı Sole Solea nasuta (1)
Fener balığı Angler fish Lophius spp. (2)
Gelincik Three-bearded rockling Gaidropsarus mediterraneus (2)
Hamsi Anchovy Engraulis encrasicolus (1)
İnce Kefal ‘Small Mullet’ Alburnus tarichi (6)
İskorpit ---- Scorpaena porcus (2)
İstavrit (Kıraca) Horse mackerel/ Trachurus trachurus (1)
Black Sea scad Trachurus mediterranus ponticus (1)
İzmarit Picarel Spicara spp (2, 6)
Kalkan Turbot Psetta maxima maeotica (1)
Karagöz (Two-banded) Bream Diplodus spp, Sargus spp (2)
Kefal (Grey) Mullet Mugil sps. (2,7)
Liza aurata (2,6)
Oedalechilus labeo (6)
Keler Angel shark Squatina squatina (2)
Kılıç balığı Sword fish Xiphiyas gladius (2)
Kırlangıç Gurnard Triglidae spp (2)
Kolyoz Chub mackerel Scomber japonicus colias (2)
Kovit Gobies Family Gobiidae
Köpek balığı Smooth hound Mustelus spp. (2)
(shark)
Kötek Umbrina Umbrina cirrosa (2,7)
Levrek Sea Bass Morone labrax (2)
Lüfer (Çinekup etc.) Bluefish Pomatomus saltator (1)
Mavruşkil (Eşkina) Croaker (Meagre?) Corvina nigra (7)
Mersin balığı Sturgeon Acipenser spp. (2)
(Huso huso) (2)
Mezgit Whiting Merlangius merlangus euxinus (1,2)
Orkinos Bluefin tuna Thunnus thynnus (2)
Öküz/Öksüz balığı Piper Trigla lyra (2,6)
Palamut (Torik) Bonito Sarda sarda (1)
Pisi Brill, flounders etc. (a wide range of various
families and species)
Platika/Gümüş Atherine Atherina spp (2,7)
 374

Rina (Tırvana) (Ray) Dasyatis violaseae (6)

Rus Kefalı Haarder Mugil soiuy (4)
Sardalya Pilchard/Sardine Sardina pilchardus (2)
Cluea pilchardus (2)
Sardinella aurita (2)
Somon/Som balığı Salmon Salmo salar (3)
Tirsi (Danube) Shad Alosa pontica pontica (1)
Trakonya (Greater) Weever Trachinus draco (2)
Uskumru Mackerel Scomber scombrus (1)
Vatoz Thornback ray Raja clavata (1)
Yılan balığı Eel (Common eel) Anguilla anguilla
Zargana Garfish Belone belone (2)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yunus Dolphin Delphinus delphis (5)
Phocoena phocoena (5)
Tursiops truncatus (5)

MOLLUSCS AND CRUSTACEANS

Ahtapot Octopuses Family Octopodidae (2)
Istakoz Lobster Homarus gammarus (2)
Homaris vulgaris (2)
Kalamar Squid Loligo vulgaris (2)
Karides Shrimp, prawn Families Crangoniade,
Palaemonidae and Penaeidae (2)
Midye Mussel Mytilus galloprovincialis (2)
Supya Cuttlefish Sepia officinalis (2)
Yengeç Crab a variety of families/species

FRESH WATER FISH

Alabalık Trout Salmo trutta (3)
Sazan Carp Cyprinus carpio (3)

Sources:
1) GEF-BSEP 1997 (Folder)
2) Davidson 1981
3) Redhouse Türkçe - Ingelizce sözlüğü (1983)
4) Zaitsev 1997
5) Çelikkale et al 1988
6) Mater et al 1989
7) Güney 1974
 375

APPENDIX 2: TURKISH TEXT ITEMS

Item 1.
ÇAĞIN MOTEL, Her öğün balık, akvaryum gibi deniz, kalabalıklardan ve kabalıklardan uzak sessiz tatil. 2 kişi
1 hafta 98.000.000.- TL.

Item 2.
...evet, kesinlikle bir düşler köyü, bir gizli büyü olmüş tümden Gümüşlük. ...Gümüşlük akşamları tüm çırkin
sesleri yutup sadece hoş sedaları salıveriyor geceye. Uzun zamandır böylesine tatlı sohbet etmemiş, böylesine
kendinizi anlatmamış, yaşadığınızı hissetmemiştiniz sanki. ...[Ve] Gümüşlük'te içmemek pek mümkün olmuyor.
Istanbul'un entelektüel simalarının gözde mekanı burası. ... Gece balık kokularıyla sarhoş, sahilde gümüş
kumların üzerinde, yıldızların altında uyuyanlara rastlayabilirsiniz Gümüşlük'te.

Item 3.
Mandira: Mandira kelimenin tam anlamıyla bir Rum meyhanesi, yani taverna. Pangaltı'da yaklaşık 25 yıldır
hızmet veren bu mekan basta sayıları gittikçe azalan Rumlar olmak uzere, taverna meraklısı herkesin gözbebeği.
Daha doğrusu Rum pilakısı, lakerda, pazı dolma ve kalamar izgara gibi alternatif mezelere düşkün akşamcıların
gözbebeği.

Item 4.
Hamsi kadar hiç bir zenginde, orta halli ve fakirde eişit sevgi ve neşe'ye yaratmaz. Ve hiç bir yiyecek maddesi de
onun kadar demokrat ve cömert değildir.

Item 5.
Balıkçı barınağında huzur ve dostluk. 'Oltacı'nın sefası ne ki...Biraz çay, biraz dem, eh bol bol da muhabbet.
Daha güzeli var mı bu hayatta.

Item 6.
- Maddiyatimiz gibi maneviyatimiz de iyidir. ... Mesela biz içkiye el uzatmayız. Balığa kola daha iyi gider. Bir
salata bir de tahin helvası ister balık. Içki içeni burada tokatlarlar.
- Peki arada sırada sinemaya tiyatroya da gider miydi balıkçılar?
- Neredee! Sinemaa tiyatro yok. Ama maç var.

Item 7.
Şehrimizin Anadolu ve Rumeli sahillerinde Evkaftan isticar edilmiş yahut vaktile bâ fermânı âlî bir kimseye
ihsan buyurulmuş voli mahalleri vardır ki kiracı ve sahipleri kendi mahallerinde icrayi san’at etmek hakkını
haizdir; açıktan bir kayık gelip de orada voli çeviremez...

Item 8.
Sonuç olarak; geleceğin besin deposu olacak deniz ve içsularimizdaki ürünleri değerlendiren balıkçının,
üreticinin sanaycinin sorunlarının çözümünde ve konunun yönlendirilmesinde en akılıcı, en bilimsel ve en
ekonomik yöntemlerin uygulanmasının zorunluluğu konunun şimdiye kadarki tarihi gelişiminden de anlaşılacağı
üzere yerine getirilmesi gereken milli bir görevdir.

Item 9.
...Heyetimiz [Gerze Balıkçılık Kooperatifinin Genel Kurul] toplantıya iştirak ederek kooperatifin işler bir hale
getirilmesi için gerekli kararların alınmasını sağlanmıştır. Bu arada balıkçılara gerçek bir kooperatif espirisi
anlatılmış, Birliğin temin edeceği faydalar hakkında bilgi verilmiş ve toplantıya iştirak eden ortaklar ikna
edilerek Birliğe dahil olmaları için Genel Kurullarınca karar alınmıştır.
 376

Item 10.
Bilindiği üzere, su ürünleri avcılığı birlikte çalışmayı gerekirir. ... [B]u işbirliği ve ortaklığın devamlılığını
sağlamak amacıyla üreticilerin mali imkanlarını kooperatif örgütü içinde bir araya getirmeleri ve sağlanan güç
birliğiyle de büyük avlama sisteminde ve usullerinde modern araç gereç ve malzeme kullanmak suretiyle kitlevi
av yapabilmeleri ve bol ürün elde edebilmeleri amaçlanarak T.C. Ziraat Bankası'nca gerekli çalışmalar
yapılmakta ve bu şekilde...kredi yardımı yapılmaktadır.

Item 11.
Türkiye’de en zayıf konulardan biri, balıkçılar kültür düzeyenin düşük olması nedeniyle birlik berarbelik yok.
Ferdi düşünüyorlar. Yani, bugün benim kârım varsa, yarın ne olacak olsun, hiç önemli değil. Birlik berarberlik
içinde hareket etmedikleri için, bir yarışa gidiyorlar.

Item 12.
Oturtmamasının sebebi, işte biraz önce söyledim, üyelerimiz de yönetmenlerimiz de cahil insanlar. Böyle cahil
insanlarla iş yapmak çok zor. Bu çünkü ‘Ben biliyorum’ diyor.

Item 13.
Biz cahil dediğimiz zaman, mektepte okumamış olanları kasdetmiyoruz. Kasdettiğimiz ilim, hakikati bilmektir.
Yoksa okumuş olanlardan en büyük cahiller çıktığı gibi, hiç okumak bilmeyenlerden de hakikati gören gerçek
alimler çıkabilir.
 377

APPENDIX 3: HOUSEHOLD SURVEY KEREM MAHALLE

This survey of the quarter of Kerem was made in August 1997 and covers 67 of 114
households in Kerem mahalle. Fishermen are probably slightly over-represented in the
sample.

Table 1: Households and population in Kerem mahalle that are covered by survey
Numbers of Total Average Total number Women of Males of
households members of household of children working age working age
households size
67 330 4,93 117 77185 113

Table 2: Persons (in sample) engaged in fisheries or fishery-related activities

Total Total full-time Full-time Full-time Full-time Part-time On shore
fisherman small boat crew captain fishermen
85 68 39 21 15 8 9186

Table 3: Number of households in sample that own boats187

Total Purse seiners Carriers/Trawls Seasnail boats Çırnak (4-7m.)
47 7 7 27 10

Table 4: Main income of sample households

(percentages, one answer each)
Fishery and fishery-related activity 64
Public position 15
(memur as well as işçi, manual worker)
Private business 9
Mix of incomes, including hazelnuts 8
Employee in the private sector 3
Other, e.g. help from friends/relatives 2

185
Most women do not engage in salaried work. Yet, in addition to household chores many attend to a
couple of cows and work their gardens and hazelnut groves. Many of these are probably not included in
this number.
186
The seasnail processing plant in Keremköy employs 50-60 persons, but most of these come from
other quarters and villages.
187
This includes also partial ownership. This list is therefore not a list of total number of boats owned
by persons in the sample.
 378

Table 5: Percentage of households’ income secured from

fishing or related activities (percentages)
0 – 29 % of household's income 24
30 – 69 % of household's income 9
70 – 100 % of household's income 67
 379
APPENDIX 4: DEVELOPMENT IN OWNERSHIP AND USE OF BIG FISHING BOATS
IN THE DISTRICT OF ÇARŞIBAŞI FROM 1989 UNTIL 1998188
Owner Village or 1990: name of Use of boats Developments during 1998:name of boats Use of boats Length Comments
quarter boats 1989-90 1991-1997 1997-98 (meter)
Can Kardeşler189 İskefiye Can Kardeşler Purse seiner Unsuccessful venture into Can Kardeşler Balıkçılık Purse seiner 42 Sustained success, are
(Kerem) Can Kardeşler 2 Purse seiner aquaculture during 1992-94 Can Kardeşler Balıkçılık 3 Purse seiner 42 among those that pay the
Can Kardeşler 3 Carrier Boats partly new, partly Can Kardeşler 1 Purse seiner 27 best shares to crew
Can Kardeşler 4 Carrier enlarged Can Kardeşler Balıkçılık 1 Carrier 24
Can Kardeşler Balıkçılık 2 Carrier 25
Can Kardeşler Balıkçılık 4 Carrier 25 They also own a fish meal
Can Kardeşler 2 Carrier 23 Factory
Küçük Kardeşler in Keremköy Doğruyol Purse s./trawl Fishing in the Aegean Doğruyol Purse seiner 28 Building 12m lamp boat -
partnership with Hacı Yunus Purse seiner Boats enlarged Hacı Yunus Purse seiner 34 assist in fishery in Aegean
Sait Terzi Abonoz Reis Trawl/Carrier Abonoz Reis Carrier 21 Has recently bought new
Terzi Kardeşler Carrier Küçük Kardeşler Carrier 25 purse seine net and
'satelite'.
Ali Ertuğrul İskefiye Rüstemoğlu Purse seiner Used for trawling 90-91 Rüstemoğlu Carrier 25
(son of Zekeria) (Kaleköy) Fishing in the Aegean during 98/99 in new partnership
1993-94. 97/98 in
partnership with Y. Terzi
Yılmaz Terzi Keremköy Çelal Baba Purse seiner Sold in 1991, but operated Çelal Baba Purse seiner 34 98/99 new partnership in
by himself in Mediterranean Mediterranean, severe
and later bought back. economic difficulties
Ahmet Reis Carrier On shore during 90-91
season, sold in 1993
Ergün Kardeşler Fenerköy Ergün Kardeşler Purse seiner Boat enlarged 91-92, Ergün Kardeşler Balıkçılık Purse seiner 45
Hüseyin Kaptan sold in 98
(became a yacht in the Med.)
Hüseyin Kaptan (?) Carrier New boat in 98 Ergün Kardeşler Carrier 30
188
I have compiled this list on the basis of information that I have gathered directly from fishermen. Various official registers (e.g. harbour registration registers) are not
suitable for this purpose. The present list is, I believe, fairly comprehensive, but may miss 2-4 carriers in Gülbahçe/Fenerköy.
189
Kardeşler means ‘brothers’ and I use it here to indicate partnership between brothers, most often 3-5 brothers.
 380
Owner Village or 1990: name of Use of boats Developments during 1998:name of boats Use of boats Length Comments
quarter boats 1989-90 1991-1997 1997-98 (meter)
Şahin Kardeşler Fenerköy Şahin Balıkçılık Purse seiner Şahin Balıkçılık Purse seiner 30
Kaptan Burak Carrier Kaptan Burak Carrier 20
(more carriers?) Şahin Balıkçılık 1 Carrier 25
Tapucular Carrier 20
Yılmaz Kardeşler Fenerköy Yılmaz Kardeşler 1 Purse seiner Made new purse seiner 1993 Yılmaz Balıkçılık Purse seiner 40
(Carrier?) Yılmaz Kardeşler 1 Carrier 26
Zekeria Kul Kaleköy Özkullar 2 Purse seiner Sold both boats, bought newZekeria Kul Purse Seiner 32 Sold 1998
purse seiner 1993,
Özkullar 1 Carrier enlarged 1994
Mehmet Kalaycı Gülbahçe Kalaycı Kardeşler Carrier Used for trawling during Kalaycı Kardeşler Trawl 20 Sold 1998
90-96
Özbey Kardeşler Zeytinlik Idris Reis Purse seiner to Aegean in 90-91, sold in
92
Yunus Terzi Keremköy Emicaoğlu Purse seiner Used as trawler during 90-
91, thereafter sold
Beydüllah Akyol Gülbahçe Akyollar Purse seiner since approx. 1992 rented Akyollar Carrier 26 Sold 1998?
out as carrier
Mustafa Yüksek Salova Taşçı Mustafa Reis Purse seiner trawl in 90-91, later used as HacıYusuf Carrier 23 Initially built as purse
carrier seiner, but did not manage
to invest in necessary
equipment. For sale
Mehmet Salih Bektaş Fenerköy Mazlum Carrier Mazlum Carrier 19
Ismail Bektaşoğlu Gülbahçe Hilmi Reis Carrier Hilmi Reis Carrier 20
Mehmet Akkan Keremköy First big boat bought in 96 Mehmet Kaptan Carrier 18 1998/99 Trawl
Muzaffer Terzi Keremköy Zafer 1 Carrier Partly sold in 91, fully sold
in 1995-6
 381
Owner Village or 1990: name of Use of boats Developments during 1998:name of boats Use of boats Length Comments
quarter boats 1989-90 1991-1997 1997-98 (meter)
Abdullah Terzi Keremköy Mehmet Reis Carrier sold in 1991
Asım Kul Zeytinlik Kul Balıkçılık Carrier sold?
Yaşar Kaya Zeytinlik Kaya Kardeşler Carrier sold?
İsmail Çakır Keremköy Ramız Reis Carrier Sold in 1991
Mehmet Çabuk Gülbahçe Gülbahçe Carrier Sold in 1991
Ahmet Akkan Keremköy Zafer 2 Carrier Sold
Niyazı Kaya Burunbaşı Kul Carrier Sold approx. 1993
Selahattin Kaya Burunbaşı Yakupoğlu Carrier/Trawl sold in 1991
Hüsnü Akkan Keremköy Hüsnü Reis Trawl Sold Hüsnü Reis, made new Hüsnü Reis 2 Trawl 23
Hüsnü Reis 2 smaller boat 1997 Hüsnü Kaptan Trawl 15
Mehmet Çalış Keremköy Muratlı Trawl Bought bigger boat in 1994 Coşkun Reis Trawl 21
Osman Doğru Keremköy Doğrular Trawl Doğrular Trawl 18
 382

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