Chater 11- Hammam

When I lived in Turkey for a few months, working on a project in Syria, I stumbled upon something that would stay with me long after I left. It was called a Hammam—a Turkish bath—and it was more than just a place to wash away the dust and fatigue. It was a sanctuary, a space where layers of the world peeled away and I could finally breathe.

The first room you walk into is a large, open space, filled with low tables where people sip Turkish tea and chat quietly. The air is thick with the scent of herbs and steam, and the atmosphere feels both lively and intimate. Small side areas branch off from here—little alcoves with hair dryers and mirrors, meant for after your bath. This space is for both men and women, a shared sanctuary that feels oddly sacred in its shared silence.

Beyond that, I entered another big room—this one with tiny change rooms circling the perimeter. I didn’t speak much English, and I was the only one there at that moment. I headed into the sauna and settled onto the marble slab, letting the heat seep into my bones. I closed my eyes, feeling the tension melt away, the world quiet around me.

After what felt like closer to fifteen minutes, a woman entered. She moved with purpose, filling buckets from the taps around the room. I wasn’t sure who she was—she didn’t speak much English either—so I just sat there, silent, listening to the gentle splash of water.

Soon, she finished filling the buckets, changed into a bathing suit, and beckoned me over. I had no idea what was supposed to happen next, so I just stood there, a little lost, unsure of what to do. She didn’t speak; she simply nodded and set a towel down on the marble. I hesitantly sat on it, feeling awkward but trusting her somehow.

Then she began scrubbing me with an exfoliating mitt. Her hands worked efficiently, scrubbing my back, then my front. It didn’t hurt—surprisingly, it felt good, like a gentle awakening. When she told me to flip over, I did, and she continued, covering every inch. Finally, she sat me up and scrubbed my arms. I felt vulnerable, exposed, but strangely safe. Her touch was kind, almost motherly in its care.

The most unexpected part came after. She fetched a bucket of warm, sudsy water and a soft washcloth. She washed me in the same gentle way, but this time, she massaged as she worked. The warmth of her hands, the soothing soap, the rhythmic movements—they felt like a balm, a kind of tenderness I didn’t even realize I was craving. 

That’s when it hit me—this wasn’t just about cleansing my body. It was about something deeper. I didn’t have that kind of tenderness growing up. I craved it—needed it. And in that moment, I understood what I’d been missing all along.

I returned almost every weekend after that. Not just for the bath, but for the feeling. To feel even momentarily what it meant to be cared for, to be comforted. I never felt that from mommy. I don't think she meant to not be that way with us. She had 5 kids, she was stressed, she was transitioning to a new culture herself. She was from Ohio. Because beneath my tough exterior, I realized, what I really needed was love—pure, simple, motherly love. And that’s what the Hammam gave me.