muckefuck: (zhongkui)
When I first looked for mevsufsunuz in my Turkish dictionary, I couldn't find it. It didn't help at all that I was hearing a /t/ in it that wasn't there. But even if I'd had the spelling correct, I would still have been SOL because it seems this particular form has become obsolete. I know what you're thinking--Topkapi isn't even half a century old. But that's the impact of the "catastrophic" pace of language renewal documented so well by Geoffrey Lewis.

In the context of the film, mevsufsunuz is translated as "You are under arrest". So I attacked it from the other direction, by looking up "to arrest" in the English-Turkish section. There I found the phrasal verb tevkif etmek. Etmek is a light verb, frequently used to give verbal force to borrowed nouns (e.g. mat etmek "to checkmate"). Tevkif wears its Arabic origins like a turban and Hans Wehr gives "arrest" among the meanings of توقيف tawqīf, a deverbal from the root w-q-f "stop". From this, it's simple enough to work forward and derive a passive participle of the form mafʻūl, i.e. mawqūf "arrested" (or--in Turkish clothing--mevkuf; -sunuz is simply a vowel-harmonised form of the second-person plural/polite present tense auxiliary ending).

But you'll look in vain for mevkuf in the little violet Redhouse I keep on the bedside table. As we've just seen, adjectives like mevkuf require some familiarity with Arabic morphology to relate to other derivatives of the same stem, and hence have fallen out of currency in a culture where Arabic grammar is no longer commonly studied. Moreover, tevkif etmek itself competes with the native calque tutuklamak (from tutmak "to stop" by means of a derived noun tutuk to which the verb-forming ending -lAmAk has been added).

So there's every chance that if Topkapi were being filmed today, what our hapless hustler would've heard shouted at him would be "Tutuklusunuz!" (Tutuk with the "adjectival" ending -lI plus the suffixed auxiliary mentioned above). That's how much difference a generation or two can make in a land which makes a fetish of linguistic purism.
muckefuck: (Default)
I'll have to look again to confirm, but I believe somewhere in Lewis' The Turkish language reform : a catastrophic success (highly recommended!) he mentions something about Turkish iskemle "chair" being taken from "French". I found this curious, since I can't think of any piece of furniture with a French name remotely close to iskemle. Turning it over in my head, however, I was struck by the resemblance to German Schemel "stool"; could both stem from the same source?

In fact they do, but French was not involved. German Schemel is the outcome of a West Germanic borrowing of Latin scamellum, a diminutive of scamnum "bench". Advanced students will recognise in this the source of our own "shambles" (through a much-commented-upon semantic shift of "benches" > "tables for the display of goods, esp. meat" > "slaughtering benches" > "slaughterhouse" > "scene of ruin; mess").

But the Teutons weren't the only ones to find the lure of the word irresistible. Liddell and Scott show that the Latin scamnus was borrowed into Greek as σκάμνος, which they equate in meaning to σκίμπους "small couch; hammock". The regular neuter diminutive would be σκαμνίον, which survives into Modern Greek as σκαμνί "stool". And this--to come full circle--seems to be where the Turks loaned iskemle from. (The phonetics match up well once you allow for a shift of /a/ > /e/--either due to i-umlaut or a need to show the non-uvular quality of the /k/--and dissimilation of /n/ to /l/ after /m/ [cf. informal English "chim(b)ley" for "chimney"].)

The meaning of iskemle, incidentally, seems to be drifting a bit in Modern Turkish. The online dictionary I use defines it as "1. chair (without arms); stool. 2. small coffee table; end table." An image search still brings up mostly chairs (some with arms, the definition be damned), but a more eclectic and experimentally artsy selection than sandalye, the more common term. At least, I assume it's more common based on the fact that this is the title of the entry in the Turkish Wikipedia corresponding to "Chair", and iskemle does not redirect to it.

(And the etymology of sandalye? Wiktionary says "Arapça" [i.e. Arabic], but the only similar term in the Wehr dictionary is sandāl "anvil".)
muckefuck: (Default)
Another thing I overheard the bullneck at work today say was, "My mind is like sponge right now. Everything that goes in is coming right back out." Mine's a sponge that's always damp; there's plenty of useful stuff in there if only you could figure out how to wring it out.

I was walking to work this morning when I realised I couldn't count to ten in Turkish. Mind you, this is something I used to do on at least a weekly basis to keep in practice. But somehow I fell out of the habit and didn't think about it until now. And there I was saying to myself, "Bir...üç, dört, uhm...iki! Bir, iki, üç, dört...bes? Beş? Beş. Bir, iki, üç, dört, beş..." and for the life of me I couldn't remember "six". Eight and nine eventually came to me, but "six" was AWOL. I finally gave up as I came within sight of the shuttle stop.

The most frustrating thing about such mental blocks is that there's no way to reason your way around them. The wordforms are completely arbitrary; either you know them of you don't. In such case, I often start going through the letters of the alphabet in order, hoping one will trigger a memory. That's what I started doing out of desperation as the walk back home reminded of my earlier failure; nothing. Finally, a dim recollection made itself heard, an old mnemonic I relied on before I learned the sequence by rote: That there was some connexion between the word for "six" and the world for "gold". But how did you say "gold"? Er...altın! Hmm...oh yeah! Bir, iki, üç, dört, beş, altı, yedi, sekiz, dokuz, on.

At last! Now I can finally count to twenty again! That is, if I can remember "twenty". Yirmi...?
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I stumbled groggy and hungover into the study late this morning to find [livejournal.com profile] monshu gung-ho about hiking down to the paint store on Clark to look at paint colours and get some lunch. I was indifferent to the idea of choosing paint, but the idea of getting lunch there implanted itself. So later, when he was groggy due to napping, I decided it was now-or-never and nipped down to Turkish Bakery for Karadeniz pide.

While there, I took advantage of the opportunity to ask the waiter what his word for mie was. He told me that some speakers used hamuz, which literally means "dough", but that the usual word was ekmek içi, which is literally "the inside of bread". He was bemused at my interest in Turkish and question me about it, which led to a bit of rambling on Sertab Erener, Orhan Pamuk, and the Ottomans.

(Then on the way back, I scored some paint chips for [livejournal.com profile] monshu at Thybonny because that's just the kind of boyfriend I am.)
Apr. 13th, 2006 05:47 pm

Türkheim

muckefuck: (Default)
Oh, and on the subject of loanwords, browsing my little lavendar dictionary last night, I was surprised to come across an entry with the usage note "used by the Turks living in Germany". The word was haym, which it took me a moment to identify as German Heim in Turkic clothing.

You never know with dictionaries, though; more than once, I've seen them list words as current that no one I've ever known has ever used anywhere. So I Googled and got: Berlin’de doğdum. Bu haym’a (Heim:yurt) geldim, çünkü babam beni evlendirdi. That is, "I was born in Berlin. I came to this Heim because my father married me off."

A couple things strike me about this usage. The first is that, even though the text is from a brochure distributed by a Berlin-based organsiation, haym is still glossed. Obviously, not all Turks living in Germany have assimilated it into their vocabularies. Second, it's a rather surprising choice. Words laden with emotional and cultural associations like "home" or "homeland", "longing", "mother", and the like are exactly the kind that tend to resist substitution. That is, I'd be far less surprised to hear Turks using yurt in German, just as German immigrants to the USA brought das Vaterland into English.

Moreover, AFAIK, Heim doesn't have the same meaning in German. In the South, we used it to mean "home", but only adverbially (e.g. "Ich geh jetzt heim"), i.e. where Standard German has nach Hause. For "at home", we used Daheim--but I thought they didn't say that up north, where most of the Turks are living. When I've heard Heim used as a noun, it's always in the institutional sense of "home" (e.g. as in the Toten Hosen song "Willi muss ins Heim"). If anything, I would've expected them to borrow Heimat, which is a fairly close match for yurt.

It makes me wonder what other words might have wormed their way into the speech of Deutschlands Türken. I suppose it's past time I picked up a copy of Kanak Sprak.
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About a month ago, I bought a copy of Hürriyet from Turkish Cuisine and Bakery. I tried puzzling it out for a while, but it some became clear that it would be an impossible task without better resources. Now that I have my little lavendar Redhouse, I've pulled it out again and made some headway. I'm hoping to work my way up to the full-page article on Güven Kıraç of Gegen die Wand (or, as the newspaper calls it, Duvara Karşı) fame.

One of the trickier headlines so far has been Dünya Kupası'na Kuş Gribi Tehdidi. The first bit is easy: dünya means "world". -na is the form of the dative case after the possessive suffix, which here takes the form -sı since the stem ends in a low, back vowel. (Turkish has a complicated system of vowel harmony; almost every suffix has multiple forms depending on the nature of the vowels and consonants in the word's stem.) So, literally, "World Cup-its-to". Just for extra confirmation, the initials "FIFA" are sprinkled liberally through the short article.

Kuş is a bird (or, ahem, a part of the anatomy) and tehdidi is the accusative form of tehdit "threat". So, some bird posed a threat to the World Cup. But what the hell is gribi? It can't be a native Turkish word, nor an Arabo-Persian borrowing--they don't come with initial clusters like that. Only Western European loans generally do, and these are usually from French or English. But what word in either of them looks anything like gribi?

Turns out, it's just old grippe "flu" in foreign guise. What's up with the consonant shift, dudes? )
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From www.turkishdictionary.net:
şerbet
1. sherbet (any of a number of nonalcoholic drinks made with sugar and spices or sugar and fruit juice).
2. solution made by mixing certain substances with water: gübre şerbeti manure tea.
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WARNING: Very rough translation follows.

Günahın Boynuma

Gel günahın boynuma gel (Come to my neck of shame, come)
Dur birazcık bir ara ver (Do stay for a little bit)
Hasretin canımı tüketti (Longing consumed my soul)
Bari bir gün sohbete gel (Come chat for at least one day)

Mumları yaktım bir ümit önce (I burned the candles / A hope at first)
Aynaya baktım sürdüm kokular (I gazed in the mirror / I spread the scents)
Bir çizik attım kara kaplıya vah (I added one line / Woe to the black cover)
Vah yine bana kısmet yeni acılar (Oh, again fate is bitter to me)

Yâr sevdamı sürüyüp gidiyor (Darling is taking my love and going)
Dağlara deryalara (To the mountains, to the seas)
Hem hürriyet hem de aşk istiyor (He wants both freedom and love)
Vay bana vaylar bana (Woe to me, woes to me!)

Yâr gücünü ben de deniyor (Darling barely calls me)
Gül yüzleri yabana (Smile wildly on the faces)
Hem kolay hem de çok zor (Simple and yet very difficult)
Vay bana vaylar bana (Woe to me, woes to me!)
muckefuck: (Default)
Speaking of Sertab Erener lyrics, my quest for them still continues. [livejournal.com profile] febrile knows just how to drive me crazy: Burn me a CD of foreign songs without titles. I spent hours last night listening to the tracks and trying to pick out large enough crumbs to drop into Google. My first success:
Aşk ('Love') )
It's a rare song where she uses small words and speaks slowly. (And, incidentally, puts almost every noun in the ablative.) The others will not so easily fall before my scythe!

Woo! On a roll now!
Zor kadın ('Difficult Woman') )

Utanma ('Don't Be Shy') )
Kumsalda ('On the beach') )
muckefuck: (Default)
In a list of Turkish dishes, I came across the word kavurma which apparently means "cubed browned lamb". It looked suspiciously close to korma, the name for a saucy North Indian dish, so I naturally wondered if they were related. Yup! The OED traces them both back to an older Turkish qawurma from the verb qawurmak "roast, bake". Furthermore, there seems to be another cognate in the name of the Persian dish ghormeh (Turkic/Arabic /q/ regularly becomes /G/ in Modern Persian), a kind of lamb stew.

I haven't been this excited since I figured out that Armenian basturma and Yiddish pastrame must be distant cousins. (Again, the connexion is Turkish: Ottoman baSdirma, of uncertain origin; the modern form is pastırma.) It's both thrilling and dispiriting to find these cognates. On the one hand, I love uncovering cultural interpentration; on the other, it makes the individual cuisines seem somewhat less special when you realise how much they've borrowed from their neighbours.
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[livejournal.com profile] rollick recently asked for everyone's "weirdest encounter...with a total stranger". I'm not sure which story to tell, since I'm sure our definition of "weirdness" varies. I don't get macked on on public transport, like every woman I know does, but I've been to a number of orgies, which I doubt many women have. Would discussing the Holocaust halfway down a staircase naked while men fucked all around me count? But this doesn't seem half as weird to me as meeting some rambling "angel" on the el.

Here's a story I was going to tell anyway, since it happened only last Saturday. Monshu is having ugly mouth problems with the result that he's now on antibiotics and pain pills. This rather screwed our plans for the weekend.

Rather than going someplace upscale and chic (like Pasteur or Atlantique) to celebrate the end of his class, we checked out the local cheap sushi restaurant, Tokyo Marina. It's fine. If Rokucha didn't exist, I might even like it. And the portions are gigantic. But, afterwards, he was feeling tired, I was feeling tired. I still didn't want to give up on checking out Bear Night, if only for an hour or two, but there was at least an hour-and-a-half to kill before anyone would be there.
And here's how I killt it: )
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