Hayır means Hayır!

First off, let me say I am not writing this to make anyone worried (MomBrennaPennyRon), I am writing this simply because it happened and I want it chronicled, and ultimately it is an experience in my stay here. So with that being said…
Two days ago, as happens every year, the city was overtaken with Aussies and Kiwis. Thousands stream in at the end of April to gather for a commemorative holiday (Google ANZAC and Gallipoli if you are interested, but really what is of importance here is how you deal with them). I haven’t been drinking very much these past two weeks, but when surrounded by hundreds of Aussies and Kiwis, what else do you do? You drink beers and laugh with them. Sometimes you give them high fives for no reason, and if you are lucky, you pelvic thrust on a few. It was good fun, but after two nights of debauchery in a row, I, in my tolerance-weakened state, went home last night before everyone else to get some sleep. Tired and warm, I set off alone into the night.
The walk to my house from where we were is only about 10 minutes, and is a walk I do each morning and night. I walk between two giant, dramatically lit mosques, down a cobblestone street, past the old prison in Midnight Express (which is now, disappointingly, a Four Seasons Hotel), through a street of carpet dealers, past a busy street of bars and restaurants, down some huge marble steps, straight to my wrought-iron door. I usually enjoy these twice daily walks; they are the only minutes I have for myself, and last night should have been no exception. But after spending the entire day telling girls over and over how safe this city is, it seems irony decided to take me for a little ride.
It was our first truly warm night last night, and strolling home I was feeling very happy, holding my jacket instead of wearing it and looking up at the dark sky. Then behind me, I heard what has become the soundtrack to my life here, “Excuse me where are you from?” I ignored it like I always do and kept walking, until I heard the patter of trotting feet and turned to my left to see a Turkish guy, about my age, adjusting to my pace and walking alongside me. Continuing to ignore him and whatever poor English he was speaking, I walked on sleepily. That is, until he grabbed my arm and linked it tightly with his. Unphased, I tried to wriggle free, and when he wouldn’t let me, I yelled in my loudest and meanest voice, “Fuck off!” in Turkish. He did immediately, cursed me back and then indeed, fucked off. Not thinking much of this, I kept walking the remaining 3 minutes home, thinking about my marshmallow bed and a big glass of water.
The entrance to my place is, I guess you would say, a courtyard, but do not let that conjure up any romantic images. It is a broken tile landing surrounded by a tall, orange cement wall and is filled with junk, tepid puddles of water, a small shed, and a dark curved staircase that leads up to the front door. The wrought iron door I was speaking of is the entrance to the courtyard, although it is almost redundant as anyone with functioning legs could just hop the wall.
Pushing the key into the lock, I realized the jagged tooth side was pointing up, which meant my key was upside down. Had I inserted it correctly, I would have been inside a full five seconds earlier, but since I didn’t, my night took a drastic turn. As I corrected my mistake, flipped the key over, and pushed the door open, I felt him behind me. I had only enough time to turn around before he had me pinned against the exterior wall of the courtyard and forced his tongue in my mouth.
Let’s stop for a moment, because I think this gentleman needs a code name—I was thinking about this earlier, and the best thing I can come up with is “THE MAN I WILL KILL IF I SEE AGAIN” However, that is completely impractical. Thought next to shorten it to TMIWKIISA , but that is just as tiresome. (Sidenote: This actually anagrams into “A Kiwi Mist,” but that is far too beautiful and was quickly removed from consideration). So after not too much thought, I am dubbing him “Fuckhead.”
Anyway Fuckhead had me pinned pretty good. Having never been in a situation like this, my brain surprised me with the following actions: since I could not move my arms or body, my thought was to open my mouth wider in an inviting way, so that his tongue could go in farther, hopefully allowing me to bite it clean off. I wasn’t able to chomp down as hard as I wanted to, but I did get it enough to make him wriggle away from me for half of a second. Still not able to move much, I turned my wrist to grab his ballsac as hard as I could, and twisted sharply. He pulled his mouth away from mine, but I was shocked this didn’t accomplish more. It did make him mad though, and he pushed me down the stairs into the courtyard. I knew if he got that iron door shut I was completely screwed. Like, literally. I jumped to my feet in an instant, but it didn’t matter too much since he was already on me, tearing at my clothes with his nasty writhing-worm tongue in my mouth again. As he squeezed and grabbed and tore at me, I realized my keys were by my feet. I let my body weight drop to the ground, scooped them up, held them tightly in my fist, and punched his face, slicing his cheek open. He stumbled back enough to give me time to start shouting “Hayır Hayır!!” (“No, no!”), and that was really all it took. My street is quite close to the very busy restaurant and bar street, but is still one block down and is usually abandoned. He was right thinking no one would see this, but with my shouts there was bound to be someone with in ear shot. So he started scrambling away down the street. I again surprised myself, because although he was disappearing down the street, which means he was no longer trying to force himself on me, I started running after him. I chased him screaming “YOU FUCKER I WILL KILL YOU!! GODDAMN YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT COME BACK HERE!!!” Brilliant, self. I wasn’t really thinking, I was just so pissed off. Anyway, he obeyed, and quickly turned to come back. This time he began charging me, pointing at his face where I had made it bleed. He too, was pissed. Knowing he could easily over power me, I started screaming “HELP!” He got pretty close, and right as he was about to strike me, he saw two big blokes running down the stairs towards us, praise be to Allah. That pretty much ended it. These guys were much bigger than him, so he took off again, this time permanently. They chased him for a bit, but once it became clear he was gone for good, they both turned to me, and I started crying. A gush of tears sprang forth because this was, like I said, the first time something like this has ever happened to me and it was scary. Looking back on it today though, I realize it could have been much worse. He could have had a knife, I could have been wearing a skirt, he could have beat the shit out of me, he could have gotten that door shut, etc.
The story has a happy ending though, as the guys who came to my aid were wonderful; one English guy and one Aussie. They wiped my tears, gave supportive hugs and bought me beers and chocolate cake for the next four hours, until I felt like I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. They walked me home of course, and this time I made it in safely all the way to my bed, where I slept through my alarm clock and came in two hours late for work in the morning. When I told my Turk guys at work what happened, they were livid, offered to buy me pepper spray, and all asked the same question: “If you see him again, will you remember him?” They want to have a little chat with Fuckhead.
So, there it is. I asked myself today what lesson I learned from this, and while part of me thinks it is something like “stay on your toes, don’t get too comfortable anywhere, the world is dangerous,” another bigger part thinks that is too cynical, and not a way I want to view life. I think when I boil it down, the thing I learned most is “for every bad person that is out there, two more good ones are standing near.” And that friends, to me, is worth something.