An Encounter with Aliens

About why I moved here

My father wants very much to have an encounter with aliens. He’s written a letter to Bob Lazar, which he refuses to disclose the contents of to anyone. He did see a UFO once, decades ago, out of a plane window enroute from Thailand – but that didn’t quite cut the mustard. If anything, it probably whet his appetite and felt like the buildup to something he’s still waiting for. And now, in the winter of his life, Dad feels a bit hard done by that the alien encounter hasn’t happened yet.

On a bad day, I can relate. See, I was having this thought on Pegasus flight PC1166. There was a full moon out, to my left, and a woman with a giant, unruly baby, to the right of me. It was a bad day. But have you ever seen what the full moon can do to a landscape from bird’s eye view? It can magic the world so utterly, you’ll sit bolt upright in your shitty economy seat, of a shitty economy airline, and gape in awe and horror as the fullmoonlight ghosts over rivers and riverbends like the beam of a flashlight dancing eerily over a theatre set in darkness.

I was mesmerised. I needed more. And I knew in that moment, that what Dad actually wants is mental obliteration. An experience that will blow his mind to smithereens and our whole world view out of the water. Bring on the aliens. Monsters. Angels. The real behind the curtain. Something to dwarf all of life’s troubles and injustices. So, that the schemes of the powerful can be foiled catastrophically and we can all throw our heads back and laugh at the stupid shit we were so worried about.

That’s what I also want. Very much please. On a bad day. And this is one of the reasons why I now live in Turkiye – my destination on flight PC1166, after two weeks in London.

Do you miss London? – friends kept asking, during those two weeks; apparently oblivious to the misery on my face and the crazy eyes. The honest truth: no.

I did once, with a broken heart. Who wouldn’t miss the country they were born and mostly raised in? The process of moving here, back in 2013, was awful. But now, things are different. Now, I realise, I’m no longer mentally equipped to cope with London. And people who are better put together than I, might disagree, but I’m convinced there’s something wrong with the UK. Every time I go back, that initial excitement of reunions recedes to reveal an unshakeable sense that the place is bereft.

Of what? I’m not sure. But I have a theory. And I’m gonna call it, The Theory of Spiritual Currency.

Why do I gasp relief every time I wheel out with my suitcase at Sabiha Gokcen airport as if my soul has broken the surface? By all accounts, Turkiye’s getting more crooked by the day. Going to the dogs, as they say, politically, socially, economically, religiously - for all the many reasons my mum will be pleased to tell you about, as she regurgitates anxiety-inducing opposition news. But at its heart, I’m convinced, the country still runs on spiritual currency.

On a bad day, I find this baffling. On a good day, I stop to observe and wonder about where it manifests from. The strays that are well looked after? The shrines people pause to pray at? The bread on the ground that someone sweeps aside for the birds, so it doesn’t get trampled? Basically, the little things we do ‘for Allah’ – emanating from an inbuilt belief in and dread of the supernatural. In Turkiye, most people stop for the tramp selling tissues, because what if he’s Hizir? And someone always has a story to tell about an encounter with the metaphysical. And what about those superficial supplications flawed Muslims invoke on each other? They must add up. And the Adhaan.

In Turkiye I get to hear the Adhaan on a regular basis. Which is very sensory. My hypersensitivity, you see, needs constant pacification. As I’ve said, I am not so well put together. At my lowest, mental obliteration in the form of an alien encounter is a very welcoming thought. Or anything…anything that will break open and get God into my head.

To be reminded five times a day, then, that Allah is great. There is no God but Allah – is good. I need God in my head. I need Him there all the time, or I will lose my shit.

Also. Turkiye is often described as evliya yatagi – a resting place of the Auwliya. If there was a Guinness World Record for the country with most dead holy people underground, I wager we’d give Morocco and Uzbekistan a good run for their money. I wonder if they’re the reason for a lot of the metaphysical encounters here. Either way, their Barakah is another thing I’m banking on.

So, to Muslim friends in Western countries who tell me they want to move: I can wax lyrical about the town I live in being more conducive to clean, planet friendly living. I can brag about the local eggs and raw milk and homegrown produce from the people of outlying villages. I can tell you about the cream that sometimes plops into my mug in the mornings. And the ground water we have access to. But the truth is, I also happen to live in a town with the worst air pollution in the country. So, after all my clean-living efforts, the smog will probably kill me.

Don’t believe any of my bragging. My ego still suffers from the residual sadnesses of being uprooted and strange, and I often want to hear what a smart move I’ve made. Because moving is never easy. The truth is, I’m neither smart, nor do I have a head for securing tangible benefits. I’m here for the spiritual currency. And though the marketplace looks grim these days, the economy still, somehow sustains.

Meanwhile, I hope my Dad gets to have his encounter with aliens soon. And I hope I’ll be with him when he does.