Istanbul was full of awe and awakenings, literally and metaphorically. A call to prayer wafted in through the hotel window at 6 AM. Good morning! Part Asia, part Europe, with a Middle East vibe, it felt like the perfect party buffet: a combination of new and familiar, progressive and traditional, playful and profound.
Amidst the sea of head scarves, a naughty sign outside a cafe: “Don’t touch my cookie.”
It's a place peopled with people who look like America’s minorities. Dark beards, hijabs, an occasional full-face niqab. To be here in their home where they are the regular folks, not “other” but ordinary people living ordinary lives, eking out a livelihood amidst skyrocketing inflation, making wraps and juice drinks for customers, selling knockoff purses at the bazaar, a young girl and her brother begging on the ferry, women and husbands pushing strollers. The tram crowded morning to night, humanity crushed together.
But different too.
Men in one neighborhood kneeling on prayer rugs on the sidewalk when the call to prayer rings out and then lingering there with fellow worshippers. Men walking arm in arm -- likely not romantically – making me wonder if this might be healthy for men in the West too. Roasted corn and chestnuts on sidewalk carts. Turkish Delight and mountains of spices everywhere – odd, I think, considering the food there is not spicy. But that’s probably my Indian bias.
And… we had been warned of this but couldn’t imagine the degree: Anjali and Nat, both 20, getting catcalled and ogled and propositioned (“Will you marry me”). Nat later told her mom on the phone, “Turns out they like short, curly-haired Jewish women. They don’t even know it. They wouldn’t marry me if they knew.”
She is right, of course. Our young friend's beauty drew some instinctual attraction. But as she said, if they knew, it would likely have elicited learned prejudices.
On a sunny Saturday, a protest against the war in Gaza unfolded against the backdrop of a mosque. Or more honestly, a protest against Israel’s devastation of Gaza. Green, red, black and white everywhere. People dressed in keffiyehs and black robes and headbands with Arabic writing. A speech in Turkish… all of it beyond my comprehension… but then a muscular chant. “Shame. Shame. Shame.” Why did the man choose to say that word in English, I wonder. Was he aware that this might get broadcasted around the world – and if nothing else, that one word, repeated over and over, would leave no doubt of their stance. During the fiery speech though (the tone was plenty), an older woman leaned against a fence, face weary, hands held up in prayer.
This protest wasn’t a competition for the cleverest sign. It held more gravitas
than the ones you see in America. It was also a lot more homogeneous, most of
the protestors being Muslim. But it’s possible that I paint with too broad a brush. The
crowd probably included people like Derya, our spunky, non-religious tour guide
in skinny jeans, her Medusa curls cut short, tips bleached bronze and tamed
with a dozen little butterfly clips.
Yes, there were probably all shades of Muslims there – but no discernable people of other creeds. But who knows. What was clear was that the world is not sleeping through this war. They may not have much influence -- and I can’t speak to Turkiye’s role in this catastrophe -- but certainly there are deep, hot feelings that won’t soon be cooled. We are witnessing another accelerator in a generations-long cycle of violence and revenge and hostility and carnage. I’m terrified of the next cycle of retribution.
A Moment at a Mosque
Mosques dot the horizon of Istanbul. They take up the visual space, and the prayer calls five times a day take up the audible. At least one restaurant we went to silenced its music when the call came. These must become the sounds and sights of home, I thought. Istanbulites probably find them comforting.
The one synagogue we saw had a police car parked outside it, barbed wire atop its exterior wall, clearly a sign of its vulnerability here.
A lovely moment in a mosque. A young man, an Afghan volunteer, told us about the mosque’s clever design quirks. Why ostrich eggs are hanging amidst the lights for example (to repel spiders), and how the ventilation is designed to bring in the outside air and channel it all out toward one window, sweeping up with it the candle smoke – so as not to leave smoky residue on the mosque walls. I listened intently but secretly harbored a little skepticism. Then he said the collected soot was used to paint the writing on the mosque and my skepticism was challenged. Will need to get to the truth of this claim.
The volunteer showed us "Allah" written in Arabic on one side of the mosque, "Muhammad" on the other. No images of course in mosques, only words. This mosque was born a mosque, but Hagia Sophia has flip-flopped from church to mosque to museum to mosque. Faces of angels and Christ’s retinue have been erased, or in some cases, just covered with a curtain. But in some mosques, the Christian images have been left alone in the lobby. A loophole. I’m sure Allah can’t see the faces outside the prayer halls. Anyway, after he told us these bits about the mosque, the young man noticed my drawing notebook and asked if I was an artist. If you are interested in architecture, he said, there is a book over there about Istanbul’s mosques. “It is really nice,” he said, “with good pictures and strong English.”
This man had let me pass without a proper head covering… I only had a sun hat, which did nothing to contain the bottom of my hair… and he had given us a warm welcome, and now this book. I stammered some kind of gratitude and said I would like to pay.
But he objected. “That would make this conversation impure,” he said.
He wanted our exchange to be just about kindness, not transaction, not a subtle sales job, certainly not conversion.
Is it telling that I found this noticeable? Does the fact that I was taken by this depth of sentiment mean that I somehow didn’t expect it? In my defense, hustle and capitalism are ubiquitous. Everyone wants to make a buck. But I do feel like this trip allowed me, a pretty devout atheist, to glimpse a different side to organized religion. Of course, I have seen such beneficence in this context before -- in temples, gurdwaras, churches and synagogues -- but it was still nice to have my default cynicism challenged once again.
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Thanks for reading this far. More on this trip coming soon!
