Saturday, November 28,
2009
Istanbul, Turkey
Merhaba!
Hello
from Istanbul (which was Constantinople, but now it’s Istanbul, not
Constantinople). I’m lounging on our ottoman enjoying a strong Turkish coffee and syrupy baklava as the call to prayer broadcasts
from the neighborhood mosque through our second story window. It has
been interesting to be back in the Muslim world, and we’re noticing a lot of
similarities with our experience in North Africa. Many differences also,
though, and most seem to stem from Turkey’s history as the seat of the Ottoman
Empire. Our Bulgarian friends, who spent 500 years under the Ottoman yoke had a thing or two to say about the Turks, of
course, so it's interesting to be hearing the other side of the story.
If you
ask an Istanbuller to describe the legacy of the
Ottomans, you’ll inevitably hear the word tolerance. The Turks, after
all, conquered many lands, but in general allowed their subjects to maintain
their traditions, languages, and religions. This tolerance is very much alive
in Istanbul today, from what we’ve seen. Although 99.8% of the population is
Muslim, and seven enormous mosques tower over the city from seven majestic
hills, Jewish temples and Christian churches also dot the horizon.
We have had two Turkish language lessons from a friend of a friend
of a friend… Alper Aziz, a nice 40-something gentleman whose family is from here in
Istanbul. Well, actually he considers himself to be Spanish, seeing as
how his family only recently migrated here—400 years ago when the Jews were
forced out of Spain and his family made its way through North Africa to Turkey
to live under the more tolerant Ottoman Empire. Damn, we Americans have a short
memory. He describes himself as Judeo-Hispanic and his family still speaks some
Spanish, a language more akin to the Old Spanish of the Middle
Ages than any version we’ve ever heard. He’s trying to cram the basics of
Turkish into our two lessons, so at least now we can say a few words and
phrases in Turkish, which
will make tomorrow go more smoothly than today.
Alper reflects with pride
on his city, and though he feels that as a Jew he can
never feel totally at ease here, he insists that even if his people were forced
to hit the road again tomorrow, it would have been a nice few hundred years
spent here in Istanbul. After only two weeks, we know how he feels.
One of
the first differences I noticed is that, though many women chose to wear head
scarves, and some even the full, black, head-to-toe burka, which we never
encountered in Tunisia, women seem to have more
personal freedom here in Turkey. Or at least in Istanbul.
In North Africa, there was very little mingling of the sexes in public—men
dominated streets, mosques, and cafes, and women generally stayed in the home.
If women were out on the streets, it was generally for a brief and
specific purpose—going to the bazaar, to the mosque (on Fridays when they are
allowed), or to the hammam—and always
in groups with other women. Here there are more mixed groups, and from our
third floor kitchen window, I’ve even seen a few women walking alone after
dark, which is comforting.
It has
been fun to celebrate Turkey Day in Turkey this year, though our traditions
have had to adapt a bit. We were delighted to learn that this year our Thanksgiving Day actually coincides with the beginning of Kurban Bayrami,
which is one of the most important holidays of the Muslim calendar. There is a
festive spirit in the air, with families streaming out of mosques and strolling
in the streets; burka-clad mothers stopping our blond-headed kids for a group
photo that will go into the family Kurban Bayrami photo album; lining up in front of street
vendors to buy fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice or fresh-baked simit (the
Turkish version of bagels, which are sold on nearly every street corner, much
to my New York husband’s delight).
Kurban Bayrami is the Sacrifice Holiday, commemorating that
age-old story, retold in holy books from the Koran to the Torah to the Old Testament,
of Abraham’s near sacrifice of his son on the top of Mt. Moriah. Exactly which
son he was offering up seems to be a matter of some debate I’ve learned. When I
learned the story growing up through sermons from the altar, Isaac was the
chosen son who narrowly escaped being sacrificed, and who then fathered the
Judeo-Christian people—the chosen ones. Islamic tradition, however, maintains
that the poor kid on the pyre was in fact Ishmael, the son who Abraham fathered
with his maidservant, Hagar, while waiting (not so patiently) for his wife
Sarah to bear him a legitimate son. In the Jewish and Christian version of the
story, Ishmael was little more than the wicked bastard son who was later
banished into the desert. Islamic tradition, on the other hand, maintains that
Ishmael, who was the eldest and first born son, was Abraham’s rightful heir.
So, according to the Koran, it was Ishmael who was strapped to that
mountain-top pyre, saved by the hand of God (Allah), and then went on to become
the father of the chosen people. The Arab people.
Now,
I’m not one to bicker about who killed who, but it seems to me that this might
just be the crux of the issue. That minor variation in the
story that has kept the war machines churning for the past couple millennia,
with no signs of a peace flag as of yet.
Regardless,
I love the spirit of Kurban Bayrami, which is a celebration of the mercy and
compassion of God who allowed a lamb to be sacrificed in place of Abraham’s
son. Muslims still commemorate the event by sacrificing their finest lamb or
goat for the holiday. Across Turkey, thousands of animals will be slaughtered
today, and they say that the countryside runs red with blood. Thankfully, we’ve
been sheltered from the actual carnage here in Istanbul since most city-folk no
longer keep livestock. (Instead, they pay a friend in the countryside to
perform the sacrifice on their behalf and donate the proceeds to charity.) To
be honest, we’re not terribly disappointed to be missing out on the particulars
of the holiday. After all, our Spanish bullfight taught us that we don’t have
to participate fully in every tradition.
Instead,
we celebrated by partaking in the more benign tradition of taking the metro to
do some Christmas haggling at the Grand Bazaar. And then
stopping at our local hammam for a
Turkish bath. The hammam is
generally a large, round, vaulted, communal, marble bath house which was
constructed, much like its Roman precursors, in each city center so that the
public could maintain cleanliness even in areas with little water. Though most
Turkish homes now have plentiful indoor water supplies, the hammam is still an important tradition.
Jason and Cyrus, who the burley masseur referred to as “Baby Sultan,” enjoyed a
scrub down and massage in the men’s hammam,
while Bella and I were being pampered in the woman’s section, which is of
course separate and less glamorous than the men’s area. I should say that pampered
here is a relative term, which in Turkish seems to mean being laid out in the
buck on a marble slab, scoured with a goat-hair mitt by a seventy-year-old,
nearly-toothless woman, who then throws pails of lukewarm water at your face
until you emerge an hour later—squeaky clean and a bit woozy. Nothing that can’t be cured by a strong cup of Turkish red tea and
a puff from the nargileh.
The
Bosporus Strait connects the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara and divides
Istanbul into two—the European side and the Asian side. Our apartment is on the
European side, but this week we touched Asian soil for our very first time. The
kids’ favorite pastime has been the many afternoons spent ferrying across to
the Asian shore; to visit the fish market; to ride bikes around the Prince
Islands; to find the city’s best Turkish Delight. And
tomorrow we head to Asia for good to begin the final chapter, the Asian
chapter, of The Big Field Trip. We will fly over less hospitable lands—Iran,
Afghanistan, Pakistan—and eventually land in India were we will spend the next
three months. The two weeks we’ve spent here in Istanbul have been an
eye-opening experience. A blend of the West, which is all that we’ve known
until now, with the East, where only Allah knows what’s in store for us…
Güle güle.
Angela