I promised my friend Sylvia that
I’d write a diary about our last travel in Turkey. Instead of a long text I
decided to write about the highlights of the journey and a few thoughts on what
I saw. Those who haven’t been to Turkey may frown or laugh at my
enthusiasm when it comes about this country… but you’d only need a few days to
get the virus and fall in love with it. Turkey is beautiful, challenging,
controversial and may test your limits. The most ancient
civilisations were flourishing on these lands: the ancient Greek, Hittite,
Lycian, Lydian, Parthian, Roman, Persian, Sumerian, Assyrian… splendid settlements from the bronze age, Armenian
churches, strange, little or unknown kingdoms like the Kommagene… and we must not forget
the Biblical sites. You prefer the Old Testament? Done! The new one? No problem
at all! Troy. Ephesus. Tarsus. Kappadokia. Antiochia. They are all
in Turkey.
And so is Rize on the Black Sea coast with its mild weather and tea fields, the
giant Salt Lake and a few sleeping volcanos in the middle of the country… But
first and above all: Constantinople, the mighty
city of the Byzantian empire.
Europe seen from the boat to Asia
Keep in mind: Istanbul
is not Turkey
and the more time passes the less Turkish it is. We have been nine times to Turkey so far
and each time we stopped in this beautiful city. At our very first visit we
took the train and when we opened our eyes early in the morning, the train was
riding along the walls of Constantinople.
Giant towers, gates and an impressive, thick wall which seemed endless - this
was Istanbul’s
introduction. I love the sounds, smells, scents and colours of this great city.
Constantinople was the belly button of the Eastern Roman
Empire and his glory hasn’t faded yet. It is difficult to explain
how capturing this city is to someone who has never been there. Just go
and plunge into Istanbul’s life. And by saying this I don’t
mean the touristic sites (which have to be visited, of course) but the picturesque Üsküdar, the Pierre Loti café above the Golden Horn, the crowded fishmarkets, the side streets of
the Gand Bazar, the Catholic cemetery in Şişli… and I could go on like this for a day).
It is amazing how children who
don’t speak each other’s language get along. Our Servas host (a guy
we’ve never seen before) lives in Kadiköy, on the Asian side of Istanbul. He left the key of his apartment at the grocery shop on the
corner of his street. This would never happen in Western Europe, I think. We picked it up and had a chat with the owner, a
nice guy from the Black Sea region (his grocery store is called also Kara Deniz
– Black Sea). Zoárd and his grandson are about
the same age. They were quite shy when they shook hands but in 10 minutes they
just disappeared to play football with other kids in one of the tiny
streets of the neighbourhood. My friend Harun – says my son sometimes, and the name reminds me
instantly of Haroun al-Rashid and the 1001 Nights. But him it will always remind
this little boy from Kadiköy…
Our host left us the keys, we
went in and unpacked. But we felt a bit uncomfortable to stay in someone’s house without knowing the owner, so we went out to the grocery and
had some tea. It was the time of ramazan, the Islamic lent, and when the muezzin
called for the evening prayer, everyone disappeared to eat. A lady approached
us, said “buyrum” (here you go), gave me a bowl of chocolate cream and walked
on. I was sitting there with my chocolates cream, wondering what, why, how… and
I suddenly realized that I was the subject of zakat¸ an offering. Zakat (charity) is one of the pillars of Islam,
and me, the obviously non-Muslim person got it. It was an honour, a great one.
Syrian refugees. Lots of them,
everywhere. They are not allowed to beg in the neighbourhood where tourist
walk. But we lived well outside the touristic area and we met them day by day. Some
of them were begging, others were selling paper tissues, chewing gum or other stuff
to those passing by. The first family we saw was sitting on the pavement: a
man, his wife and their small girl, with their Syrian ID and a note in Turkish
language. My husband went to them and handed the guy some money. He looked into
his eyes (professional beggars never do that), thanked him and shrugged. His
gesture was clear even if we didn’t speak their language: what can I do, sir, I
came here to save my family, I don’t speak Turkish, I cannot get work here,
that’s it. My husband looked at him and shrugged as well: sir, we know that and I feel sorry for you and your country but
this is all I can do for you now. One shrug told us so much...
Syrians playing street music
Istanbul is a big construction site. Old neighbourhoods are demolished and people are forced to leave, no matter if they have a place to go or not. Four years ago we visited a Bzyantine cistern which was not open to the public. We looked for it quite long till we found the building but from the outside it only seemed an ordinary block of flats. We asked a police woman sitting in front of the police station next door. She went into the building and waved at us to follow her. We stepped into a dark hall, she asked the caretaker for the key. The man opened a door which seemed to lead down to the cellar and switched the light on. We stepped in and in the dim light we saw the most beautiful cellar ever: and ancient water cistern with a forest of carved columns rising from the water. Now, four years later I would have liked to show it to our friends too. But the building was demolished, the entrance was locked and it was obvious that in a year or two they will turn it into a touristic site, similar to the other cisterns.
We spent a few days in a village
situated near Antakya (the ancient Antiochia)
in a camp organized for children. Mehmet, one of the Servas hosts from Turkey
organizes a 10 day camp for the kids of his village every summer. The settlement is inhabited
by Arabs, not Turks. Most of Antakya is also
Arabic speaking and so is the whole region. They are Alawites (or Nusayiries), a
very liberal branch of the Shia Islam. It is long and difficult to explain who they are but
their women don’t wear hijab, they do drink alcohol and they don’t
have ramazan. The four days spent there allowed us to get a bit
familiar with this side of Islam too. Without Servas I’d have never had the
chance to meet Alawites. They were all extremely welcoming and nice, and we had a great time
playing with their children.
We went into Antakya
to visit the place where St. Peter spent some of his life. It used to be a simple
cave dwelling but the Crusaders built a church over it and it has been a place
of worship ever since. There were no visitors and the site was closed for
renovation but the guard let us in to take a look and a few pictures.
St. Peter's cave and the church built over it
Translated word by word, Gaziantep means Glorious
Pistachio. We arrived in the evening and after finding a place to sleep, we
went out to take a look at the centre. Glorious Pistachio is full of Syrian
refugees. Beside Turks there are a lot of Arabs living in this region, and
Syrians find it appealing probably because they can communicate in their native
language. Ruined houses and shabby buildings waiting to be demolished are not
empty any more. There is a Syrian refugee in every corner, their children
dressed in rags run barefoot. Despite the insalubrious conditions they are
clean as they are allowed to wash themselves at mosques and the church provides
them some food as well. Those who escaped the war and had some money, opened
their small businesses, a competition for the local merchants who are not all
happy to deal with them. We found a place selling Halep (Aleppo) food and sat down for dinner.
Everyone working there was Syrian and they were happy that we spoke a few words
of Arabic (sometimes knowing to count and asking for water is of great help). I
had the best hummus ever, my husband and child ate a dish made of beef, cream
and vegetables. Everything was delicious, the staff was friendly and we took
pictures of each other. Later on we discovered that they had a Facebook page and we
found our photos posted there. Across the street stands an old Byzantine style
Armenian church turned into a cultural centre. Next morning we were invited
inside to take a look and to our surprise Zoárd walked to the piano, opened it
and played a short tune on it.
Old Armenian church turned into a cultural venue
Glorious Pistacchio is the
international centre of any business dealing with pistachio, in any form. The
city is surrounded by large pistachio plantations and pastry shops are famous for their
baklava. I am not particularly fond of this sweet but this time it really was a
glorious desert. A kid of my son’s age approached us outside the pastry shop
and asked us for some money. My son gave him all he had in his pockets. “He’s
Syrian too, isn’t it?”, asked me.
A bakery. They sell baklava as well.
The Zeugma Museum
is breathtaking. A giant modern building was constructed to host dozens of
Roman mosaics from the 2nd and 3rd century found in
Zeugma, an ancient city built on the bank of the Euphrates.
Many settlements were flooded with the construction of the Atatürk dam and the
lower parts of ancient Zeugma were covered by water too. All the valuable
mosaics were moved into the museum and the architects built a marvelous venue for
them. Glorious Pistachio is worth visiting, even if you don’t like the green
baklava or spicy kebab of this region.
Euphrates
and the fertile crescent where human civilization was born… we all learnt it at
school but we tend to think about it as history, or fiction, or something not
real and touchable. There were 46°C and we were driving through pistachio
gardens surrounded by stone walls. The colour of the soil was like rust, it
didn’t seem fertile at all. And suddenly there it was: a huge, incredibly blue ribbon of water running through the arid landscape. We went down to take a
bath. The water was crystal clear and there were plenty of fish swimming
around, the small ones approached to pinch our feet. Zoárd discovered a water
snake dwelling in a broken bottle. To avoid the burning sunshine we were
wearing our t-shirts while swimming. They were dry in just a few minutes. I
often wonder how ancient civilizations coped with heat in this region…
When we saw it first...
Olive trees in the fertile crescent
- To be continued -
