Markets, Mosques and Muezzins
Istanbul, Turkey
A cruise on the Bosphorus is one of the best ways to appreciate
Istanbul’s skyline. I decided to combine it with a trip to Uskadar on
the Asian shore and escape the clutches of the Sultanahmet carpet
sellers for an afternoon.
Istanbul’s ferry terminal clung limpet-like to the northeastern
fringe of Eminonu. From here, one could see across the Golden Horn to
the district south of Taksim Square – the commercial hub of modern
Istanbul – and east across the Bosphorus to the neighborhoods of
Beylerbeyi, Guzcuncuk and Uskadar. Behind them, a low ridge of barren
hills sweated beneath a hazy belt of brown smog that glowed like
molten steel where it merged with the bluer swathes of sky. Beyond
these hills stretched north-central Anatolia, and further south
Cappadocia, where I would be several days from now.
The ferry terminal was also the scene of some of Istanbul’s most
frenetic market activity. Fishermen patrolled the Bosphorus on
fragile-looking dinghies that swirled like leaves as they crested the
choppier waves. When they had filled their nets, they returned to
shore and displayed their catches like exhibits in an art gallery.
Hordes of men, women and children surged forward in riotous fashion,
scrabbling to reach the front of this constricting mass and lay claim
to the choicest specimens. Naturally, the crowds had drawn other
traders. Strewn across the mud-splashed pavements were wooden crates
of molding fruit, tattered sacks overflowing with bundles of
intricately woven carpets, piles of second-hand clothes wrapped in
torn bin liners, open boxes of leather sandals scattered over sheets
of mushy cardboard, rain-soaked mounds of dog-eared books, clusters
of nargileh pipes, their snake-like necks floating in puddles of
brown water, and much, much more. If it existed, it was available
here in Eminonu. And through this sea of merchandise, like tiny cargo
boats negotiating a path between rocky straits, coursed the hot-food
vendors with their glass-paneled handcarts. I bought a hunk of warm
bread from one before boarding and munched away contentedly as we
pulled away from the docks.
Before too long, Eminonu swung back into view below the lip of the
upper deck. There was the fabulous Suleymaniye Mosque, encamped like a
small army atop the highest hill in the city, with its evenly spaced
minarets resembling a defensive formation of lances, guarding the
smooth, vulnerable dome. The mosque was built by the legendary
architect Sinan during the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent – the
greatest of all Ottoman sultans – and is revered by Muslims worldwide
for the symmetry of its design, the harmony of its styles.
As we rounded the shoulder of Sultanahmet the sea walls rose up to
obscure the waterfront hotels and restaurants from view, but by then
my attention had been diverted to the opposite shore, where Uskadar
slowly eased into focus. The town was stacked in layers up the side
of a grassy hill, like a step pyramid, each slab slightly smaller
than the one immediately below. At the bottom, behind the docks and
the otogar, sprawled the Iskele, another of Sinan’s mosques. It was
lunchtime, and the midday call to prayer was ringing out across the
water as we docked, shepherding the faithful into the enclosure and
admonishing those who chose to ignore its music. Not that there were
many in Uskadar. The residents are known for their religious
conservatism, and as if to prove the point another muezzin from the
nearby Yeni Valide Camii joined in the chorus, the two voices
challenging each other, competing for the attention of the townsfolk
like rival salesmen at a farmers’ market.
I wanted to visit a mosque when prayers were in progress, but not to
stick out as an eavesdropping tourist, so I made for the Yeni Valide
Camii, which seemed to be losing the battle for business. Leaving my
boots outside, I entered through the same door as the penitent – a
broad archway hung with a moss-green canvas drape – and shuffled
nervously to one side as a stream of men wearing Islamic skullcaps
and women clad in black chadors poured past. The women remained at
the back of the mosque, in my vicinity, but the men tiptoed to the
front of the building, to the left of the mimber. A bespectacled imam sat cross-legged on a raised dais, reading a Surah from the Qu’ran to a small congregation of worshippers, their heads
pressed to the floor, backs humped like tortoise shells.
On my way back to Sultanahmet, later that afternoon, I took a detour
and stopped by the Suleymaniye complex. As well as a functional
mosque, the grounds played host to the mausoleum of Suleiman the
Magnificent. Housed in a hexagonal stone structure crowned with what
appeared to be an enormous turban, the coffin of Suleiman rested on a
waist-high marble plinth, covered in fine, richly decorated silks. A
small placard at the foot of the coffin informed visitors that
Suleiman was also known as the Lawgiver during his reign for his
introduction of a sophisticated legal system. It is said that Henry
VIII dispatched an envoy to Turkey to learn as much as possible about
this code, and that on his return to England many of Suleiman’s ideas
were incorporated into Tudor law.
The mausoleum was clearly venerated by Turks as a site of great
holiness. A cluster of men and women gathered before the coffin and
stood in respectful silence, their arms extended, palms turned
towards heaven, like Italian footballers shrugging their innocence to
the referee. They remained in this posture for several minutes before
gently bowing to the coffin and filing out.
On the outside, one of the men I had seen paying his respects to
Suleiman beckoned me over. He was a pale-skinned Turk, with reddish
hair and light-brown eyes.
“Come, come. Look here,” He pointed to a small, bell-shaped stone
above the entrance. It was pine green. “This is sacred stone – some
say from paradise. You know paradise, yes?”
Not as well as I would have liked, I thought, nodding in assent.
“You are English?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I said.
“It is good that you come here. I come here often now, but when I was
a young man it was all work and chasing girls. Now I am older I
understand what is important and what is not. Please, can I help you
with anything?”
I told him that I planned to visit the mosque proper and then head
back to my hostel, but thanked him anyway. He wished me well,
inshallah, and said he was sure I would learn much during my time in
Turkey.
Later, I thought to myself how unlikely this scenario was in reverse:
a Turkish sightseer in London visiting Southwark Cathedral and being
warmly greeted in his own language by an English stranger, and then
offered assistance. Sometimes, travel is a shaming experience.
