Crossing the Bosphorus

Istanbul straddles two continents. The city is divided by the Strait of Bosphorus, which connects the Mediterranean with the Black Sea, but separates Europe from Asia. The Istanbulites have built three bridges from stone, and many more through their music and poetry.

I woke up one morning.
The sun came up in me.
I turned into birds and leaves
which glittered in the springtime breeze.
I turned into birds and leaves.
My arms and legs were rioting.
I turned into birds and leaves,
birds
and leaves.

For migratory birds, the Bosphorus is the most important route on their way to their Northern breeding grounds. An estimated million of birds cross the Bosphorus annually. Big-winged soaring birds, like storks and predatory birds, depending on thermal convection and therefore avoiding sea crossings, have turned the city into a birding hot spot, benefiting from Turkey’s scenery of high mountains, marshlands and and humid forests. Camlika Hill, a favorite birding view point on the Anatolian side of Istanbul, was during the Ottoman empire a training ground for birds of prey, like falcons and hawks.

I listen to Istanbul, my eyes closed:
Now the birds are passing
In high clamoring flocks,
Nets are pulled in at the fisheries,
A woman’s feet graze the water;
I listen to Istanbul, my eyes closed.


Migration starts with a promise to return. Yet, many birds do not survive the trip to the distant shores. Feeding grounds are dwindling. And many more dangers lurk on their way: The stork was deemed holy by the Ancient Greeks – who punished the killing of a stork with death penalty – and the followers of Islam – they likened its migration to their pilgrimage to Mecca. It is considered a delicacy in Egypt, where it is trapped with nets and limesticks, and killed by the thousands. Little migratory songbirds, who feature on Mediterranean menus as pulenta a osei (Polenta with little birds) in Italy or ambelopoulia in Malta, are illegally trapped and hunted all over the Mediterranean.
  Formerly common birds are on the verge of extinction.

When you’re travelling,
the stars speak to you.
What they say
is often sad.

The Wander Warbler in Istanbul – photo by Karen Smit; poems by Orhan Veli Kanik

Hüzün: The Melancholy of Istanbul

When Orhan Pamuk, who received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2006, remembers his childhood in Istanbul, he speaks of steamed up windows that veil the world in a mystical haze. Rather than facing his troubles and realities, he, like his fellow Istanbulites, liked to wrap himself in a softening, comforting mellowness, a melancholic, hazy state called hüzün.

The word hüzün has an Arabic root, huzn, which, according to the Koran, means the feeling of deep spiritual loss.  According to Sufi tradition, hüzün is the spiritual anguish one feels because they cannot be close enough to Allah in this world. It is therefore the absence of hüzün, which causes distress, not its presence. In Istanbul, to suffer from hüzün is an honor.


On cold winter mornings, Orhan Pamuk says, when the sun suddenly falls in the Bosphorus and that faint vapor begins to rise from the surface, the hüzün is so dense you can almost touch it, almost see it spread like a film over its people and its landscapes. Hüzün is not the melancholy of a solitary person but the black mood shared by millions of people together, of an entire city: Istanbul.

The traces of Istanbul’s glorious past are visible everywhere. The people of Istanbul carry on with their lives among these ruins – in a city so poor and confused, it can’t even dream of its former wealth, power, and culture. Hüzün rises out of the pain they feel for everything that has been lost, yet it gives their resignation an air of dignity.

For Hüzün is not the outcome of life’s worries and losses, but their principal cause. It’s not paralyzing, but it gives poetic license to be paralyzed. Defeat and poverty are not a historical end point, but a honorable beginning, fixed long ago before they were born.

PARIS: Grandes Horizontales


Nineteenth-century Paris is famous for its Bohemia and its highly formalized system of prostitution. The demimonde, or half-world, was a world of luxury, hedonism and moral freedom. The term was coined by Alexandre Dumas fils, author of “La Dame aux Camélias,” a novel based on the life of his lover, the courtesan Marie Duplessis, which later inspired Verdi to his opera “La Traviata.”

Courtesans were socially, financially and most importantly sexually talented women, who entertained aristocrats, artists, and writers such as Dumas, Zola or Baudelaire, charging for their services. In post-revolutionary France, it was not considered despicable for a man to use the services of prostitutes. On the contrary, to keep a woman was a status-symbol, the more she paraded her fancy dresses and extravagant jewelry, exhibited her pompous house, the better: She was displaying her benefactor’s financial and sexual powers. Courtesans hence lived lavish life styles, they were socialites and trend setters with daring fashion and hairstyles.

Their opulent creativity and theatrical self-enactment inspired artists and writers. Courtisan Cora Pearl had herself served up on a silver platter, decorated only with parsley, or played cupid in Offenbach’s operetta Orphée aux enfers dressed in nothing but strategically placed diamonds. More restrained Apollonie Sabatier’s hosted a salon for Bohemian intellectuals, frequented by the likes of Charles Baudelaire, whom she inspired to write “Les Fleurs du Mal”, or sculptor Auguste Clésinger, who eternalized her in the throes of orgasm as the “Femme Piquée par un serpent”, at full frontal display at the Musée d’Orsay.

The courtesan at full frontal display at Musee d’Orsay

Called the Grandes Horizontales, courtesans offered conversation, beauty and status, but it was essentially sex they were selling. As were those many less fortunate women, whose sexual talents did not get them into the novels or paintings of the Second Empire.

The Lorettes were poor women, kept by one or more benefactors, who lived around the parish of Notre-Dame-De-La-Lorette. As the stereotype went, prostitutes were devout church-goers, probably to repent for their shameful lifestyle: They were also believed to be lazy and self-indulgent. Lorettes were mostly fallen women:  of a wealthy background but fallen into disgrace, or separated women. While it was easy to fall into the démi-monde, it was impossible to ever get out.

The Grisettes were even less fortunate. They did not have enough benefactors and had to pursue a side job, notoriously as seamstresses. Gris – French for grey – alluded to the cheap fabric of their dull dresses.

Cocottes, also called biches (dogs) or chaumeaux (camels) were considered more substantial, means more expensive, than the Grisettes, yet did not have the flamboyant status of the courtesans.

It was the courtesans privilege to choose her benefactor, which she did by setting her price according to the man’s wealth.

The career of a courtesan was for many – if not all – women the only access to education and an autonomous, independent life. But, unlike their benefactors, they were not respected, not even in the enlightened society of the Second Empire. Despite their allure, courtesans were considered decadent, conspicuous and scandalous. Once their beauty faded, they ended up in misery and poverty.

THey were forever exiled to the Demi-monde.

PARIS: Grotesque

 

When Victor Hugo wrote the Hunchback of Notre-Dame in 1830, he did so with the purpose of reminding his contemporaries of the importance of preserving Gothic Architecture.


 

“Notre-Dame de Paris”, the Gothic cathedral on the Ile de la Cité in Paris, was the novel’s real main protagonist. After the French Revolution of 1791 much of the cathedral’s religious imagery was damaged or destroyed.

 
Built around 1200, the cathedral featured on its façade a myriad of grotesques, of chimeas and gargouilles: monsters, creatures of hellish phantasies that, not unlike a comic strip, served to educate the illiterate population, illustrate the creatures of the Bible and of folkloristic lore, and instill fear of God and the Devil.

 
“The book will kill the building!” The arrival of the printing press and the aera of Enlightment however rendered the grotesques superfluous. Writers, Hugo complained, drove architects into oblivion. He believed that buildings were like books, recordings of history – until the arrival of the printing press. The foremost ideas of every generation would no longer be written on the same material. The stone book, so solid and lasting, would give way to the paper book.


 

Ironically, his novel, thanks to the printing press, became a bestseller. Doubly ironically, its popularity led to a revival of Gothic architecture. Renovations at Notre-Dame were undertaken, to which the cathedral’s current appearance is owed.

PARIS: La Petite Mort at Père Lachaise


Victor Noir was a hero. A journalist writing for “Le Marsaillaise”, a newspaper critical of the reign of Napoleon III, he dueled with “Le Prince Imperial” Bonaparte. The prince, loyal to Napoleon III, had insulted the journalists of another magazine, with whom young Victor, only 22, felt solidary.

At 14:00 on January 10th 1870, a single shot was fired.

Victor Noir collapsed, dead.

History avenged Victor. While Le Prince Imperial Bonaparte perished seven years later in the Zulu wars in far-away South Africa, Victor’s burial at the Père Lachaise cemetery was attended by 100,000 people. His tombstone, sculpted by master Jules Dalou, is a bronze replica of Victor’s dead body as it lies stretched out peacefully: his high hat next to him, a pink dahlia in his hand, his crotch bulging in the manner of a true hero.

Victor Noir quickly turned into a sex symbol, a posthumous Casanova. Women who kiss his bronze lips, or rub his crotch, nose or feet will have their sex life spiced up, or so the lore goes. And it shows – in the past 140 years, his bronze crotch, nose and feet have been polished shiny – to the extent that in 2004 his grave was fenced off to prevent further damage. One is left to wonder: is the sex-life of Parisians so depressing that they have to take to rubbing or even straddling a bronze statue, or is it extra exciting because they are doing exactly that?

The fence has been taken down in the meantime – supposedly following protests of the female half of the population of Paris. Nothing should stand in the way to a blissful sex life!

“What if all this is not true, but every time someone rubs his crotch, Victor has an orgasm?” K says to me as we pay our respect at his grave.

“Then he went to heaven.” I say, rubbing his crotch, just to be on the safe side.

Victor, the grand hero, has died La Petite Mort.

La Petite Mort, the little death, was a term used to describe the brief state of loss of consciousness before the word orgasm was invented. There is however another bronze sculpture at the cemetery of Père Lachaise, which eternalizes the passed-away not in a state of peaceful sleep, but in this moment between joy and pain, where feelings are so intense that time is suspended: eternity.

The cemetery of Père Lachaise was opened on 21 May 1804 under Napoleon I and under the premise that “every citizen has the right to be buried regardless of race or religion”. And so, in this vast cemetery, where the graves of so many celebrities are found, there are little innocent angels next to Victor Noir, and fallen soldiers, and grieving virgins and mothers, and even a chair.

There is a heaven for all of us.

Sarajevo Roses

25 years ago, on April 5th 1992, 24 year old Suada Dilberovic, a Muslim student at the faculty of Medicine, participated in a peace rally in Sarajevo. Up to 100 000 people of all Yugoslavian ethnic groups had gathered for this march, held in response to repeated attacks of Serbian paramilitary groups on multi-ethnical Bosnia and Hercegovina. As the marchers crossed the bridge over the Miljacka river, they were ambushed by Serbian snipers. Suada and her 34-year old catholic compatriot Olga Sucic were shot and killed: the first casualties of the siege of Sarajevo.

By the end of April 1992, the Serbian Army had encircled Sarajevo, positioning their tanks on the mountain tops surrounding the city, where a mere eight years before the Olympic winter games had been held. The Olympic bob sleighs and the ski jumping hills turned into killing fields from where mortars and artillery were fired. Machine guns aimed at bedroom windows and at the living rooms of the city below.

13,954 people died. The siege only ended on February 29 1996, a mere forty years after the horrors of WWII and the holocaust, and the world said: “Never again!” again.

25 years after the siege of Sarajevo, the scars are still visible. Some shrapnel grates were not repaired, but colored red, as a reminder, a memorial, a warning of what nationalism, war and hate do to people. They are called “Sarajevo roses”.

Visiting Sarajevo is not a fun holiday in the sun. It is an encounter with history and culture, impressive, thought-arousing, and captivating. Visiting Sarajevo means learning of history and human nature. And of the human capacity to overcome and reconcile: In 2007, Suada was awarded a posthumous Doctor of Medicine by the University of Sarajevo.

Sarajevo Blues: So beautiful it hurts

 

Sarajevo is a scarred city.  There are craters from mortar attacks in the streets, and bullet holes in the facades of residential buildings. There are cemeteries at every corner it seems, most are Muslim, some Jewish, some are Orthodox, some Catholic, for faith could not stop bullets, neither during the Siege of Sarajevo 1992-1994, nor during WWII, nor WWI, which began in Sarajevo in 1914.

Sevdah is the traditional music of Bosnia, stemming from the time of the Ottoman Empire. The name Sevdah comes from the Arab word for melancholy, Sawda: Sad poems telling stories of love forbidden or lost, of grief and loss, of heart ache and pain, traditionally sung by women in the Arabic modal systems of Hijaz, as are the muezzin’s calls for prayers.

“Sevdah will be sung after any war,” Zaim Imamovic said, before he died in 1994 at the age of 74. He was to Sevdah music what Carlos Gardel is to Tango. Everybody in Sarajevo knows the words of the Sevdalinkas, the songs, and they cry as they sing, as they dance.

 

On Birding

I have always felt attracted to birds from a purely philosophical perspective: After reading the ancient Persian Sufi epic The Conference Of The Birds by Farid Uddin Attar, the idea that birds were creatures of high spirituality was planted in my mind – and left to sprout in secrecy. The first time I felt excitement watching a bird was when I almost stumbled over a hoopoe, the flamboyant leader of the Conference, in a public park in Dubai. I was instantly mesmerized by its beauty, the intricacy of its plumage and elegant elusiveness.

In the years since this first hoopoe sighting, my passion for birds grew and I would not content myself with the chance-encounter anymore, but was prepared to venture further into nature and solitude, invest in binoculars and photo-equipment, in long distance migration and bird books. I grew into a full a full-fledged birder.

Most of my friends take birding for the epitome of my eccentricity. To them birder sounds about as exciting as stampcollector. But they don’t have the slightest idea about birds: Birds aren’t beautiful things one collects in a photo album, a quaint old-fashioned romanticism.  Birds are wild, untamed creatures, and some of them are outright dangerous.

In 1932, for example, Australia, armed to their teeth with machine guns, went to war against the belligerent indigenous population of the Emus. Hostilities went on for a month until the Australians yielded defeat. The Great Emu War of 1932 was won by the Emus.

Or, a birding trip might easily lead into disaster, as happened to me a couple of months ago, when in search for hoopoes in the African Savanna, my jeep got stuck and I found myself tracking by foot through big 5 country, facing buffaloes and elephants, who were only scared away by the firing of a gun. Buffalo or Emu, who’s the bigger badass now?

All things taken into consideration, the b-word might soon sound as hot as free rock climbing.

There are many noble things to be said about birding: it sharpens eyesight, when staring motionless into verdant nature for hours on end, and hearing, when listening for the tweet-tweet-tweet, hooh-hooh, che-che-che-che, the rattling and the hissing. It turns upright citizens into valient ecological activists when the habitat of birds is endangered. And it teaches patience and humility, when the one bird one had set out to watch simply never shows up. Or no bird at all shows up.

But most importantly, birding makes people treasure the moment. In this world of instant gratification, of phony vanity and virtual reality, the sighting of a creature of pure and honest beauty is nothing less than a blessing.

The Puszta: How Vast This World

How vast this world in which we move,
And thou, how small thou art, my dove!
But if thou didst belong to me,
The world I would not take for thee.

Thou art the sun, but I the night,
Full of deep gloom, deprived of light.
But should our hearts together meet,
A glorious dawn my life would greet.

Ah! look not on me, close thine eyes,
My soul beneath thy glances dies;
Yet, since thou can’st not love me, dear,
Let my bereft soul perish here.

In the poems of the Hungarian poet Petöfi Sandor, the immense flatness of the great Eastern European Steppe, the Puszta, is a place of breathing, of grandeur, beauty and freedom. A place both humbling and inspiring, instilling patriotic pride and devotion, but, at the same time, passionate love.

Petöfi wrote love poems to his wife Julia, rendering his love inseparable from his love for the steppe. He dedicated his life to the Magyar struggle for independence from the Austrian Empire, both in word and deed: he composed the National song and joined the Hungarian Revolutionary Army. He vanished on the battlefield at only 26.

 

I’ll be a tree, if you are its flower
Or a flower, if you are the dew
I’ll be the dew, if you are the sunbeam
Only to be united with you.

My little girl, if you are the heaven
I shall be a star above on high.
My little girl, if you are hell-fire,
To unite us, damned I shall die.

Petöfi’s body was never found. Some Hungarians believe that he resurrected, like a Messiah. Some say, that he never died, that he is only asleep, somewhere in the endless planes of the Puszta.

Vienna: Cherubs

By daylight, walking through the center of Vienna feels like a journey into the glorious past of an empire: the palaces with their cheerful rococo facades, playgrounds for the little cherubs, cute little creatures, half angels, half cupids.


But wait for night fall, when the streetlights are turned off, and only the illuminated windows cast shadows on the deserted streets.

The cherubs are still playing in the dark, innocent.