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.

Istanbul: Lesson in Sufism

He serves tea. As he balances the tray with the bulbous tea glasses, he spills the tea. His left leg is shorter, arched like a sickle, so when he walks he sways like a boat on choppy sea. I notice his crooked left leg only now. His grey suit is a few sizes too big, crumpled, and wrinkles around his ankles. It looks even older than himself. Threadbare at the elbows and knees, it shrouds his body rather than dresses it. It blurs the details of his physique. As he sets the tray on the table in front of me, I smell tobacco and terpentine, and the dusty scent of old age. His hair is grey, his face wrinkled, his moustache white. But his lopsided smile is boyish, his blue eyes are fresh, sparkling almost. I cannot remember how to say “Thank you” in Turkish. So I bow and mumble “Moteshakkaram”.  I speak a little Persian and hope that people in Istanbul, or at least he, Avni, will understand me.

He takes a seat next to me on a shaky chair. It’s a jumbled ensemble of a table and three chairs. Maybe these are valuable antiques, were they restored. But they are splintered and skew like Avni’s leg, and spotted with colors from his atelier, his painter’s workshop in steep, cobbled Siraselviler Street. The sun is baking the city, but here, in front of Avni’s open workshop door, it’s shady and cool. A soft breeze tousles his hair as I feel strands of my hair lift off my head and dance in the air.

I gaze through the open door inside at the painting I want to buy. It’s just a tiny canvas, hardly bigger than a the tray he had carried the tea with, suspended high up on the wall. It is dwarfed by the big frames hanging next to it, or leaning against the wall below. The little painting could be just a coral white stain on an ocean-blue backdrop. Or it could be the shape of a dancing Dervish.

Mavlana. “ Avni says.

Mavlana!” I repeat and put my hand on my chest. Mavlana, the whirling Sufi poet. “I love.” Avni must have understood the word “love”, for he nods his head enthusiastically and starts reciting. I don’t understand Turkish, but it must be a poem by Rumi, the Master, Mavlana, as the Turkish call him.

It’s a rhythmic singsong that reflects the mountainous streets of Istanbul, this dizzying web of narrow lanes, uphill, downhill, jammed with cars and buses, crowded with bearded men, high heeled women, and children, with cats and dogs, and filled with laughter and calls for prayer, and with the scents of cumin, of Shisha, and of cat piss. I do not understand the words as Avni proclaims the poem, lifting his arms as if dancing in trance, as if painting on an imaginary canvas, but my heart is filled with peace, enriched. I don’t understand the words, but I understand Avni.  And as I look into his wild blue eyes, strangely, I know he understands me.