Turkey, Pt.2 Türkiye
May, 2023
Finally, Istanbul. Constantinople! City of my captive slave dreams; chained to a deck, the smell of freedom drifting across the choppy Bosporus somewhere in wild Asia; a tower maiden fallen in love who gambles for my service, loses the bet and unchains me by moonlight; or some mad sailor boy stowed me away in a frigate to go make silk in Guangdong.
Nope. Just instagrammers clambering over one another for a selfie; I’m a few centuries too late. But, as usual, there is a greater lesson waiting to be learned...
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In line at Hagia Sophia, barely on my feet from such an early start out Mudanya. The ferry dumps us at the docks and we follow the throng to the landmark; it has just gone on 9:00 but already the line is snaking across the enormous square. I had a heady, sleepless night; I feel irritated, vulnerable.
People are shoving; grumpy tour groups are chaperoned past those already in line. I find myself simmering at the mass rudeness and turn to my companion:
‘We should pretend to be part of a tour group and just shove past everyone waiting too….’
Eyes roll.
‘On three…’
‘No!’, he responds, pulling me back.
I make a move anyway, hesitating a moment...
People are shoving; grumpy tour groups are chaperoned past those already in line. I find myself simmering at the mass rudeness and turn to my companion:
‘We should pretend to be part of a tour group and just shove past everyone waiting too….’
Eyes roll.
‘On three…’
‘No!’, he responds, pulling me back.
I make a move anyway, hesitating a moment...
A woman in a beige hijab and matching long dress turns to me and motions to go before her. She is perhaps late 50s. Her eyes are sublimely bright, her gaze compassionate. I feel instant shame and cover like a fool, laughing…
‘No, it’s okay!’
Another much younger woman in hijab turns around to us now.
‘If you need to go in front, please go for it…’
She speaks perfect English with a perfect American accent.
‘Oh no, we’re fine!’. My companion eyes me, embarrassed.
‘Where are you guys from?’
‘I’m from Slovakia!’
‘I’m from Australia! And you?’
‘We are from Algeria.’
‘Cooooool.’
The older woman nods enthusiastically.
‘Are you here visiting?’, the young woman asks us.
‘We are living in Mudanya at the moment, an hour and a half away from here with the ferry.’
Knowing a little about Algeria’s past, I ask the older woman in French.
‘Alors, les français et leur guerre contre l’Algérie?’
(So, the French and their war against Algeria?)
Her eyes widen.
‘Mais, vous parlez Français!’
(But you speak French!)
‘Oui! Quest ce-que vous pensez des français?’
(Yes! What do you think of the French?)
‘Nous adorons les français. Nous sommes comme des voisins.’
(We love the French. We are like neighbours.)
I am again floored by my ignorance.
I turn to the younger woman.
‘How do you find Turkey?’
She responds demurely, choosing her words very carefully.
‘It’s okay…It’s a little dirty.’ she adds, laughing. ‘The people who work at our hotel are very rude too.’
The older woman nods her head in agreement, sorry to have to admit it.
‘My Mom doesn’t really speak English.’
The older woman speaks to her daughter in rapid-fire French.
‘We bought our own bedsheets’, the young woman adds at her Mother’s behest.
We all laugh.
‘I’m Sarah’, the young lady introduces herself. Her Mother does too, only I have forgotten her name because I was so mesmerised by her.
The line lurches forward; slowly but surely the magnificent façade of the building dwarfs us, engulfing the sun. Sarah talks to my companion and her Mother and I chat as we enter the compound.
‘It’s so ridiculous that Erdogan turned this back into a mosque’, she decries.
‘Yes, I do too. They all say the same thing, don’t they? All of them are beautiful.'
‘And we do not just call the Mother of Jesus the ‘Mother of Jesus’. She is to us Sainte Marie. She is a sacred woman.’
She places her hand over her heart with a respect one rarely sees anymore––let alone a practitioner of one faith venerating the Matriarch of another.
I am in love with this woman and walk slower so we do not have to part too soon.
The line lurches forward; slowly but surely the magnificent façade of the building dwarfs us, engulfing the sun. Sarah talks to my companion and her Mother and I chat as we enter the compound.
‘It’s so ridiculous that Erdogan turned this back into a mosque’, she decries.
‘We are Muslims. But we believe in Jesus, Abraham, all of the Holy Prophets.'
‘Yes, I do too. They all say the same thing, don’t they? All of them are beautiful.'
‘And we do not just call the Mother of Jesus the ‘Mother of Jesus’. She is to us Sainte Marie. She is a sacred woman.’
She places her hand over her heart with a respect one rarely sees anymore––let alone a practitioner of one faith venerating the Matriarch of another.
‘All religion seeks to find God. The Prophet Muhammed carried on the work of the Prophet Jesus Christ who could no longer preach because he was crucified. It is all one. The teaching is all one’
I am in love with this woman and walk slower so we do not have to part too soon.
‘People who use religion as a way to separate themselves from others are missing the point entirely.’
We arrive at the enormous, worn Byzantine-block steps leading into the building. Throngs of people take off or put on their shoes. Hair is covered by makeshift shawls of denim jackets and Louis Vuitton scarves. A guard barks at everyone, on repeat:
‘No shoes to the carpet!’
I have the feeling we are all about to be strip-searched. It is total bedlam, anything but Holy.
Our small party comes to a stop and hands are extended in farewell. I can still feel her gentle touch softening my iron grip. She knew perfectly well that it was time to part ways; the ease and comfort with which she did this left me aching to be just as her.
Sarah and her Mother disappear into the crowd. I will probably never see them again.
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That saintly woman taught me a lesson that morning, standing in line for the mosque/church/museum, or whatever else you may prefer to call it...
A brute who was going to push in front of her and everybody else, but who was instead humbled by grace, shown a different possibility, another way of being. A genuine person of faith, actually living the teachings of the Prophets.
A brute who was going to push in front of her and everybody else, but who was instead humbled by grace, shown a different possibility, another way of being. A genuine person of faith, actually living the teachings of the Prophets.
Occasionally one quite literally stumbles across enlightenment, here on Earth. My Aunty Maria was a being who possessed it, my Aunty Annette too; quite ordinary, suburban people, who by virtue of their choices in life and their past karma, never utter an ill word from their mouth––so full of love and humility as to become living Saints; they show us what we are also capable of becoming when we gently, and persistently pry ourselves from that ego. Hidden in plain sight, there are Prophets everywhere–– compassionate, serene, awake, perfected. There is no mosque, church or temple that can hold them.
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