6. Lights, Camera, Istanbul (Part 2)
Trigger warning – the following chapter contains descriptions of harassment and assault.
Visitors to the Grand Bazaar should be mindful of their wallets and watches, as there are plenty of material temptations for the shopaholic and nary a marker to be found about the passage of time.
Golden hour had descended over Istanbul by the time I found an exit.
My attempt to retrace my steps back to Sultanahmet took me down an alternate route, down Divan Yolu Street, an avenue commissioned by Constantine the Great in the early 300s, AD.
Translated as “the Road to the Imperial Council”, Divan Yolu served as the promenade for sultans in her prime years, as the path to the seat of Ottoman power, the Topkapi Palace.
In 2014, any sultans to be found rested eternal, inside marble mausoleums. And with her working days long behind her, Divan Yolu enjoyed her retirement years as a promenade for tourists, with restored cobblestone streets lined with restaurants and souvenir shops.
On this particular night, however, tourists had deserted Divan Yolu, presumably off to dinner or to prepare for a Friday evening in Istanbul’s nightlife district, Kadiköy.
Locals had come out to play in their place. In the form of middle-aged men huddled over games of backgammon, and the fresh-faced waiters who served them amber tea in transparent tulip-shaped glasses.
I walked past them, my arms wrapped tight against my chest to insulate me from the wind, late summer gusts carrying hints of autumn’s chill. I walked past them, and yet again, they saw me.
Without pausing their conversation, they stared at me. Three sets of brown eyes, narrowed.
They saw me, but what did they see?
They saw me, and I still wasn’t ready.
I averted my gaze, only to lock eyes with an elderly gentleman, a devout Muslim sporting a silver beard, white throbe, and white kufi, who passed in the opposite direction. I couldn’t speak his language, and he probably couldn’t speak mine, but we silently exchanged variations of the same question.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“Where did all the women go?” I replied.
Istanbul saw me. Or rather, Istanbul’s men saw me.
Men shouted touts in the Grand Bazaar. Men operated the tea houses along Divan Yolu. And men were the only gender that surrounded me as the hours deepened.
The version of myself currently talking to you would have taken this observation as a sign. That it was time to return to the airport. The version of myself in this memoir, however, brushed my intuition under the rug. Because as soon as I spotted the waxing crescent moon peek over the horizon, part of me, that part who believed the world was only full of magic, told me to keep going.
A traditional serving of Turkish tea. Photo by Alessio Rinella on Unsplash
Before I could satiate my appetite for global travel, I made due with family road trips across the American South. My sister and I were never in the driver’s seat, which left us free to descend into worlds of our own making. For my sister, it meant reading a novel or playing a videogame. For me, it meant working myself into a meditative trance as we sped along the highway.
During the day, this trance involved counting license plates. And at night, it meant acquainting myself with a new friend. The moon. She always followed the car, and I found sanctuary in her ever presence my parents quarreled – and they always quarreled – over how to navigate. To me, the moon was a form of divine reassurance, for she always seemed to guide my family in the right direction.
The moon provided the same security in Istanbul, for following it led me right back to where I needed to be. Upon arriving at Sultanahmet, I checked my phone once more. I still had extra time left to spare.
The moon turned out to rise over the Blue Mosque to the south. To the north was the Hagia Sophia, and both were separated by a small park. Golden hour washed the Hagia Sophia’s domed exterior in neon vermillion, while artificial lights showcased the Blue Mosque’s six minarets and nine domes against a deepening indigo sky.
One doesn’t have to be a scholar to understand the historical undercurrents at play between Istanbul’s most popular sites. Before the Ottomans, Istanbul was Constantinople, the capital of the Byzantine Empire and a last territorial holdover from the former Roman Empire’s eastern half.
Emperor Justinian I commissioned the Hagia Sophia in 535 AD, to serve as a spiritual beacon for his Orthodox Christian subjects and to appease public discontent as the Byzantine Empire fell into decline. After a short initial construction period, 500 years’ worth of Byzantine emperors contributed to decorating the cathedral’s interior until the Ottomans, led by Sultan Mehmed II, rolled into Constantinople in 1453 AD.
The Ottomans were conquerors, and damn good ones too, but their conquering didn’t involve erasing those they defeated. The Hagia Sophia, though in disrepair by the time Constantinople got the works, inspired her new Ottoman rulers, thanks to her trademark dome. With a bit of elbow grease and four new minarets, Ottoman architects converted the Hagia Sophia into a mosque, where she served worshippers until the 17th century.
In 1603 AD, Sultan Ahmed I was also inspired by the Hagia Sophia. In 1609 AD, he commissioned the Blue Mosque, whose design combined Byzantine Christian and traditional Islamic architectural elements. Finished in 1616 AD, the Blue Mosque came to signify both the Ottoman Empire’s zenith, and eventually, the nation of Turkey herself.
Blooming crepe myrtles before the Blue Mosque. Photo by Nazym Jumadilova on Unsplash
Old school emperors were burdened with heavy decisions. Visitors to modern Turkey are also burdened with the same; which site should one explore first?
I based my decision on my original question.
Where did all the women go?
They certainly weren’t in the Hagia Sophia.
The cathedral-turned-mosque’s story didn’t end with the Blue Mosque’s completion. Remember Ataturk? Upon recognizing the Hagia Sophia’s cultural value, he converted it to a national museum in 1935. Women, however, weren’t in the Hagia Sophia – nor were men, for that matter – because the site closed to visitors at 5 PM on weekdays.
Perhaps the women were in the Blue Mosque. The adhan, the Islamic Call to Prayer, rang out across the park right as I turned to the south, which confirmed my hypothesis.
A voice, separate from the Muezzin in the Blue Mosque, also called out to me.
“Hello,” the voice said. “Are you lost?”
I didn’t respond. Because I wasn’t lost.
The voice’s owner materialized beside me anyway, a young Turkish man, of below average height, with a facial sunburn and a buzz cut.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going to Georgia,” I answered, hoping to confuse him.
The Turk was unshakable.
“No,” he replied. “Where are you going here? In Istanbul?”
“Nowhere. I’m only visiting for a few hours.”
“Let me help you.”
“Thanks...” I offered him a polite American smile. “But I don’t need help.”
I hoped my refusal would make him go away. It didn’t.
“You said you’re going to Georgia. Why are you going to Georgia?”
Why wouldn’t he go away? “I’m going to teach English.” I felt my muscles tighten and my jaw clench.
“Why? There’s nothing in Georgia.”
“Have you been there?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Do you speak Georgian?” My new companion’s questions sped up in cadence.
“No.”
“Then why are you going to Georgia?”
“I told you already.”
“Don’t go to Georgia. Turkey’s better.”
“Maybe.” I was ready to scream. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
In movies, persistence looks romantic. In real life, it’s terrifying.
Especially when you’re already vulnerable. Especially when your pursuer gets physical.
Rough and calloused hands tightened like a vice around my forearm. They proceeded to pull me off my path. It happened so quickly that I had no time to think. No time to feel. It happened so quickly that a cold and animalistic part of me involuntarily took the reins. It granted me the strength of ten men, strength I used to tear myself free from his grasp.
“Whore!” the stranger called after me as I ran, over the Muezzin’s call.
Seagulls whirling above the Blue Mosque. Photo by Batu Gezer on Unsplash
I didn’t stop running until I reached sanctuary, the Blue Mosque’s courtyard. Once there, I propped myself against a marble pillar and slid down to the cool stone at my feet.
Still panting, I surveyed my surroundings. The images came in flashes. A father playing with his son at the opposite end of the courtyard. A brown cat grooming his balls in a corner. White seagulls, illuminated by the lights below, whirling above the minarets. Round and round they went, with one wing outstretched to heaven and the other extended to the earth below.
My search for other women ended in vain, but at least no men had followed me.
“What have you gotten yourself into?” the little voice inside of me screamed, louder this time.
Travel has many lessons for all who choose to wander. Lessons in history, visibility, and vulnerability. I wasn’t prepared for how quickly they began, and after my first day, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to travel anymore. In spite of everything I learned in Istanbul, my mind fixated on the stranger in the park. It replayed the exchange over and over, like the world’s worst slideshow projector.
It searched for the exact moment where I had done something wrong. Was I too nice? Was I not nice enough? Was it because I looked like a victim?
To travel means being vulnerable, and vulnerability is a two-way mirror. The world was vulnerable, shaped by my experiences, my beliefs, my fears. I was vulnerable, subject to the world’s interpretation, including those who wished to exploit and harm others.
Travel can change who we are, but it cannot change what we are. If I returned home as a different person, what if I returned home as someone I didn’t like? And as a Black woman, what if I couldn’t move through the world in the way I wanted?
I turned to the sky.
For answers.
For the moon.
All I found were clouds.