How Istanbul ruined me

NEKTARIA PETROU

How Istanbul ruined me

Don't go to Istanbul. Or if you do, stay for no more than three days, go only where tourists go, eat only where tourists eat and learn nothing about the city's history. Anything more will result in Istanbul becoming for you, as it has for me, something like Ithaca in Homer's Odyssey. You'll think about it wherever you go. You'll compare everything to it and nothing will ever measure up again. In short, you'll be ruined.

After that overture, you might think that I live in a miserable place. On the contrary, I spend most of the year in Arizona, a U.S. state famed for the beauty of its deserts, canyons and mountains.

In winter, Arizona's climate is heavenly. Despite the privilege of living in such a desirable region, however, I think of nothing but how many months, weeks or days remain until I can get back to Istanbul.

Every time my husband and I go out for a rare Saturday night dinner, we have the same conversation on the way home. We say that the food was OK, but in Istanbul we would have eaten much better. We enumerate the places that we could have gone: Imroz in the Fish Bazaar, the Circassian restaurant Fıccın, Madam Despina's meyhane or Çiya on the Asian side. We salivate when we imagine what we could have eaten: grilled Black Sea fish, stewed lamb, stuffed quince, artichokes with dill, white beans in tomato sauce, simple dishes made with fresh ingredients that you just can't find in the states. Moreover, even if we haven't been to one of our favorites in a year, they still remember us, welcome us like an old friend, and even recall our preferences. The annoying U.S. greeting "have you dined with us before?" is an insult in any reputable Istanbul establishment.

Of all days of the week, however, the one that makes me miss Istanbul most is Sunday. There is no place that I enjoy going to church more than Istanbul. The Ecumenical Patriarchate, spiritual leader of the planet's Orthodox Christians, has had its seat in Istanbul since the fourth century A.D. A vibrant Orthodox Christian community continued living in the city after the fall of Byzantium, throughout the Ottoman era, and well into the 20th century. Although Istanbul's Orthodox Christians now amount to only a few thousand, hundreds of Orthodox churches, chapels, and holy springs remain from the days when nearly half of the city's population was Christian. Haunting liturgies are still celebrated in our churches every Sunday morning. I know that prayer should be the same everywhere, but for me it's different in Istanbul. The churches seem alive, like people, even when they are almost empty. The chanting is more resonant than elsewhere. The incense smells more sweetly.

I love being, if only for the summer, one more member of an ancient community that still believes in miracles and refuses to disappear, despite prognostications of imminent extinction.

After church, there's tea. You can go to any gourmet teahouse in Arizona or the entire U.S. and you will never taste tea as soul-warming as that of Istanbul. It's not just that Turkey has the best black tea anywhere. It's drinking it in Istanbul, whether you're on a ferry to the Asian side or one of the Prince's Islands, with seagulls swooping and diving all around, whether you're on a terrace overlooking the Golden Horn and the minarets of the Old City, whether you're in the gardens above Taksim, or whether you're hanging out in a church salon with elderly friends who have been through the ringer and yet keep chatting, laughing, telling stories, singing rembetiko, and walking across the city as if they were still in their teens.

A final warning for history buffs: Istanbul has ancient ruins, Byzantine walls, Ottoman mosques, Bosporus mansions, archaeological museums, stately palaces, and 19th century houses with charming bay windows. If you must come to Istanbul, be sure to buy your return ticket in advance. Otherwise, you may never leave.

Even if you spend your entire life here, there will always be more to discover because the city is infinite. And when you've gone, you'll look at those quaint buildings on the heritage registries of American towns and say, "Built in 1921? 1946? You think that's historical?" Dear Istanbul, you've ruined so many things for me. Yet I'm not wearing rose-colored glasses.

I know that you have the potentially fatal problems of the world's largest cities: extreme overpopulation, water shortage, hyperconsumption and prize-winning levels of sulfur dioxide air pollution. Knowing all this, however, I am still counting the days until I return.
The toponym Istanbul is a combination of three Greek words: (is tin Poli).

English translation: to the city. That means that when you know Istanbul and you find yourself outside it, there is only one direction to go: back to the city. So take my advice: never go, or at least never stay. If you do, not only will it always pull you back, but it will ruin you forever.

Nektaria Petrou, Good deeds of Turkey

 Good deeds of Turkey

NEKTARIA PETROU

A novelist expresses her love of Turkey, Islam and Ramadan

The sun has set. Above the whirr of engines, bus brakes, and squawking gulls, I can hear the ezan sailing across the Golden Horn from Fatih and Yavuz Sultan Selim Mosques. I look out the window toward Süleymaniye, my favorite monument on the opposite shore. Süleymaniye's four minarets and the mosque itself are brightly lit, as always, but between the two upper minarets shines a banner for Ramazan lights. With my antique Soviet binoculars, I can even read it: "O fast, keep us!" This play on words is a request for divine help in keeping the fast, which is always difficult, but even more so in summer.

Whenever I mention my enthusiasm for Turkey to Americans and Europeans, I hear things like, "Turkey? Isn't it dangerous?" or "I'm afraid to take my kids there." When I ask why, the reluctant response will be: "Well, it's Muslim."

Yes, Turkey has a vibrant Muslim heritage. As an Orthodox Christian, that's part of the reason I enjoy it so much. I love hearing the call to prayer five times per day, reminding me that there is something else beyond the traffic and bustle, something hovering above the placid Golden Horn, the ships in the Bosporus, the coffeedrinking young people in the narrow streets of Galata, the hijabi women in conservative Fatih, and the gypsy children half-playing and halfbegging in the busy avenues of Şişli. The ezan reminds me not only of what is always beyond us, but also of the quiet within us, even when we find ourselves caught up in the insanity of the world's fifth largest city. Yet Islam is not just exotic chanting, beautiful calligraphy displayed in museums, and colorful tilework. It is an everyday experience.

During my many extended stays in Turkey I have been invited to dinner or tea in the homes of people whom I have only just met. I have been accompanied to my destination more than once after having lost my way. I have been summoned by bus drivers when I was about to miss my stop, was assisted by a policeman when I couldn't figure out how to use a ticket machine, and was even driven across a village by a busy friend at a moment's notice.

Let me explain why. Good deeds are a requirement of Islam. Giving a stranger directions, ensuring that harm does not come to him, and treating him to a glass of tea are all good deeds.

According to Islamic tradition, the good deeds that one performs can outweigh one's sins on Judgment Day. One of my friends, a non-Muslim who was born in Istanbul but who has lived for decades in the U.S., made a trip home last summer and treated herself to a night in an exclusive Bosporus hotel. When she arrived, she was both fatigued and suffering from health problems. She took the elevator to her floor and began walking to her room, but it was so far down the hallway that she gave up, returned to the reception, and requested something more accessible. The hotel, however, was full, and another room of the same type was unavailable. Seeing that she was indisposed, the receptionist handed her a new key without comment. This time she took the elevator to the top floor, located her new room very close by, and opened the door to the Presidential Suite.

Could the receptionist have made a mistake? My friend sank into one of the room's twenty chairs, looked out through the floor to ceiling windows at the Asian shore shining like bronze in the late afternoon sun, and realized that no, it was not a mistake. It was a good deed.

During Ramadan, the good deeds multiply. Last summer I spent part of the Muslim holy month in Mustafapaşa, a quiet Cappadocian village where I have made many friends. Most villagers were fasting, but still my elderly "aunt" fussed over me and insisted that I drink tea and water whether we were in her house or out visiting someone else.

Another fasting friend took me to Mustafapaşa's Orthodox Christian cemetery at six o'clock on a hot, dry evening. On the way home we visited the site of a destroyed Orthodox church. My friend raised her hands and prayed. Later that evening, she told me that she had asked God to reconstruct the church. "The prayers of a fasting person are always heard during Ramadan," she said, "especially at the end of the day, just before we break the fast."

Of course I do not mean to say that everyone you will find in Turkey is a good Muslim. The swindlers loitering outside the Blue Mosque and flagging tourists with the greeting "Hello, where are you from?" are not to be trusted. Like any big city, Istanbul has its purse snatchers, pickpockets, conmen, and worse. But don't be afraid to trust the shopkeeper who takes you halfway down the street in order to make sure that you go the right way. He is doing a good deed. Whether he is a practicing Muslim or an atheist, good deeds are a part of his cultural heritage. And if you can surpass your prejudices and board a plane to Turkey, you too may realize that there is kindness in Islam.

NEKTARIA PETROU, Last Jewish merchant on Istanbul’s

Last Jewish merchant on Istanbul’s Istiklal Avenue faces eviction

by NEKTARİA PETROU,İSTANBUL

Fifty years ago, Istanbul’s famous Istiklal Avenue was home to upscale boutiques operated by native Greek and Jewish families. Today, Kelebek Corset Shop, Istiklal’s last historic minority business, is facing eviction. Ilya Avramoglu, who manages the shop for his 92-year-old father Borya, claims that their landlord, Saint Mary Draperis Roman Catholic Church, has decided to terminate its 78-year relationship with the family. Turkey’s new landlord-tenant law, he explains, allows landlords to evict tenants of more than 10 years without legal justification.

Known in the 19th century as the Grand Rue de Pera, Istiklal Avenue had its own merchant culture. Business owners and their clients built friendships, enjoyed tea and coffee together and looked after each other. No man dared show himself on Istiklal unless he was wearing a suit and tie; women were reluctant to be seen in anything but their best dresses and hats. Istiklal’s heyday came to a sudden end, however, on Sept. 6, 1955. In one night, the avenue’s minority shops were reduced to rubble and many Greek homes were invaded and damaged. Afterward, Greeks emigrated en masse. Many of Istanbul’s Jews, also affected by the pogrom, followed. The grand avenue and its beautiful Ottoman-era buildings crumbled, but a few stubborn old-time shopkeepers continued operating in their landmark locations until very recently. Now only Kelebek Corset Shop remains.

Istiklal Avenue, Istanbul

Surrounded by the generic chain stores and fast food restaurants, Kelebek stands out like a museum piece. Its shop window is filled with men’s and women’s corsets, bras and other undergarments displayed on neat headless mannequins. Behind the glass hangs a modest wooden panel bearing the shop's name. Everything looks as if it has been transported by time machine from the 1950s. Yet its orthopedic hosiery and corsets are still in demand. Turkey’s film and television industries make regular orders for their casts, and many locals of both sexes would not dream of buying undergarments anywhere else.

“My parents are Karaite Jewish Turks, and my wife and children are Sephardic,” says Avramoglu, switching between Turkish and Greek. “My family has lived in Istanbul since Byzantine times. My grandfather opened his first corset shop in Terkos Arcade, across the way, in the 1920s. Back then there were no corset factories in Turkey. Armenian, Greek, Jewish and Turkish women sewed made-to-order corsets in their homes and delivered them to us. In 1936 my grandfather moved the business to this location.”

Kelebek means "butterfly" in Turkish. Avramoglu’s grandfather chose it because he wanted women to feel as light as butterflies in his corsets. Pointing to the tiny wainscoted mezzanine above the shop door, Avramoglu continues, “My grandfather bought three sewing machines in 1936. Our seamstresses produced our corsets in house. We also began having some of our products produced in new factories. During the September 1955 pogrom, Kelebek was attacked along with other Greek and Jewish shops in the area.”

Avramoglu goes to the back of the shop, lifts plastic bags hanging from a wall hook and shows me the hatchet gashes left during the 1955 assault. Kelebek is probably the last business in Istiklal still bearing the scars of the pogrom. If Kelebek closes, the material history of the Sept. 6-7 events will be lost.

“All our wares were destroyed in 1955,” says Avramoglu, “but we rebuilt and have been here ever since. I know this shop centimeter by centimeter. We haven’t changed a thing since my grandfather’s day. Most of the woodwork is original, although some had to be restored in 1955. We love Istiklal, and Istiklal loves us.”

Avramoglu supports his bedridden elderly parents, his wife, his two children, a divorced sister and his sister’s children with Kelebek’s profits. The prospect of losing the shop pains him not only because his family history is tied to it, but also because his survival depends upon it.

“Father Claudio Cecevelli, the Italian priest who used to represent Saint Mary Draperis, was a saint. Really, he was one of the best people to ever walk this earth, may he rest in peace. Two foreign priests took his place. I don’t care what a person’s religion is, whether he is Jewish, Christian or Muslim. I am Karaite Jewish. We believe in tolerance. We believe that all prayers go to the same place. I only care if a person has a good heart or not. But those new priests don’t understand our history. If I lose my shop, I don’t know how I’ll cope. I’m not a rich man.”

The bell of Istiklal’s antique red trolley rings three times as it passes. An Arab family enters the shop. Avramoglu welcomes them with the traditional Islamic greeting of peace, "as-salaam alaikum," and then continues assisting them in English. When a Parisian woman comes inside looking for a bra, polyglot Avramoglu responds in French. He didn’t learn these languages in order to communicate with tourists. Istanbul’s minority merchants have a centuries-old tradition of multilingualism.

Avramoglu reminisces, “Safiye Ayla, one of Turkey’s most famous singers and a favorite of Ataturk, was a regular customer. She had a problem with her lower back. We made special corsets for her, just like this one.” He points to a model in the shop window. “There are things here that you can’t get anywhere else in Turkey.”

When asked what Istiklal was like forty years ago, Avramoglu replies, “Back then, you had to be somebody to get into the exclusive pastry shops like Markiz and Lebon. You had to be properly dressed, elegant and cultured. Kelebek is part of that culture, part of Istanbul’s history. No one wants it to disappear.”

Avramoglu hopes that public support, both domestic and international, and a Change.org petition to His Holiness Pope Francis will convince Saint Mary Draperis to reverse its decision. “Otherwise,” he says, “the 1955 pogrom continues to the present day.”

Read more: http://www.al-monitor.com/pulse/ar/originals/2014/08/petrou-jewish-corset-merchant-istanbul-istklal-faces-eviction.html#ixzz3jFPmKhKZ