Nazihah Adil • Turkey
Three weeks. Three entire weeks have passed since I left Istanbul and returned home to Naperville. Each day for the past three weeks I have attempted to sit down and update this blog with retrospective reflections of my trip, but each day, I sit before a blank computer screen, unable to capture my experience in words. Sure, I could detail my experiences as a student immersed in the rich culture of Istanbul, or recount all that I miss about the incredible city, from its towering minarets faithfully sounding the call to prayer to the fruit vendors selling freshly squeezed orange juice from their appropriately named “vitamin shops.” But neither of these approaches would do my experience justice.
I will be the first to admit that I did not update this blog nearly as much as I should have. Much like in these last three weeks, there were countless times over the six weeks that I wanted to recount my experiences and reflect on recent occurrences. But an overriding sense of doubt in my ability to articulate my experiences left me at a loss for words. There was the time I was made uncomfortably aware of what it meant to be an American, when a Kurdish man claiming to work for the United States Army in Iraq made conversation with us, the tone of his voice betraying his hope that we were his ticket to America. Or the time I went to Sultanahmet with a few friends to experience Ramadan in the heart of historic Istanbul and was witness to an eerie silence that had descended over the area as the faithful wiled away the hours before sunset.
What I can articulate, however, is that I learned more in six weeks in Istanbul than I would have learned in an entire quarter at Northwestern. I learned about politics and religion, about history and culture, both within the classroom and outside its doors. I learned from my interactions with the local people and from my passing observations. And perhaps most importantly, I learned about myself. As a Muslim in a secular country, my beliefs were repeatedly thrown into question. Yet these constant challenges forced me to learn more about Islam, which, in turn, allowed me to emerge stronger in my faith.
In the end, the six weeks I spent in Istanbul were a time of growth and introspection. And while I may not be able to properly articulate the experiences I had, I know that I have entered into a love affair with a rich, vibrant city and ventured onto a lifelong path of learning and discovery.
Last week, when a close friend came to Istanbul, we decided to visit the Istanbul Museum of Modern Art, or the Istanbul Modern, in the Tophane district. Located on the Bosphorus, the Istanbul Modern occupies a former dock warehouse near the Ottoman baroque Tophane Camii, or Tophane Mosque.
As we purchased our tickets and walked into the upper floor of the museum, which houses its permanent collection, we were greeted by a breathtaking view of the Bosphorus. After the initial shock wore away, we began to make our way around the collection. Entitled “New Works, New Horizons,” the permanent collection provides a detailed look at the evolution of modern art in Turkey. The exhibition traces artistic developments in the context of social, economic, and political factors.
From the work of Erol Akyavas, who uses form as an equivalent for the spiritual and intellectual realms, and evokes the ornamentation common to the Eastern cultural tradition in his art, to Naile Akinci, who paints the nuanced landscape of the varied districts in Istanbul, I was surprised to note that much of the art reminded me of the work of earlier European artists, albeit several decades later. While reminiscent of European art, however, modern artistic production in Turkey adopted new themes, themes rooted in the rich history and culture of the nation. In particular, I was drawn to a piece by the artist Burhan Doğançay, called Magnificent Era. A part of his collaged Cones Series, consisting of 87 paintings that feature cones, this piece contained paper cutouts and scraps filled with Ottoman imagery that hearkened to the magnificence of the Empire, seemingly in dialogue with the history of Turkey.
We spent some time perusing the collection of the museum, pausing to point out to each other the pieces that interested us. Even after we left, however, the work of Burhan Doğançay remained with me. A quick Google search informed me of a museum nearby dedicated solely to the works of Burhan and his father, Adil, where I decided to venture this past weekend. After some failed attempts to locate its whereabouts, we found ourselves at the Doğançay Museum. Despite the fact that it was only twenty minutes before closing time, I was surprised to see that there were no other visitors besides us. A young boy ran to turn on the lights in the galleries while the caretaker laid out the goods in the tiny gift shop, anticipating a sale.
While we saw few examples of the Cones Series at the museum, I did take interest in a number of his pieces that found inspiration in urban walls. These expansive canvases contained graffiti and posters and other materials taken from urban walls in order to capture the passage of time.
Art is everywhere in Istanbul, from the graffiti on storefronts to ornamentation of historic mosques. No matter where one goes, art has the ability to lend insight into a rich cultural heritage and to serve as testament to the human experience.
After class recently, we ventured by bus to the Zeyrek neighborhood of Istanbul, a short distance away from our hotel in Beyoglu. A part of the Fatih district, Zeyrek derives its name from Zeyrek Camii, or the mosque of Zeyrek. Formerly the Church of Christ Pantokrator, the mosque complex serves as a typical example of the architecture of the Byzantine middle period in Constantinople.
Today, Zeyrek is a neighborhood in transition. A traditionally poor neighborhood, in recent years, the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) has stepped in to clean up its streets and restore its monuments. Zeyrek Camii was added to its watchlist of endangered monuments, and as a result, is in the midst of undergoing extensive restoration.
The restoration of Zeyrek Camii remains unfinished, so our excursion landed us just outside its gates. Seated in the shade of a nearby tree, we listened as one of our classmates detailed the history of the Camii in its days as a church. As we listened, a little girl I had offhandedly taken a picture of earlier ran to us while whistling on a recorder. After our professor whispered to her in Turkish, she ran back, put away her instrument, and returned to sit next to me. With my limited knowledge of the language, the most I could do was smile and nod as she shyly whispered in my ear.
Perhaps frustrated by my lack of understanding, she gave up attempting to make conversation and moved for my hair. Soon, a friend of hers joined her, and the two began to play with my hair, pausing every so often to admire their handiwork and show me their sincere attempts at braiding.
As we got up to leave, two shy young boys joined the two girls. The four followed us as we made our way through the neighborhood. There was a carelessness to their activity. They posed for photographs and laughed with each other. But Adile, the little girl who had first followed us with her recorder, was different. Her long blond hair and pretty face were not enough to mask her thin, undernourished features. Her eyes conveyed a maturity that went far beyond her years as she clutched at a piece of bread that she hungrily devoured.
As I waved goodbye, I felt a rush of emotions. A part of me felt happiness for Adile and her young friends, who, even in the most difficult circumstances, could forget their sorrows and play like children. Another part of me felt blessed, not only for all that I had, but for the fact that the children had opened up and let me into their lives, if only for a few minutes. Perhaps the biggest part of me felt sadness, for I had snapped a few photographs and left their world as quickly as I had entered it.
I have come to realize that Istanbul is more than just the chaos of Istiklal Caddesi or the historic charm that drives tourists in droves to Sultanahmet. If we take the time to venture off the beaten path, we will come to learn that Istanbul is truly about its people, young and old, who are often forgotten in this bustling city.
Adile, I know, is one person I will never forget.
My first week and a half in Istanbul has been, to say the least, a time of discovery. In the brief time that I have been here, my views have been challenged in more ways than I can imagine, and my eyes have been opened to a wealth of new information. As a Muslim from the West in a predominantly Muslim country, I expected to feel a greater sense of familiarity in this city. But expectations, I have come to realize, can be misguided.
In the conversations that I have had both within the classroom and outside its doors, I seem to have arrived at the same conclusion. The prevalent sentiment in this secular nation seems to be that Islam is incompatible with modernity. National politics have left an entire generation of Turks disgruntled with their religion. In a recent lecture, our professor told us of a town called Kayseri, which lies en route to the renowned volcanic terrain of Cappadocia in central Anatolia. In this affluent town, dotted with posh shopping centers and the site of widespread industrial growth, he mentioned, alcohol is not readily available. The professor then noted that this situation was puzzling. At that point, I began to question myself. Is it really so puzzling for a town to be both economically liberal and socially conservative? Why must we gauge modernity based on the availability of alcohol? Why is it that we evaluate other cultures and faiths according to principles of Western modernity?
Today, our guest lecturer arrived at a similar conclusion when he asked us whether modernization inevitably means Westernization. And in my honest opinion, that does not necessarily have to be the case. If we allow what we loosely term the East to develop its own models of modernity, then perhaps we can see such seeming contradictions in a new light. Islam does not, in fact, have to be incompatible with modern society if we allow ourselves to reevaluate our notions of modernity.
I understand that Islam is not a homogenous faith. From the heartland of America to the farthest reaches of China, adherents to the faith have adapted the religion to their tastes. And so it seems reasonable that Muslims in Turkey have a unique approach to Islam. But what perplexes me is the generation of Turks that is disenfranchised by the religion. I want to understand why they do not feel the same sense of awe and admiration I feel when I walk into a mosque, or why they see the hijab as the antithesis of modernity.
I have so many questions, and I hope that in my time here, I can arrive at some answers. Faulty expectations, it seems, are the best way to learn.
Istanbul is a city dripping with tradition. Take, for example, the proper way to drink Turkish coffee. First, take a sip of water to cleanse the palate. Then, take a bite from a sugar cube. Finally, take a sip of coffee. If you are so inclined, turn the cup over once your coffee is finished and let the sludge set in the saucer. Then read your fortune.
Tradition is the invisible hand that rules Istanbul. But amidst tradition, there are other forces at work. This is inevitable in a nation like Turkey, which, while secular in name, bears overt traces of religion. In the wake of such forces, the next generation of Turks is shaping its own culture. The call to prayer resounds as the World Cup blares from televisions in local cafes. European brands share the street with local vendors. Evil eye beads mark modern storefronts.
And this is the city I seem to have found myself in for the next six weeks. I am staying at a hotel in Beyoglu, just a short walk from Istiklal Caddesi, which some call the Times Square of Istanbul. I’ve spent the last few days attending classes, meeting new friends, and acquainting myself with the city, at which I can’t help but marvel.
Today, after the unseasonable rain forced us to reschedule our cruise on the Bosphorus, a few of us ventured out to Sultanahmet and the Grand Bazaar. With no particular goal in mind, we walked its crowded streets to the calls of vendors hawking their wares.
After an hour staring in fascination at exotic goods, a brief attempt at haggling, and a couple missed turns, we made our way out and into the streets of Sultanahmet. If there is one thing I learned, it is that when it comes to drawing customers in, shopkeepers can be pretty creative.
“You’re going the wrong way,” one called out to us. “My shop is the right way!”
“Are you looking for me?” another shouted as he stepped into our path. “I am right here!”
And one thing is for sure: that is one tradition that will never be lost.
I leave for Istanbul tomorrow. I have traveled abroad extensively in the past, but this will be a unique experience. It will be my first time studying abroad, and my first time traveling without close family or friends. While the prospect is daunting, it is also incredibly exhilarating. I know that there is only so much I can prepare for. The bottles of sunscreen and my Turkish phrasebook will only get me so far. My greatest asset will be an open mind. I need to prepare for the fact that my views and beliefs will be challenged and my eyes will be opened to a wealth of new information.
While in Istanbul, I will be participating in the Turkey Summer Program hosted by the Buffett Center for International and Comparative Studies (BCICS). I will also be conducting archival research through a grant graciously funded by the same Center. This research will culminate in a thesis exploring the relationship between French Orientalism and the fall of the Ottoman Empire.
I arrived at this topic through an interesting turn of events. In a recent class on Jews and Muslims in the Islamic Middle Ages, I was faced with the reality that Western discourse on Christianity and Judaism often presents its religious history as fact, while in contrast, Western literature on Islam tends to be littered with phrases of uncertainty and ambiguity. Upon realizing this, I wanted to trace its roots.
When I learned of my acceptance into the Turkey program, I knew that I had been presented with the perfect opportunity to further explore this disparity within a specific historical context. This, coupled with my passion and enthusiasm for art, led me to the particular topic. If this thread of logic seems somewhat incoherent, it is because I have yet to hash out all of its specific details and nuances.
Specifically, I plan to examine the manifestations of the Orient in French art in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In doing so, I hope to gain a greater understanding of the perception of the Turk in France, and the development of this perception from the years dating before the Egyptian campaign at the turn of the nineteenth century to those following the Napoleonic invasions.
I expect to investigate the means by which the French manipulated artistic representations of the Turks after the Napoleonic campaign in their attempts to undermine the interests of the Ottoman Turks and justify European imperialism. Finally, I will examine the implications of such propaganda on the fall of the Ottoman Empire and on the successive development of the modern Turkish nation-state, and in turn, explore how these factors contributed to contemporary Western discourse on modern Turkey.
While this seems a long-winded attempt to arrive at an answer to my original question, it combines my love for art with my passion for my faith and provides insight into the roots of modern Western discourse on the East. I cannot wait to arrive in Istanbul and get started!
I have an obsession with art. I make hotel reservations based on their proximity to museums. In an ideal world I would spend my days lounging, book in hand, by the banks of the Seine and sipping chocolat chaud in the cafés that line the streets of Paris. As a rising senior double-majoring in Art History and Economics, I assume one would expect nothing less.
I love to travel and have a fascination for the nuances of different cultures. I credit this interest to my parents, who would round us up as children and take us for long drives that began in my then-hometown of Waverly, a small, remote town in southern Ohio. As we drove, I would stare out the window in wide-eyed awe and excitedly point out the objects of my interest until I fell asleep. And thus my love for travel was born.
I know that my trip to Istanbul this summer will hold the same allure. I hope I can say that while I have become older and wiser over the years, the same sense of awe and wonderment I experienced as a child overtakes me every time I travel. I expect this time to be no different, and I lie anxiously in wait.
