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Return
to the Lands of the Morning.... (After an
absence of 30+ years) by Kristina
O'Donnelly My heart is full, brimming with tears of joy as well as sorrow...
The
rose upon the sword is in solidarity for the gallant people of Turkey: Right
shall blunt the terrorists' sword!
photo: Michael O’Donnelly The
Maiden Tower, perched upon a rock the middle of the blue Marmara Sea and
embroidered with many, timeless legends, is my favorite spot in Istanbul, aka
Constantinople, the Queen City which has majestically straddled Europe and Asia
for almost 2 millennia. Hello, dear Visitor! Welcome to our website,
which is the virtual child of one Nurdogan
Senguler, and his talented, dedicated
crew. When they asked me to contribute, I felt privileged, not only as a writer,
but also, as a Daughter of Istanbul. Yes, even though it’s been decades since
my departure from Istanbul, I’ve never lost the sense of belonging, the sense
of almost literally, being “a daughter” of this magnificent city. How so, did you ask?
Well, it’s a rather long-winded, but also somewhat exotic tale of kismet,
and I really am glad for the chance to share it with you. Born in Rome, Italy,
classical Roman Empire's capital which is spread upon 7 hills, I was raised in
Istanbul, Turkey, capital of New Rome and later the Ottoman Empire, also spread
upon 7 hills. I grew up deeply in love with Istanbul and her people who were
formed of a remarkably cosmopolitan coat
of many colors. My parents Sami and Geraldine, having met in Vienna,
Austria during the raging fires of the 2nd World War, and married in Prague,
Czechoslovakia, had settled in Rome, Italy, at the end of the war, and I’d
been born 2 years later. A short while after, faced with grinding political
persecution due to their human-rights activities, we had to leave Italy and
found (like many other, persecuted
people before us) sanctuary in Turkey. So,
it was quite natural for me to bond with Turkiye
and her gallant people. Indeed the Turks were highly civilized yet unassuming,
hard-working, cheerful, lovers of art and literature, and remarkably resilient
in the face of adversity. One of the groups of sounds that have permeated my
youth is the potpourris of Radio Istanbul, comfortably careening between a
la turka and a la franka songs. Also, there are the beguiling sounds of the
eternal Marmara Sea, or the fast-running stream of the continental divide,
Bosporus, their waves lapping, or often, crashing, against the Asian or European
shoreline. We lived on both sides of bi-continental Istanbul, and our friends and
neighbors were an easy mix of Turks, Greeks, Albanians, Armenians as well as
Germans and Italians. One of my fondest memories involves my daily round-trips
on the ferry between Europe and Asia, to attend school (St.Georg Austrian High
School, in the European district of Galata,
located at the north side of the Golden
Horn). Until the 19th century, Galata used to be
surrounded by walls, which had been built by the Genoese. The Galata Tower was the
northernmost observation tower and the walls snaked down to Tophane. By the way,
Galata was the hub of foreign-based education centers, a throwback to the
Ottoman days: French, British, Italians, Germans, and Austrians had opened high
schools in Galata. Noble Muslim families, along with
the Levantines and minorities, had educated their children in those schools,
reaping a harvest of Turkish and Ottoman scholars and leaders. So deeply in love with Istanbul was I that during my teenage years, my
dreams and plans for the future involved (in addition to a career as a
pen-warrior i.e. journalist) to help preserve her grandeur as a public servant,
be it as a mayor, congresswoman, or senator (all possible goals for any woman
living in contemporary Turkey). As a child, I’d appeared in three
Turkish films, but then drifted to and anchored in, the realm of Hermes, the
Messenger. I felt I had a strong calling to be a messenger… or a conduit, I
had to read, learn, and disseminate all I’d gathered. A shameless romantic and
idealist, imbued with a can-do, will-do spirit, I strove to champion the rights
of the down-trodden. I was just seventeen when, on the eve of our departure to
America, I defied my parents, eloped and forced them to accept my decision to
marry Muzaffer Bekem, a 44-year old Turkish avant-garde artist who had
convinced me that he shared my inclinations. Our union produced a much
beloved son, Faik. Naturally however, the April-December marriage of an artist
and a writer, would soon be confronted by the harshness of reality, and began to
sink in stormy seas. Nonetheless, our marriage had its sunny side, too, for I
admired Bekem’s art, his melodic brush which could swirl over canvasses and
create multi-layered dreams and whispered messages. Neither did he prevent me
from thriving as an ingénue writer and poet. Our circle of artist, writer, and
journalist friends were warm, interesting, and idealistic. I have iridescent
memories of heated discussions accompanied by dervish-like whirling cigarette
smoke, the sounds of guitar, oud,
drums or violin, the aromas of exotically spiced and grilled meats served upon
tables laden with frosty high-ball glasses of raki, plates of beyaz peynir
(feta cheese) and kavoun (melon), and
we would dance the chiftetelli as
easily as we would tackle tango, waltz, and kazaska. Alas, six years later, I was torn apart from my Queen City in June, 1970,
under traumatic circumstances. It could not be helped, yes indeed it was kismet,
fate, thus I had to be tossed upon its turbulent winds and crash-land in New
York City, United States of America. For 33 years, an essential part of my soul remained asleep, waiting to be
awakened upon my return..... Welcomed at Ataturk Airport by Kamilla Sezgin, my childhood friend, and Shemsa Yegin, my
editor at Epsilon Publishing House in Turkey, as well as HAKAN, a
web-designer at Gallery Les Arts Turcs,
I touched Her soil, walked (and stumbled!) upon Her cobble-stoned streets,
relived Her glorious history and pulse-pounding mysteries, and rejoiced as well
as.... wept. Yes, I laughed and rejoiced, but also, wept. For me, a
Child of the romantic, idealistic, '60s, especially of Istanbul in the
late '60s and early '70s, my return to Istanbul, and to the Lands of the Morning
(Anatolia), was joyful as well as traumatic. Before I go on
spilling my heart out to you, dear Reader, I must caution you that these are my
feelings, and based on WHAT WAS, versus WHAT IS. You, on the other hand,
especially if you should hail from an overcrowded metropolis like New York City,
Detroit, Atlanta, San Francisco, Los Angeles, London, Paris, Rome (especially
Rome!), and have the good sense of arming yourself with a decent pair of Nikes
or Adidas', will indeed enjoy and profit (intellectually, culturally) from your
visit to Istanbul. In fact I really believe that everyone, EVERYONE, regardless
of their race and creed, would benefit from visiting Istanbul at least once in
their lifetime. You WILL feel beguiled, intrigued, in love, energized,
challenged, educated, and hungry for more. Yes, I mean this literally, hungry
for more. So, Friend, you
better HURRY! The good news is: most the original city plan and architecture is
still intact. The dangerously narrow streets in the European Old Istanbul, the
magnificent historical landmarks, mind-boggling mosques and seraglios, churches
and synagogues, a great deal of the Ottoman-era wooden houses, and even the
decrepit cobble-stones haphazardly lining the streets, are all there. Here are 2
photos, taken while we were on our way back to Ataturk Airport; you can see
Yesterday and Today, clearly standing proud against the Marmara Sea and the
modern highway. Come, Friend, be brave, be adventurous, call your favorite
airline or check out
http://www.istanbulshotels.com
for your travel plans (email Ms.Filiz at info@istanbulshotels.com, and give her
my regards), and come experience Istanbul before it is too late! Because the
hate-mongers and mass-manipulators are hard at work to promote their own agenda,
and are just too happy to step over history, culture, good will, and Our
Inherent Right to Know and Understand our Collective Past... To be
continued ….. |
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Les Arts Turcs Tours : Incili
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