ISTANBUL MAGIC
Istanbul lies at the mouth of the Bosphorus, a strait
which formed thousands of years ago when the land between the Black
and Marmara seas split apart. Since it was founded the city has
possessed a unique, even magical, attraction. This is true today,
as travellers from all over the world attest, and was so in the
past. Who were the first to be drawn by this irresistible magic?
The history books tell us that in the 7th century BC people from
the warm climes of Megara, a city in central Greece, travelled to
the cooler seas of this region. Under their legendary leader, Byzas,
they established a colony here. They must have been people who appreciated
beauty, because others who arrived earlier were not so discriminating
in their choice of site. If they had been, would they have settled
on the flat Asian shore which lacked the spectacular views over
both the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus on the opposite shore? Although
so close, Chalcedon on the Asian shore enjoys slightly milder winters,
and perhaps it was this which motivated them.
Whatever the case, the Megarans settled down facing
the Chalcedonians on the other side of the strait. But was it just
beauty which drew them there? Cynical voices deny this, suggesting
the less poetical explanation that they merely found the Golden
Horn a perfect sheltered harbour for their ships.
However, poetry and lyricism are the food of life,
and bring our story to life. Istanbul’s enchantment has been
shaped by many fascinating events, one of which occurred when the
glorious Roman Empire stretched out its arms to this place, and
one of its majestic rulers appeared on these shores and hills. In
a struggle for power in the boot of Italy, this remote town played
on the wrong horse when it backed Niger.
Instead his rival Septimus Severus won. As if that were not enough,
it made another wrong move by refusing to surrender, and Septimus
Severus laid siege.
After a long and fierce struggle the city was taken,
and the emperor took revenge for Byzantium’s stubbornness
by razing it to the ground. Later regretting his storm of destruction,
however, he set about rebuilding it. The city’s magic must
have been at work here. I liken Severus to a hero of fairytale weeping
over the body of the girl he has slain. I imagine him posed like
a statue, dressed in magnificent armour, gazing out over the city
he had destroyed from the heights of the ancient acropolis. To his
left was the sheltered harbour, sleeping quietly, before him a channel
whose blue waters wound northwards.
To his right the hills of Asia billowed into the
distance, and a pale blue sea sparkled as if stars had fallen down
from the sky into its waters. This picture was the work of nature
alone, but over subsequent centuries creations of human hand added
to its beauty.
It was then that the magical elixir began to work
again, and the emperors Constantine and Justinian brought new splendour
to their capital city. The centuries passed, and in the 15th century
the last stage in the elixir’s life commenced.
A tribe of people from the distant heart of Asia had arrived in Asia
Minor to mingle with the ancient indigenous peoples.
At the same time they drew into their midst the most promising
young people of the Balkans. This process inevitably led to crowning
their expanding empire with the city of Istanbul, and thus the rest
of the story began to unfold. The successors of the Byzantines adapted
with perfect harmony to their new capital, and with each passing
century added to the manmade adornments of its beautiful natural
setting. When Süleyman the Magnificent appointed a genius like
Sinan as his architect and poured chests of gold at his feet to
pay for a mosque in his name, Sinan created an extraordinary monument.
Situated on the flat top of one of the city’s hills, its
domes and arches seemed as if carved from granite by a giant sculptor.
It was a remarkable sight. Ottoman civilisation did not only create
marvellous monuments like Süleymaniye Mosque, but wove an enchanting
fabric of beauty throughout the city. Each part whispered its own
story. A tomb on a street corner threw the yellow flickering light
of candles out into the dark blue night. Within the horologe room
of a mosque, pendulum clocks and pocket watches counted the passing
time. A fountain poured out its crystal clear water, which falling
from basin to basin made music restful to the spirit. And when the
young plane trees planted next to every fountain and every prayer
terrace grew tall, birds perched in their spreading branches added
their melodies to that of the water. Every season was a poem in
Istanbul. The languid heat of summer, the melancholy fallen leaves
of autumn, and the cold white blanket of winter were all part of
the city’s many faceted beauty.
But above all it was the spring months which caught at the heart.
Spring was a time of joy and hope, as everywhere in the world. But
springtime here, on these hills and these shores, was still more
evocative. While greens of every hue painted the forests, the judas
trees which nature grants so sparingly were like splashes of pink
and cyclamen applied at random by a painter, transforming those
expanses of green into paintings of bewildering loveliness. The
magic of Istanbul was the result of such a spell woven by nature
and art. The past century has affected this corner of the world,
as it has so many other places. It seems as if the old magic has
fallen silent, allowing a new world to impose itself in places over
the past.
But universal beauties are not so easily defeated, and powerful
actors do not so easily retreat from the stage. The machines of
modern cities cannot always manage to silence the old enchantment,
and in today’s crowded metropolis there are still places where
the commotion fades and the old music can be heard.
In spring on the hills of the Bosphorus the brush of that great
painter still sprinkles his pink colours over the green background.
The monumental fountain of Beykoz still plays its sweetest music.
A ship passing close to the shores of the Bosphorus appears at the
end of a deserted street like an old friend and carries your heart
away. On moonlit nights the apricot coloured light of the moon lights
up your soul like a magic lamp.
A silver wash of light on the dark blue waters glimmers with the
magic of Istanbul, coursing through your heart and captivating you
once more. It was both easy and difficult for Istanbul to hand you
its magic elixir in a golden cup. Easy because nature provided so
many readymade beauties as its raw material, and difficult because
the elixir simmered on an ancient fire for nearly three thousand
years before reaching perfection.
* Çelik Gülersoy is author of many books
on the history of Istanbul.
Articles
Index
|
