hafiz far from home

zolf bar bād made, tā nadahi bar bādam....

Translation of Hafiz' divān, Sarajevo

har gez namirad ān ke delash zendeh shod ze eshq...

Translation of Hafiz' divān, Istanbul

Hafiz commentary in Ottoman and Persian, Istanbul

galata fishermen

"I hate this place," Samir grumbled in his singsong Damascene as he served up two plates of fresh fish. Mine was horrible, maddeningly full of spikes and wrapped in a cheap bun. "They work me twelve hours a day and treat me like shit all the time. They've got this complex, these Turks, they blame us for bringing down the Ottoman empire. It's the fucking twenty first century, get over it!" He was getting visibly redder in the face as he spoke; he saw in me an opening to vent, and I gladly obliged.

"You know I don't just work here, right, I am studying maritime law, masters, at the university..." Trailed off, distracted, and then suddenly leaped into character as he saw a couple pass by. "WELCOME!" he shouted, with a comically desperate grin, "Take a look at our menu, great prices, service, best fish in town!! Please just take a look, maybe for later..." The tourists awkwardly disentangled themselves and walked on.

Everything about this city makes me giddy and delighted to be here. Not least of these elements are the fishermen who come out each night on the Galata bridge, fishing until all hours of the morning. It was sad to think of Samir's rough patch, that he felt compelled to point out that he was a student, and not just a waiter. It made me think of my own insecurities on being away from the academy. Samir bustled about the store, stopping every once in a while to lament one or another facet of Turkish life.

Babaçan

Babaçan is an Alevi from Eastern Turkey. Some people radiate peace. He spent a good half hour talking to me about life in his village, in Istanbul, as a musician. I tried to catch bits and pieces with my broken Turkish. He sits in a cold underpass on the Bosphorus from seven to ten each night playing away for passers bye. He couldn't possibly do it for the money, because there didn't seem to be many people walking by, or very many coins in his case.

london, if you're lucky...

 Welcome to Istanbul. Thıs was ıt. I had fınally arrıved. Nothıng says welcome home lıke cart loads of fresh pomegranıtes by the roadsıde, towerıng mınarets, posters of Aası the soap star (I am stıll ıncurrably ın love wıth her) and an entıre floor of a hostel just for me for a spectacular 10 dollars a nıght. Istanbul was every bit as magical as I remembered it.

I popped ınto the fırst and fınest cafe I spotted on the long walk from the bus depot to Sultanahmet. As I began to drift away into cups of Turkısh coffee and baklava, I heard the unmıstakable sounds of a Persıan conversatıon floatıng past the table to my left. What I heard left me badly shaken for the rest of what has turned ınto another ınsomnıac nıght wanderıng through a foreıgn cıty.

You can delıver the rest of the payment on the other sıde. Tell them not to waıt around, ıf he speaks the language already, there ıs no reason to delay thıngs. We can arrange the passports, probably Spanısh or Italıan, documents and everythıng, but let me tell you no funny busıness, brıngıng other people along and so on. You follow ınstructıons and we can get you to Parıs, Berlın, even London ıf you're lucky..

And so I sat there for a half hour more as Masud explaıned the mechanıcs of people smugglıng to hıs newest customer. I was overcome by sadness as I shot a furtıve glance across my table. Mr Hosseını dıdnt look lıke a scruffy crımınal or wıld eyed refugee. He was about to put hıs lıfe ın the hands of a stranger and weave hıs way by land and sea to a far away cıty to buıld a lıfe for himself and his family. I felt so ashamed, as though I had failed this man somehow, as if I had failed to make our country a home where people could live, not turn themselves into contraband in the hopes of a better future.

Welcome to Istanbul, I thought, looking into my coffee grinds. I got up and walked on.

A day in Konya

It's hard to describe an encounter with a man who has brought so much to my life. Standing before Mowlana Rumi shattered any pretensions I harbored about having recovered from the romanticism that afflicts so many from my country. A twelve hour night bus took me from Istanbul to Konya.  I stepped off the bus, made my way in broken Turkish towards the tram station, and watched the streets of Konya pass me by as I fell deeper and deeper into thought. All the while every line I had ever learned made itself available to my tired thoughts...

beshno az ney, chon hekāyat mikonad...az jodā-ee-hā shekāyat mikonad...
Listen to the reed as it speaks, complaining of separation...

Chanting and stumbling, I walked from the tram station to the nearest restaurant. I hadn't eaten a square meal in what seemed like forever. Only after I entered I realized I was in a MacDonald's. The garish yellow-red interior snapped me out of my romantic daze.  I ordered a MacDonald's hamburger for what would be the first time in my life. Underwhelmed by the reaching of yet another momentous benchmark, I finished my meal down to the last perfectly manicured fry and made my way to the shrine. 

I walked past the city garden, past mosque after ancient mosque, castles and forts and history that was so common in Turkey I had gotten used to seeing it all sort of lying around. I walked past the Mowlana restaurant, the Mowlana hotel, the Mowlana bank and coffee shop selling Mowlana coffee at prices Mowlana would never be able to afford, past ten thousand little figurines of whirling darvishes, and clock faces of whirling darvishes and signs for two for one deals on whirling darvishes....

At long last, I saw the turquoise dome of the shrine emerging from behind the trees. And then, I did what every self respecting Persian gentleman does in the face of the numinous; I sat myself down and cried big, hot tears, unfazed by the stares of passers by.  I walked on, past the jinazah prayer at the masjid to my left, past the ticket booth swarming with pilgrims turned tourists and past the rubble of "renovation" work.  Two liras later I was inside the "Mevlana Museum", determined to at least try containing myself. The museum was packed like a bazaar with all of Mowlana's purported stuff, but my watery eyes were fixed on a few simple lines, written in nasta'liq on the far wall...

bāzā, bāzā, harānche hasti, bāzā
gar kāfar-o bot parasti, bāzā
in dargah,dargah-e nā-omeedee neest
sad bār agar towbe shekasti, bāzā

Return, return, whatever you are
if you are kafer or idolater, return
for this house is not the house of hopelessness
If you broke your towbas a hundred times, return...

More tears, more wandering, more encounters with beautiful, warm, friendly Konyans inviting me into their lives without reservation, more tea and shopping later, I was on another bus, heading back to Syria.