On Minarets, Microphones, and Magic

It's been nearly a week since my return from Istanbul and I still can't quite shake the feeling that I've done her some sort of injustice by not actually writing about the city.  I can't quite get her out of my head or off my mind.  Go with me on this one, let it flow, because it might be a bit of a ramble.

Despite my decidedly out of control globetrotting, I have never visited a predominately Muslim country.  Most of my travels have taken me to largely Christian, undecided, or otherwise inclined places. There's no rhyme, reason or prejudice here.  In the hierarchies of my travels, where I can go is where I do go- and that is much more a result of funding versus religious affiliation.  I believe I've fairly clearly established my own thoughts on religious systems and spirituality.  The one I don't buy into at all, the other I have the utmost respect for.  No surprise there.

But what may surprise is that the thing about Istanbul that struck me the most- aside from the colors, flavors, scents and scenes, visions of living history- was the religiosity there.  It is woven artfully into the day with extreme precision and delicacy.  It is careful and sometimes subtle and frequently not-so-subtle.

Hagia Sophia near the center, Blue Mosque off to the
far right.  Ten hundred thousand life-stories between.

The religion in Istanbul struck me as both blunt and gentle- there was a constancy to it that was amazingly profound but also a nonchalance about it.  Every man had prayer beads that he was constantly fingering.  Women had traditional scarves.  Scanning the horizon is a riot of lopsided buildings, skyscrapers and unsightly cranes- all punctuated by the jabbing grace of minarets.  Minarets everywhere- minarets beside minarets beside minarets.  All outfitted with microphones.

This place, this history, so steeped in religion and so aware of that, does not let you forget it.  If Istanbul can remember- so can you.

(This is where I'm going to do something very difficult- and skip the part about the Hagia Sophia. If you know me and know what some things mean to me, you'll know that the nearly three hours I spent in awe and reverence in that space were about as close to Holy as I can get.  In those three hours I remembered why History was my first love, and how History is so Holy… Hmm.. I guess I'm doing a poor job at skipping the part about Hagia Sophia.  I digress.)

And now for elementary background (and I apologize for my woeful oversimplification here)… Muslims observe Salat (Namaz in Turkey), one of the five pillars of their faith, with prayers that take the physical, mental, and spiritual aspects of (wo)man, roll them together, and demand respect, attention.  It's a time-out from life, a reminder of the bigger picture.  Salat happens five times a day.  And witnessing  that will change a person- at least for a little while.  Because Muslims pray… beautifully.  The daily calls to prayer (Adhan) which erupt from those microphone-bearing minarets around the city at prescribed times are booming, echoing, tinny, abrasive and utterly captivating.

Yes. That is me: shoulders covered, head covered,
kneeling at the Blue Mosque.  Even heathens have
respect. 

Everyday there- several times a day- I'd pause for a heartbeat, wondering about the strangeness of being included in someone's religion, someone's faith, simply by having chosen to visit their city.  It was an oddly provocative gift.  And how very potent that realization is to someone like me.

Everyday there- all those several times a day- I stood quietly realizing that my adventure now had a new soundtrack.  Instead of jack-hammers and honking horns, I had the call of some appointed Muezzin guiding me through the crowded streets of this ancient place.  And in this ancient place, in those few moments, I felt an ancient magic.  It's the magic made from layers upon layers of civilization, each weighing down on the last, each bolstering the one that followed, building up to something… I don't know what yet.

It's the magic made from Spices, Sultans and Salats.

It's the magic of Istanbul.

There. That feels better- And until next time.