Crescent Moons

It was my first realisation of Ottoman might and power, my first glimpse of the Middle East, my first experience of Islam. As I stared at the two colossal edifices, their minarets like conductors to God, the Adhan to Subh prayers cried into the dawn sky and echoed around the city.

The first words of Arabic my ears had ever heard. As-Salatu khairun min an-naum. Never rest. Sleep no more. That poppy taste was the making of a bed to which I have returned like a jealous lover. The painted glamour, curved domes and spires of Istanbul. The ruined beauty of ancient Hellas. The troglodyte arcadias of Cappadocia. The dark, bitter coffee and Levantine flavours of Gaziantep. I’ve never yet sated my othello obsession for this complex, contradictory country. Its crossroad histories and conflicting currents; its enmities and loyalties; the ideological schizophrenia.

Tonight I lie awake in the dark and listen to the city hum. A low rhythmical throb that shakes the senses and clouds my mind. In the window two silhouettes Haghia Sofia and Sultanahmet Camii Tower over rooftops and rend open the heavens. The sabre and the sword. Since ages past, men have poured their faith and prayers into these two despairing vessels. It has filled them to the brim and spills through the streets. Now I am kept from sleep. My eyes stare in the dark and my hands clutch at the sheets.