Sunday, February 11, 2007
Saturday, February 10, 2007
A Day Off with Mohammad (4)
No one takes notice of me until I hear the creaking of stairs above me. This happens after the prayer changes course and the big group up front fans out for individual prayer, dispersing around the mosque. At this point the man in front of me takes a mike and calls something. The man next to him hangs up a set of rosary beads on a nail in the wall. Many of the men are wearing doiled white caps, while others look like everyday business men or merchants. Some men grab their shoes and leave when the prayer changes. Mohammad sits with his hands out, palms up, eyes closed.
The creaking of the stairs comes from an old woman descending from the balcony, or the women's section. A man without turning around, sensing her presence and me on the steps, gestures me to move. It is strictly forbidden to touch a woman in the mosque. I slide to the exit and stand by the door, hoping Mohammad would hurry up because a couple of the men are looking at me, taking an interest. I didn't take this as a threatening look, but Turkish men have a way of looking at you. I'm sure these guys aren't used to foreigners sitting around observing them pray. As the session ends -- "Jazz!" -- Mohammad briskly grabs me and we put on our shoes, me selecting the only blue Adidas running shoes among five long shelves of black loafers. I notice the old woman who came down the stairs, now stands asking for money while a stream of men leave the mosque. Not one man hands her a coin.
Finally we walk down the hill to Altiparmak street to one of the big kebab restaurants. Gratefully we sit down for some food. I have lamb shish kebab and he has the turd-like Urfa kebab. Over tea, again Mohammad rambles in his philosophical discourse, which ranges from him wanting to be a good man and teach his children and not be like other men who smoke, drink and don't care what their kids do. If a boy grows up and commits a crime, Mohammad blames the father because he didn't teach his son right from wrong. He says a woman without guidance from home will become pregnant by some bad man. I ask him if he would let his hypothetical 22 year-old daughter leave home unmarried to move somewhere else. He says it's OK, but it's hard for a woman in Turkey. He seems to be very aware of "bad" men in society and often compares a good way of life, that he apparently lives, to these worthless type of men out there. I ask him if he saw a lot of bad men in his life, but he mentioned only fist-fights and such.
He walks me to the train station and steals a ticket from the ticket-lady without paying. "Mohammad!" she calls out. He laughs and tells her he'll be back and escorts me to the gate, handing me the ticket. He watches me roll away. That girl was his co-worker, but I laugh to think maybe she could be his Bursa finger.
The creaking of the stairs comes from an old woman descending from the balcony, or the women's section. A man without turning around, sensing her presence and me on the steps, gestures me to move. It is strictly forbidden to touch a woman in the mosque. I slide to the exit and stand by the door, hoping Mohammad would hurry up because a couple of the men are looking at me, taking an interest. I didn't take this as a threatening look, but Turkish men have a way of looking at you. I'm sure these guys aren't used to foreigners sitting around observing them pray. As the session ends -- "Jazz!" -- Mohammad briskly grabs me and we put on our shoes, me selecting the only blue Adidas running shoes among five long shelves of black loafers. I notice the old woman who came down the stairs, now stands asking for money while a stream of men leave the mosque. Not one man hands her a coin.
Finally we walk down the hill to Altiparmak street to one of the big kebab restaurants. Gratefully we sit down for some food. I have lamb shish kebab and he has the turd-like Urfa kebab. Over tea, again Mohammad rambles in his philosophical discourse, which ranges from him wanting to be a good man and teach his children and not be like other men who smoke, drink and don't care what their kids do. If a boy grows up and commits a crime, Mohammad blames the father because he didn't teach his son right from wrong. He says a woman without guidance from home will become pregnant by some bad man. I ask him if he would let his hypothetical 22 year-old daughter leave home unmarried to move somewhere else. He says it's OK, but it's hard for a woman in Turkey. He seems to be very aware of "bad" men in society and often compares a good way of life, that he apparently lives, to these worthless type of men out there. I ask him if he saw a lot of bad men in his life, but he mentioned only fist-fights and such.
He walks me to the train station and steals a ticket from the ticket-lady without paying. "Mohammad!" she calls out. He laughs and tells her he'll be back and escorts me to the gate, handing me the ticket. He watches me roll away. That girl was his co-worker, but I laugh to think maybe she could be his Bursa finger.
A Day Off with Mohammad (3)
The city of Bursa trails around all the hills and valleys splitting out from Uludag and it is good exercise walking in and out -- it feels like each one has its own town. Most tourists visit central Bursa so it is very quiet over and down the other side of the Gazi tombs. Except for the buses roaring past, spraying us with foul clouds. Walking down the hill, he asks if I am married. I tell him no, but I have a Turkish girlfriend. He asks if I also have a girlfriend in the US. I laugh, telling him, the one I have is enough. And him? He counts on his fingers one girlfriend for each town he has lived and worked in, which compared to most Turks is alot. It appears he is a rambling man, working random jobs from Van westward, searching for that perfect job and evidently a worthwhile girl.
Cold and hungry we enter the Muradiye complex -- originally built for the living sultan Murat II, complete with living quarters, harem, mosque, and hamam. The mosque and hamam are still in use by the public, but everything else serves as a giant mausoleum for the sultan's family surrounded by hedge gardens and cemeteries. Curiously one section of the cemetery is in good condition, whereas another section is in ruin with broken slabs of marble discarded and weeds overtaking long-empty tombs. "Jazz!" Mohammad points to an angel carved on a chunk of marble. Mohammad said this was the Christian section, left in disarray, while the up-kept section was Muslim. I can't verify this explanation, but the latter's tombs had turbans on the upright headstones, whereas those angels with Greek inscriptions seemed to be cast aside. Perhaps this was result of the Greek Christian-Turk population exchange and Islamic conversions of the past.
I suggest, again, food, but Mohammad asks to stop by the mosque first. He is crazy for camii I muse. This is true but when we enter I realize he wants to participate in the mid-afternoon prayers. I have never seen this before, always by chance entering mosques between one of the 5 prayer times. Mohammad leads me to a space in the back where I quickly and quietly sit on a stair. He joins the others who are standing, bending and kneeling at the calls of the Imam, in the front with a microphone. His calls, short melodic verses, with intermittent pauses with some men muttering things under their breath. One man runs up to the line of devotees, evidently late, and he looks like a child late for class and doesn't want to be noticed.
Cold and hungry we enter the Muradiye complex -- originally built for the living sultan Murat II, complete with living quarters, harem, mosque, and hamam. The mosque and hamam are still in use by the public, but everything else serves as a giant mausoleum for the sultan's family surrounded by hedge gardens and cemeteries. Curiously one section of the cemetery is in good condition, whereas another section is in ruin with broken slabs of marble discarded and weeds overtaking long-empty tombs. "Jazz!" Mohammad points to an angel carved on a chunk of marble. Mohammad said this was the Christian section, left in disarray, while the up-kept section was Muslim. I can't verify this explanation, but the latter's tombs had turbans on the upright headstones, whereas those angels with Greek inscriptions seemed to be cast aside. Perhaps this was result of the Greek Christian-Turk population exchange and Islamic conversions of the past.
I suggest, again, food, but Mohammad asks to stop by the mosque first. He is crazy for camii I muse. This is true but when we enter I realize he wants to participate in the mid-afternoon prayers. I have never seen this before, always by chance entering mosques between one of the 5 prayer times. Mohammad leads me to a space in the back where I quickly and quietly sit on a stair. He joins the others who are standing, bending and kneeling at the calls of the Imam, in the front with a microphone. His calls, short melodic verses, with intermittent pauses with some men muttering things under their breath. One man runs up to the line of devotees, evidently late, and he looks like a child late for class and doesn't want to be noticed.
A Day Off with Mohammad (2)
"Jazz" he says and leads me to the fountain, he asks me to sit and he explains the process of washing one's self. He tells me the order and process, while also illuminating the moral value of cleanliness, saying a dirty man mirrors his black heart. Mohammad walks barefoot, sleeves rolled up to one of several faucets sprouting around the basin. He briefly puts his arms in diving position and looks at me, pretending to prepare for a swim, as if to say there is indeed comedy in the Muslim world. First, he rinses his mouth, then his nose, blowing out snot-rockets into the trough. Next feet, rubbing his fingers between his toes, then between his fingers, rubbing his arms and face. Women are forbidden to do this. Mohammad doesn't have to tell me that if women can't pray next to the men, they certainly can't sit side-by-side baring their wet forearms, calves and feet. Finally he returns and puts on his socks. We grab our shoes, I awkwardly put them on and tie them while standing, and Mohammad fluidly exits, shoes magically on and waiting patiently.
We walk up the old road up to Tophane, the original section of Bursa, built by a defeated Hannibal and presented to King Prusias, for which the name is derived. Mohammad likes to talk more than me, which is fine because I would rather listen to what he has to say. I already know what I have to say. Now he is talking about religion, describing them as all the same thing whether they bow, put their palms together, hold their hands open and out, standing, on their knees, thumb and forefinger forming a circle, whatever. At least this is what I gather from what little Turkish I know and assisted by one of his three English-Turkish dictionaries.
We enter the tombs of Osman and Orhan Gazi, the first sultans of the Ottoman Empire. All the sarcophagi are covered in triangular green covers and the former sultans boast turbans at the heads. Around them are buried the various sized sarcophagi of children or family. It was not necessary for a new sultan to be the first-born child, so the chosen heir often had their brothers killed to prevent a future coup. Perhaps some of these bodies are unfortunate siblings. Osman Gazi's sarcophagus is the most ornately decorated with ivory and shiny marble trim. Otherwise the tombs are cold, barren and ultimately uninteresting. What is interesting is Mohammad's behavior. Upon approaching the sarcophagi, he rubs his thumb and forefinger down the corners of his mouth to his chin. When leaving a tomb he walks backwards, never turning his back on the entombed sultans. I want food at this point, but Mohammad insists we walk over the hill to the next valley, heading toward the Muradiye Complex.
We walk up the old road up to Tophane, the original section of Bursa, built by a defeated Hannibal and presented to King Prusias, for which the name is derived. Mohammad likes to talk more than me, which is fine because I would rather listen to what he has to say. I already know what I have to say. Now he is talking about religion, describing them as all the same thing whether they bow, put their palms together, hold their hands open and out, standing, on their knees, thumb and forefinger forming a circle, whatever. At least this is what I gather from what little Turkish I know and assisted by one of his three English-Turkish dictionaries.
We enter the tombs of Osman and Orhan Gazi, the first sultans of the Ottoman Empire. All the sarcophagi are covered in triangular green covers and the former sultans boast turbans at the heads. Around them are buried the various sized sarcophagi of children or family. It was not necessary for a new sultan to be the first-born child, so the chosen heir often had their brothers killed to prevent a future coup. Perhaps some of these bodies are unfortunate siblings. Osman Gazi's sarcophagus is the most ornately decorated with ivory and shiny marble trim. Otherwise the tombs are cold, barren and ultimately uninteresting. What is interesting is Mohammad's behavior. Upon approaching the sarcophagi, he rubs his thumb and forefinger down the corners of his mouth to his chin. When leaving a tomb he walks backwards, never turning his back on the entombed sultans. I want food at this point, but Mohammad insists we walk over the hill to the next valley, heading toward the Muradiye Complex.
A Day Off with Mohammad (1)
I am late but I see him near the mosque.
"Jazz!" he greets me. He thinks this is my name, I don't bother correcting him because I rather like it. We lean over and touch our cheeks, first the left, then the right.
Before we enter we take off our shoes. Guys like Mohammad can step up to the entrance, flip their shoes off and pass through the heavy green tarp in one fluid motion. I tie my shoes too tight, bend down to untie them, and nearly tumble down the steps taking them off. I clumsily enter the mosque, first struck by the cool air and quiet echoes in all wide-open religious sanctuaries. I can feel my feet being chilled through the holes in my socks, but the soft carpet that covers every inch of marble flooring is soft. We put our shoes on wooden shelves where prayer beads are strewn about on top. In fact, there are beads everywhere, 33 beads each. We walk around the mosque orbiting the marble fountain in the center, far below the glass dome, the central one of 20 altogether.
Mohammad tells me a story about the construction of the mosque which I'm sure I misunderstand. The shah ordered an architect to build 20 mosques around Turkey. The architect brought the shah to Ulu Camii upon completion of his task. The shah said it's very grand but where are the other mosques? The architect said, here. The shah confused, asked, where? The architect pointed to the 20 domes and counted "1,2,3..."
Each dome is trimmed with a unique pattern. On the walls are some signs in Arabic that, depending on what angle you stand, alternate between 3 words. The sign is folded up in such a way that standing from the right it might say "Mohammad", from the center "Allah", etc. The interior is being restored and the echoes of lumber rattle through the open air. This doesn't interrupt men praying to the walls, bowing, on their knees, kowtowing or standing. Some read from the Koran, fathers bring their sons to teach them mosque etiquette. Visitors, Muslim and non-Muslim alike, come here and students on field trips take photos with their cellphones. A group of women stand in the middle discussing matters. To pray, they go to the areas designated in the back corner. Mohammad tells me this prevents the men from admiring them as they pray.
"Jazz!" he greets me. He thinks this is my name, I don't bother correcting him because I rather like it. We lean over and touch our cheeks, first the left, then the right.
Before we enter we take off our shoes. Guys like Mohammad can step up to the entrance, flip their shoes off and pass through the heavy green tarp in one fluid motion. I tie my shoes too tight, bend down to untie them, and nearly tumble down the steps taking them off. I clumsily enter the mosque, first struck by the cool air and quiet echoes in all wide-open religious sanctuaries. I can feel my feet being chilled through the holes in my socks, but the soft carpet that covers every inch of marble flooring is soft. We put our shoes on wooden shelves where prayer beads are strewn about on top. In fact, there are beads everywhere, 33 beads each. We walk around the mosque orbiting the marble fountain in the center, far below the glass dome, the central one of 20 altogether.
Mohammad tells me a story about the construction of the mosque which I'm sure I misunderstand. The shah ordered an architect to build 20 mosques around Turkey. The architect brought the shah to Ulu Camii upon completion of his task. The shah said it's very grand but where are the other mosques? The architect said, here. The shah confused, asked, where? The architect pointed to the 20 domes and counted "1,2,3..."
Each dome is trimmed with a unique pattern. On the walls are some signs in Arabic that, depending on what angle you stand, alternate between 3 words. The sign is folded up in such a way that standing from the right it might say "Mohammad", from the center "Allah", etc. The interior is being restored and the echoes of lumber rattle through the open air. This doesn't interrupt men praying to the walls, bowing, on their knees, kowtowing or standing. Some read from the Koran, fathers bring their sons to teach them mosque etiquette. Visitors, Muslim and non-Muslim alike, come here and students on field trips take photos with their cellphones. A group of women stand in the middle discussing matters. To pray, they go to the areas designated in the back corner. Mohammad tells me this prevents the men from admiring them as they pray.
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