Our apartment abuts a Turkish cemetery: graves actually attach to the base of the building we inhabit. The cemetery descends beyond us through beautifully twisted pine trees to a steep, serpentine street below. On sunny days, there is a cacophony of birds. Today the cemetery was silent, except for the sounds of wind, rain and, toward the end of my visit, the bells of the Armenian church (est. 1683) further down the hill.
I chose to visit the cemetery this morning because it was a rainy Sunday. The Turks work six days a week; their ‘day off’ is Friday. It had been raining most of the week, so I figured there would be nobody there but me, the trees and the graves. I was right. I forgot about the rain that the trees had stored for my arrival. The wind did not forget. Having stupidly left my umbrella in the subway on Friday, I came home drenched.
To get there, I walked up to an alley just past the first of the grocers. Our hilltop enclave features three grocers, each catering approximately to the same domestic needs, differing only in variety. (I say ‘first of the grocers’ not because he is the best, but because his is the first shop one encounters upon entering our neighborhood.) I turned left and walked carefully down a steep asphalt decline streaming with rainwater. The road sagged to the right past several broken-down, make-shift shanties, then curved sharply left, the surface turning to gravel onto a series of uneven, decaying concrete steps that veered sharply to the right which led me to the cemetery gate, an unlocked wrought-iron aperture over which were the words, etched in marble, painted black, Kurucesme Mezarlik (Kooroocheshmeh Cemetary).
I have walked through the cemetery several times, seeking solitude and relative silence. It is not ancient; the oldest head-stone I’ve found is dated from only 1874. The earliest graves are furthest down the hill, several featuring Islamic calligraphy and stylised head-stones (turbans, sunbursts, open Korans). A typical grave is surrounded by a raised rectangle of marble with a head-stone at one end (sometimes at both ends), with the recess filled with growing things, many deliberately planted, e.g., roses and lilies. Other graves feature fledgling trees and plants I do not recognize, which may just be Mother Earth regaining some lost territory, bit by bit. I cannot discern the intentionality of the plants growing in the graves plots.
Before Istanbul, when I thought of a cemetery, I envisioned a level or gently sloping grassy area, with regularly spaced horizontal gravestones separated by an occasional tomb. Here, there is no level, no grass. Kurucesme Mezarlik is a semi-vertical maze of paved and unpaved paths, tall, dark trees, marble and concrete walls, raised tombs and sunken graves. One must squeeze between trees and tombs, or step on the marble of someone’s grave trim to continue on a path. The concrete walls differ in composition, coloration and degree of disrepair. Most are composite stone and gravel, some are uniform or painted or feature bits of pottery and shell. Family plots are common, a few surrounded by locked metal fences. Some plots feature potted plants, or small marble receptacles at the ends of graves that now hold only rainwater and green mold. The most frequent head-stone inscription is ‘Ruhuna Fatihah’: Soul triumphant.
I chose to visit the cemetery this morning because it was a rainy Sunday. The Turks work six days a week; their ‘day off’ is Friday. It had been raining most of the week, so I figured there would be nobody there but me, the trees and the graves. I was right. I forgot about the rain that the trees had stored for my arrival. The wind did not forget. Having stupidly left my umbrella in the subway on Friday, I came home drenched.
To get there, I walked up to an alley just past the first of the grocers. Our hilltop enclave features three grocers, each catering approximately to the same domestic needs, differing only in variety. (I say ‘first of the grocers’ not because he is the best, but because his is the first shop one encounters upon entering our neighborhood.) I turned left and walked carefully down a steep asphalt decline streaming with rainwater. The road sagged to the right past several broken-down, make-shift shanties, then curved sharply left, the surface turning to gravel onto a series of uneven, decaying concrete steps that veered sharply to the right which led me to the cemetery gate, an unlocked wrought-iron aperture over which were the words, etched in marble, painted black, Kurucesme Mezarlik (Kooroocheshmeh Cemetary).
I have walked through the cemetery several times, seeking solitude and relative silence. It is not ancient; the oldest head-stone I’ve found is dated from only 1874. The earliest graves are furthest down the hill, several featuring Islamic calligraphy and stylised head-stones (turbans, sunbursts, open Korans). A typical grave is surrounded by a raised rectangle of marble with a head-stone at one end (sometimes at both ends), with the recess filled with growing things, many deliberately planted, e.g., roses and lilies. Other graves feature fledgling trees and plants I do not recognize, which may just be Mother Earth regaining some lost territory, bit by bit. I cannot discern the intentionality of the plants growing in the graves plots.
Before Istanbul, when I thought of a cemetery, I envisioned a level or gently sloping grassy area, with regularly spaced horizontal gravestones separated by an occasional tomb. Here, there is no level, no grass. Kurucesme Mezarlik is a semi-vertical maze of paved and unpaved paths, tall, dark trees, marble and concrete walls, raised tombs and sunken graves. One must squeeze between trees and tombs, or step on the marble of someone’s grave trim to continue on a path. The concrete walls differ in composition, coloration and degree of disrepair. Most are composite stone and gravel, some are uniform or painted or feature bits of pottery and shell. Family plots are common, a few surrounded by locked metal fences. Some plots feature potted plants, or small marble receptacles at the ends of graves that now hold only rainwater and green mold. The most frequent head-stone inscription is ‘Ruhuna Fatihah’: Soul triumphant.
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