Diyarbakir Great Mosque

     Almost six kilometers of impressive and nearly complete black basalt walls surround Diyarbakir. To the Romans, who built these walls, this key border city was known as Amida. In the seventh century the city fell to Moslem invaders so that the city today preserves a number of impressive mosques. The most interesting is the Great Mosque built in the 11th century by the Seljuk leader, Malik Shah. Sadly, the mosque, massive but plain was closed when I visited the site. However, the courtyard and in particular the western facade is breathtaking. After an earthquake and fire damaged the mosque in 1115 this facade was reconstructed using beautifully ornamented columns, capitals and moldings from a Roman theater. The architect, Hibat Allah al Gurgani created a glorious architectural concoction by fitting the columns, many of which are decorated with different interlocking designs, into a two story colonnade unified by a band of Seljuk calligraphy. Classical order is combined with late-antique decorative exuberance and Seljuk sensibility to create a building of surpassing architectural beauty. 

Nemrut Dagi

Giant heads with high flat caps stare out of a hard dry landscape of grey and red stone. Today  we visited the mountaintop burial ground of Antiochus I, King of Commagene. Little is known about the man except that he had great expectations for his kingdom, perhaps even a new syncretic religion. He didn't last long and the place is recorded in the history books as merely a minor Hellenistic kingdom. Nevertheless the site of Nemrut Dagi is preposterous. Here he built a 150 meter tumuli at the peak and set two sets of huge gods to guard it from the east and the west.

Sadly, earthquakes have shaken the mighty heads off. The effect created by Archaeologists is odd with the heads neatly righted and laid out in front of massive seated headless bodies. The effect is almost comical. The relationship of body parts is not the only strange circumstance. The gods themselves are mixtures of Roman and Persian deities. Here the Zoroastrian god, Ahuramazda is combined with Jupiter. Tyche has taken the form of the local fertility goddess. Apollo and Helios are joined with the Persian god, Mithras and Hercules takes the form of Ares and Artagenes. In their midst, wearing a tall cap like the other gods is Antiochus himself, god sized. On either sides are the fallen heads of guardian eagles and lions.

One can be certain that the message communicated today is not that intended by Antiochus. In fact, Shelleys famous poem about the ruined and lonely statue of Ozymandias comes to mind. One of my traveling companions recited the poem which ends with the famous words, "Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair."  

We left the statues behind and zigzagged our way down steep inclines covered with rocks. Holes the size of skeleton eyes were worn into them giving the impression of countless skulls scattered down the mountain by some dreadful ancient battle. Toward the bottom, the rock formations morphed into armies of liken covered mitered Byzantine bishops apparently marshaled against the perpetrators of the slaughter. Yet amidst the tall stone forms, thistles burst with blue flowers, yarrow the color of mustard clung to the rocks and even pink hollyhocks occasionally grew on the edge of crevices. 

At last we reached the valley floor as twilight further fed the imagination with crisp shadows and golden light. We returned to Adiyamen for the night.

 

The Church of the Panocrator

Amongst the many responses to Istanbul a sense of romantic melancholy is common. The Eastern Roman Empire, better known as Byzantium, fell here in 1453. With it a thin but direct thread linking the ideological and administrative structure of the classical world with that of the late medieval was broken.  Everywhere, the city is haunted by massive foundations, abandoned archways and broken columns that still convey the ghostly presence of a mostly lost monumental city  . A few structures, however, still stand among the architectural bones of Constantinople. One of these, unknown by tourists but not Byzantinists, is the Church of the Pantocrator.

My first night in Istanbul, I set off to find this rarely visited relic. Once, however, it was part of an important imperial institution. The monastery which included the church was founded by the Empress Eirene, wife of John II during the early decades of the twelfth century. Within the monastery was a library, insane asylum and renowned hospital. Shortly after Eirene's death her husband built another church nearby and as an afterthought attached the two by a chapel. The chapel subsequently became the burial site of Comnenus and Palaeologus emperors. When the city fell to the fourth Crusade, the monastery was pillaged like the rest of Constantinople and then used by the Venetians and the Latin Emperor Baldwin. It is said that much of the decoration of the  Pala d'Oro altarpiece in San Marco's was carried off from the Pantocrator at that time. In fact, if one wants an impression of the legendary sumptuousness of Byzantine art, Venice is a good destination. The treasury of San Marco's is filled with pillaged objects from Constantinople. In the chaos just after the city was retaken by the Byzantines in 1261, the Genoese, commercial rivals of the Venetians, stormed the monastery and in the course of the fighting burned it to the ground. The Byzantines rebuilt but after two centuries the monastery along with the rest of the city finally fell to the Turks. The monastery buildings mostly disappeared years ago but its vast brick substructures can still be seen all over the hill below the surviving church. 

Although the church was converted into the Zeyrek mosque after the conquest of the city it was much decayed by the middle of the last century. The building even found its way onto UNESCO's watch list of endangered monuments. Today, corrugated tin fences block off much of the building and one can see evidence of restoration work thankfully in progress.

The sadness of the place deepens when one considers not only the plight of the building but also the desperate attempt to save the empire that included residents of the monastery. A delegation traveled with the Emperor John VIII Palaeologus to Florence in 1438 to patch up a reunion between the Catholic and Orthodox churches. The Byzantines hoped that Catholic powers would send military aid and even armies to stop the advance of the Turks. Too little came too late. 

 

The church, really two churches awkwardly attached by a chapel, is second in size only to the Hagia Sophia. A conglomeration of red recessed brick, Roman arches and multiple domes no single architectural feature dominates like a Gothic cathedral. Once famous for its rich decoration only some external friezes, marble fragments and bits of colored glass survive. In addition, the floor of the church is decorated with pictures and designs in beautiful opus sectile. Rather than the small uniform tesserae of mosaic opus sectile uses larger pieces of marble, glass or mother of pearl.   

Today a terrace restaurant nestles into what was a part of the monastery. Decorated  capitals, broken columns and  unidentifiable  marble fragments  add  to the atmosphere.  After looking over the church I settled down to have supper and contemplate the church from the comfort of the supper table. Being Ramadan, the locals were fasting from sun up to sun down. When I sat down several other tables were already filled with Turks eager to break the fast. The terrace looked out over Istanbul in twilight with the lights of the Sulamaniye mosque just beginning to come on. Following the lead of the other dinners I ordered the set Ramadan menu. Gradually a half dozen waiters brought out small plates. When they were finished the table was covered by olives, figs, dried meats, jellies, honey, tomatoes, cucumbers, cheeses, whipped butter and fresh bread. This was followed by various fruit juices and cold water. Nevertheless, none of the patrons touched any of the food or drink. It is rare that one can take time to enjoy looking at food without eating it but that is what the Turks did so I respectfully did the same. Contemplation was enhanced by the vocal flourishes of a musician accompanying himself on the Ud. 

Slowly the sunlight withdrew from the city allowing the lighted minarets and domes of the mosques to turn into science fiction like space ships. Still no one touched the food or drink before them. At last, the muezzin of the Sulemaniye mosque signaled the end of the day with his chant, "Allu Akbar." Like throwing a pebble in a pond the sound of other muezzins throughout the city picked up the call in waves. The neighboring tables broke their fast beginning with dates and then tucked into the food before them. However, the meze course was just the beginning. This was followed by a cheese and egg pastry called a Borak. Next came a meat and noodle soup followed by a chunk of roast lamb and rice. So perfectly cooked was the dish that the meat easily slid off the bone. The dessert was a cool almond, egg and cinnamon concoction smothered in Pomegranate. The meal ended with spicy cookies topped with dates. Stuffed, I headed back down the hill aware that like the Turks but for different reasons I would fast the next day. T

Urartu and Van

Today we visited two sites associated with ancient Urartu. The Urartuians were a highly creative civilization that prospered in the area of modern northeastern Turkey from the ninth to the sixth century BC. They gave their name to Mount Ararat which is a Hebrew corruption of Urartu. The Urartuians may be linked to the Old Testament in other ways as well. They were wine producers and drinkers, rare in the ancient Middle East, which perhaps explains the origins of the story of Noah's drunkenness. Scholars also suggest that the well-irrigated lands of Urartu could be a source for the story of the the Garden of Eden. Yet, before an expedition of the French Oriental Society to the area in 1817 they were unknown to scholars. Knowledge came slowly and dangerously as early expeditions to the area were attacked and archaelogists killed. The two world wars further slowed down progress but by the 1950's a clear picture of ancient Urartu imerged. Toprakkale and Tuspa are typical Urartuian sites where well-constructed fortifications, palaces, food storage and temples were built on spine shaped hills a hundred feet or more above well-watered farmlands. The capital, Tuspa, now broods over the modern city of Van. My companions chose to stay at the bottom and I set off with our guide, Zafer. The climb was difficult but for me the anticipation of ancient ruins is always highly motivating. Ruined cities although often the sites of bloody sieges and destruction are stimulating places. Typical of Urartu sites, Tuspa was destroyed in the second half of the seventh century by either the Medes or Sythcians. Dry and barren, the ruins become archaeological exercises in analysis and guess work.  Looking at them is a bit like studying a skeleton in anatomy class. One tries to figure out what went where and what was part of what. 

 

When we reached the summit of this site, however, we were confronted by an unexpected and desturbing vision. We looked down on the physical evidence of one of the twentieth century's countless little-remembered atrocities. Sources for what happened are notably unclear but apparentlly, at the time of the First World War, the old city of Van had a large and active Armenian population that was a thorn in the side of the Ottomans. Caught in the middle of a bloody campaign against the Russians, Van was destroyed by the Ottomans to keep it from falling into enemy hands. To use the anatomy metaphor again, this time the flesh was not yet off the bones. Where the city once stood, now a vast and utterly desolate space of ruined streets and buildings pockmarked by artillery bombardment scarred the earth.  A number of mosques could be identified in the rubble but little else. Ninety six years had covered the obliteration of old Van with dry grass, scrub and dirt but one could still sense the horror of the people who once lived here.  The sanitization of suffering by centuries of history had not yet made this site available for comfortable academic exercise.

Urfa, once called Edessa

Urfa, Turkey is a large dusty city set among low lying dry hills. It looks similar to a number of eastern Turkish cities. In the center, a reconstructed citadel containing a few surviving antiquities snakes along a ridge-like hill. The main streets below are filled with countless shops on the bottom floors of four to eight story buildings. Each one although often cramped is covered with advertising and a large brightly lit sign announcing the establishment. Cell phone outlets are everywhere. Down narrow alleys hatless men in golf shirts sit on small benches talking and sipping tea.  Sometimes the remnant of ancient archways or stone walls survive. Some passageways lead to labyrinthine covered bazars, a twilight inner world where everything is for sale. Women, dressed in western fashion or traditional covering are seen shopping but not in the cafes. Indulged and well-loved children play noisily everywhere. At night, among the strolling  families restless groups of young men four or five abreast fill the side walks or dodge the ever present traffic of cars, dolmuses, buses and trucks. 

In every neighborhood city dwellers attended mosques built in the traditional Ottoman form of a central large dome surrounded with smaller ones and a varied number of minarets. Beyond the main thoroughfares small private dwellings in the old part or in the new giant apartment complexes stretch out into the countryside. Although street cleaners prowl the streets and modern city planners build parks, the crowded Turkish city is in a constant struggle with dust, garbage, plastic bottles and piles of broken pavement. And watching it all, from various heights in parks and roundabouts are statues of Mustafa Kemal Ataruk.

These cities have much in common but are still endlessly fascinating as an eastern Turkish version of modern real life. Yet, many like Urfa date back to the beginning of recorded history. Different versions of human experience have been lived here for a very long time. The people of Urfa like everywhere and every time spend their days in a great throbbing "sound and fury" called the present. What is remembered is selective, filtered and often actually just fiction. Aspects of the past are just plain forgotten in the Middle East and often for good and painful reasons. Even the names of the cities have changed; often the language and religion too. Set in the pathway of multiple conquerors over the millennium, Urfa has no doubt covered over a great deal.

The version of Urfan life I sought here has been well buried over the centuries. Yet this city, once called Edessa, was captured in 1098 by Baldwin of Boulogne, one of the leaders of the first crusade. It is worth remembering not only because it is a remarkable story but because the capture of Edessa probably saved the crusade from destruction.  It is a story among many stories of this city that is worth remembering.

At the time, the main army of the Crusaders was bogged down in front of the daunting four hundred towers of Antioch with little hope of breaking in while a huge Moslem relief army was gathering at Mosul. Allies from the Armenian city of Edessa invited Baldwin who was then operating north of the Crusader army in Cilicia to assist them in resisting the Turks. With as few as eighty knights and a couple hundred men at arms he accepted their invitation. Upon his arrival in Edessa, Baldwin was invited by the unpopular Armenian ruler, Thoros, to become his adopted son.  This involved a strange ceremony that required Baldwin to climb into a giant shirt and rub bare chests with Thoros. Next he did the same with Thoros wife. As profound experience as this adoption ceremony must have been it did not stop Baldwin from standing by as his new father was killed by a mob. Baldwin then stepped into the vacuum and Edessa became the first Crusader state and he styled himself Count. Almost immediately he was besieged by the huge Moslem relief army under Kerbogha, the Emir of Mosel, stopping to take Edessa while on its way to lift the siege of Antioch. For three weeks Kerbogha's army invested Edessa before abandoning the attempt and continuing its journey. The three week however, were crucial ones for the survival of the first Crusade. Only two days before Kerbogha's army arrived at Antioch the Crusaders bribed their way into the city. Besieged themselves for a time, they eventually broke out, defeated Kerbogha and successfuly marched on Jerusalem. 

Back in Edessa, Baldwin established a Catholic hierarchy and granted lands and privileges to European knights and local allies as if he were a European feudal lord. The County of Edessa lasted almost fifty years before falling to an Islamic counter attack that put the entire Christian population to the sword. Today, with the possible exception of the walls of the citadel, no architectural evidence survives of Urfa's days as a Crusader state.

However, as I stroll through this typically modern Turkish city I am still thrilled to be here because I can feel the past under the pavement. Studying history, as tentative  as the subject is, still gives one a sixth sense to tap the deeper and older vibrations of a place. It is the awareness of the often buried past while living firmly in the present that points to perennial truths. We humans are vital, creative, sometimes destructive but always transitory. Sensing the fascinating past while experiencing the exuberant present makes one feel very human.

Baghras Castle

When one ponders a castle one can't help but wonder how it could be taken. Yet,  medieval commanders often racked up a long list of successful sieges during invasions. The question again came up today as I pondered Baghras Castle, also known as Gaston, just outside Antioch. The journey up to the castle involved a delaying action by an army of goats and then a steep clime up a rough and precipitous track. At the top we gazed upon a massive, grim and somewhat ruined structure still above us. To call it brooding would do injustice to its obvious intent to threaten and intimidate. 

My Blue Guide to Turkey informed me that the first castle here was built by the Arab conquerors in the seventh century but this was constructed on even more ancient fortifications. The sight was always important because it controlled the route from Antioch up the coast. Thus the Byzantines besieged the Arabs and then later the Crusaders captured and destroyed it only to rebuild. The place was handed over to the Templars to hold as part of their defensive perimeter around the kingdom of Jerusalem. The castle was attacked again by the king of Armenia and then finally taken by Saladin in 1188. The Templars took it back shortly after and then the Arabs finally captured it at the beginning of the 14th century. Looking upon it now one wonders how this place changed hands so many times? The entrance, before it was destroyed by an earthquake, was a ramp that ran along the edge of a cliff defended by a thousand feet of oblivion. Any other approach involved scaling walls built on top of a giant rock formation already a hundred feet high.

My companions chose to stay in the van but castle hound that I am I found the rocky path that snaked its way into a broken wall. The view offered the kind of perspective on the world that only eagles or perhaps vultures experience. I could easily see into Syria fifty miles away. I explored the mostly ruined interior structures and finally came upon the most intact building in the castle, the chapel. It still contained a vaulted roof, several Gothic features and windows that had once perhaps held stained glass. Here the Templars practiced the traditional part of their strange monastic lives. As I gazed out of the broken windows down into the desolate chasm below I could begin to understand how a garrison could give this place up to an attacker. Isolated, without knowledge of what was happening in the outside world, hungary and depressed by the lofty bleakness of the place a surrender on terms must have been appealing. 

With a shudder I too abandoned the castle to its ghostly Templar defenders and scrambled back down to the van and away.

The Hagia Sophia

I write this as I sip coffee in the garden of the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. I have just spent two hours imagining, contemplating, analyzing and being just all around in awe. I have a sore neck as well. This is perhaps the tenth time that I have visited the great church and it never fails to dazzle me. As always, one stumbles into the vast open space of the church of Justinian and are immediately humbled; first by the size and beauty of the interior and second by the fact that despite being built at the end of the classical age it is intact. The dome which astonished visitors of the sixth century still hovers miraculously overhead. At the same time, reminders of things that happened here over the centuries are also evident. On the floor, near the alter, slightly worn stones mark where Greek speaking Byzantine emperors were crowned for almost a thousand years. On the second balcony the faces of emperors and empresses with haloes gaze out while asserting their orthodoxy and close relationship with Christ and Mary.The great columns and walls stand straight but whatever furnishings or gold decorations within reach were mostly carried away by Crusaders in the thirteenth century. Huge disks high above the floor announce the names of the first four caliphs of Islam installed after the city was taken by Mahmud the Conqueror. Its a stunning, inspiring, provocative and tired old building. Once built by humans other humans just couldn't leave it alone.

On this visit I noticed a number of features I had overlooked before. Four magnificent blood red marble columns taken from some classical temple stand on either side of the alter. The green of the other columns also carried off from some unknown pagan site are dark like the forest at dusk. The restorers have exposed more golden mosaic in the ceiling and some interesting wall features on the bottom floor are decorated with dolphins. Finally, I noticed a number of Iconoclastic crosses emerging from the faded white wash. 

Now I sip my coffee while a dozen languages are spoken around me, none of them Greek and from the plunging neck-lines, tattoos and exposed legs certainly not Byzantines. (They were famous for hiding their females thus the modern Middle Eastern tradition of covering probably comes from them). But the church still stands and for all its worn glory still declares the order of the universe in heaven and earth as understood by the late classical Eastern Roman Empire. 

The poor man sitting at the neighboring table is apparently exhausted by all this antique magnificence. He seeks reassurance by playing a noisy video game on his cell phone. What the Byzantines would think only heaven knows.