I Am Istanbul

By Buket Uzuner

This delightful tour of a site full of both history and mythology, populated by men and women with lives and problems that are entirely real, down to earth, and by no means romantic, serves as an introduction not only to the city of a thousand names but to the very spirit of its inhabitants, their daily worries as well as the grand tapestry in which they all labor to find happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dalkey Archive Press
• Release date: Apr 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781564789624

Book preview

1

I AM ISTANBUL

I am Istanbul, city of cities, mistress of metropolises, community of poets, seat of emperors, favorite of sultans, pearl of the world! My name is Istanbul and my subjects call themselves Istanbullu. And of all the world’s cities, I am without doubt the most magnificent, mysterious and terrible, a city upon whose shores Pagans, Christians, Jews and unbelievers, friend and foe alike, have found safe harbor through the ages, a place where love and betrayal, pleasure and pain, live side by side.

I, daughter of Poseidon, miracle of the Argonauts, Empress of Medieval Cities, the harbinger of a New Age, whose star shines anew in the twenty-first century, am the city of prosperity and ruin, of defeat and glad tidings. Istanbul is my name. It is I! Place of extremes, the full gamut of human emotions experienced at one and the same time, from the sublime to the basest, the loftiest to the lowest. I! My name is Istanbul, eternal archangel and goddess of cities. They come and go, leaving their mark on my soul; I have seen them rise and fall, be born and decline; I harbor their jumbled relics in my underground cisterns and vaults.

Blue as hope, green as poison, rosy as dawn, I am Istanbul; I am in the Judas tree, in acacia, in lavender; I am turquoise! I am the unfathomable; the muse of possibility, vitality, creativity.

My name is Istanbul. That’s what they call me, what they have been calling me for a century past; but I have been Constantinople, city of Constantine; I began as Byzantium, and have had many names since: The Gate of Heavenly Felicity, Dersaadet, Dar’üssadet, New Rome, Asitane, Daraliye, He Polis, Tsargrad, Stamboul, Kon-stantiniyye . . . Mortals are like that, forever changing names, laws and borders! I laugh at these mortals taking themselves so seriously in their fleeting mortal world of false illusion, fears and shadows. Had anyone thought to consult me, I would have chosen Queen of All I Survey, which is what I am anyway. I am Queen of Queens, City of Cities; I have walked with emperors and sultans, shared the confidences of travelers and poets. Aspiring authors still line up to write about me. In fact, here comes one now!

But even the soul of a great and noble city can feel the strain. Of late, I’ve been feeling restless. Lest I harm myself and the fifteen million people who reside with me, I seek distraction. That is why I’ve chosen this day to turn my attention to Ye ilköy, my old Green Village, now my modern face, home to what they call Atatürk International Airport.

The original name was Ayastephanos. That was back in 395 or 495, I can’t quite remember now. On the night of that terrifying tempest, my Byzantine guests were still living here, and the small boat that was to transport St. Stephanos’s remains to Rome was forced to find refuge in this port. I remember it as though it were yesterday. They had caused me great distress, which had, of course, caused the storm. It was indeed a terrible night, a blinding squall. The remains of the saint languished in the port waiting for fair weather, but his body never left, and the church in which he was finally interred was called Hagia Stephanos, hence the neighborhood: Ayastephanos.

Many years later, in 1926 or 1927, long after the arrival of my Turkish guests, the author Halit Ziya U akligil, who was fond of the place, renamed it Ye ilköy. And that’s how it stayed.

The reason I’ve turned my gaze on the airport today is to revel in the return of an Istanbullu, who many years ago packed her bags and imagined she’d left me for good. I’m in the mood for a little fun. She’s been angry with me for exactly thirteen years, had fled far from me, and here she comes running back. She’ll be touching my tarmac shortly. Her name is Belgin. It gives me particular pleasure to welcome back those mortals who, like this one, have stormed off, vowing never to return. They inevitably find some pretext for doing so. In this case, Belgin of Bebek claims to have fallen in love with the sculptor Ayhan of Adana, now also of Istanbul.

I’ve seen it time and time again; what they’re really addicted to is my love. But it is no mortal love, this love of Istanbul. They carry me always in their hearts, and to me they must return: homesick, pining, missing me to death, their hearts ablaze with an unquenchable love, solace for which can be found nowhere else. Once an Istanbullu, always an Istanbullu. I am the last song on the lips of dying exiles; I am pain and poetry; even to those who imagine they have left me of their own accord, I remain forever their lost home; for I am the smell of earth, the tang of sea, the stuff of dreams. I am Istanbul. City of magic, city of enchantment, object of the world’s desire.

And for millennia, no one has ever really left me. I will not be abandoned! Will never be deserted! My name is Istanbul.

2

FINAL RETURN

The pain of returning to a city that so resembles oneself can only be compared to the pain of coming to terms with one’s own mistakes. It’s like the excitement, the suffering yet supreme passion of returning to a never-forgotten lover.

Only one of the passengers on the plane now descending into Istanbul was making a final return. No one else on the Turkish Airlines airbus that had been cruising from New York at 8575 km per hour for ten and a half hours knew that this particular passenger was making a final return. And if anyone had known, they wouldn’t have cared. Far below, Istanbul was languishing through an ordinary summer day, reclining across two continents and heedless of the planes buzzing about in her airspace.

The passenger making her final return to Istanbul appeared to be a calm sort of person, the kind who doesn’t easily lose control. Her tiny upturned nose was like a comma, scrawled in the middle of her face as a bit of a prank, as though to provide a contrast with her cool composure. With black shoulder-length hair spilling onto her forehead, arched ebony eyebrows curving to her temples and tapered side locks seemingly plastered to her cheekbones, she looked just like Belgin Doruk in her Gina Lol-labrigida phase. It was a retro hairstyle in the summer of 2005. And yes, some would have identified it with Gina Lollabrigida, Doruk, Sophia Loren; while others wouldn’t have been reminded of anything at all. This passenger was an attractive woman. Clear-complexioned, about five and a half feet tall, a size twelve, she looked somewhere on the younger side of forty. Her classic navy-blue boat-collar dress was sleeveless and ended just above the knee. It must have been chemically treated, for its razor-sharp lines were not in the least bit wrinkled from the long journey. A second look would also have revealed that she was tense as a bow, her hazel eyes hauntingly beautiful. Her name was indeed Belgin. And in order to convince herself that she was really coming back to Istanbul for good, and for the better, she repeatedly whispered the words final return. The handsome elderly woman sitting beside her concluded that Belgin must be praying, because afraid of flying, while long experience led the cabin crew, accustomed as they were to dealing with all sorts of people, to ignore this passenger apparently talking to herself.

Final return! Belgin whispered. This is it. Now it’s for real. I’m returning to Istanbul, and for good!

As the pilot prepared for descent, a female voice announced in Turkish that seatbelts were to be fastened, seats brought to an upright position and tray tables folded. The same instructions followed in carefully enunciated American English. Flight attendants began roaming the aisles to ensure that all had complied.

I’m making my final return! Belgin whispered to herself once again. "My kesin dönü ."

The Turkish for final return seems so much less linear than the English, she mused. The English word, though of course meaning, literally, to turn again, never really refers to anything more than the act of going back to A from B and back, whereas the word "dönü really does refer—again, literally speaking—to a gyration or rotation. A final rotation, like turning around, coming full circle, and arriving at the end—the end of what? Yes, it was this business of ending, the finality of that final," which was the more difficult burden to bear—perhaps implying defeat. Did her return indicate a failure of some kind? She suddenly felt weighed down, embarrassed at the thought of someone noticing.

Have I really done it? Is this really it? Just the thought made her stomach churn. Am I ready for Istanbul? Ready for its terrible, splendid chaos?

As the plane banked and wheeled, the monitors that had been showing news programs, travel documentaries and two Holly-wood films had long since automatically retracted. The fasten your seat belts and no smoking signs just below the overhead baggage compartments were the only sources of illumination. Even seasoned travelers wore noticeably tense expressions, worn out as they were by the ten-and-a-half-hour flight, biological rhythms disrupted by jet lag, and a diet of airplane food that even at its best never manages to be as appetizing as what one gets on land. But, above all else, what really weighed on the planeload of travelers was the humiliation of the series of intrusive security checks they’d been subjected to, which after 9/11 has completely taken the joy out of travel.

Am I really starting a new life in Istanbul, returning to the city to become an Istanbullu once more? Belgin wondered. Of course I am. And I’m returning by choice! she told herself. This isn’t a case of a woman who’s disrupting her whole life, sacrificing everything for a man. No, that’s not it at all! Her tone was now combative. I just want to live in the same city as the man I love, and I was in love with the city long before I fell in love with the man. Despite this inner dialogue, her face remained impassive, continuing to signal to the world that all was well within. This ability of hers was a blessing and a curse, and had shaped the course of her life; but those who accused her of being unemotional, and even punished her for it, never stopped to think that she herself disliked this trait. How could they know that she was taking after her mother?

The elderly female passenger in the next seat suddenly began to speak with great enthusiasm: There’s no place like home. Even though it sometimes drives us mad, even though we criticize it, even though we settle in other countries for whatever reason, this wonderful Istanbul of ours makes us tremble with excitement every time we return . . . She sounded as excited as a child.

Belgin almost thought she must have imagined this timely interjection, but no, the woman in the next seat, who had been silent up to now, and whose ageless beauty Belgin had admired from the start, turned her head and continued in a dreamy tone:

Even when we’re forced to live with twin passports, away in other cities, our compasses always point to Istanbul . . .

Since she came from a good family, and so had been saddled with that distinguished burden known as good manners, Belgin automatically flashed a gracious smile at the woman. The smile still lingered on her lips as she found herself subjected to the inevitable question. Unsure of what she’d respond, it was a question she’d hesitated to ask herself.

Are you an Istanbullu too? the woman inquired.

There was a moment’s silence.

Am I an Istanbullu? Belgin echoed uneasily. "Who can really claim to be ‘of Istanbul’? What does it take? If it just means being born in Istanbul and living there, can I still count myself an Istanbullu after an absence of twelve years? But if it really means belonging to the city, I may well still define myself, culturally, by way of Istanbul . . . Or do I now belong somewhere else?"

The faraway voice from the next seat was now tinged with a note of pride. Well in my case, I was born and raised in Istanbul . . .

I’m going back! Belgin sighed. I’m going back, returning to Istanbul! Would you believe I’m really making a ‘final return’? Going back to the city to which I vowed never to return, except for holidays and other short visits, I mean . . . going back to the city of betrayal, of hypocrisy, of loneliness.

She flinched. Why was she telling all this to a stranger?

My dear girl, still so young, and with so much still ahead of you! The longer we live, the more we experience. Oh, the vows we break; the things we spit out only to lap up later! said her fellow passenger, smiling more joyfully than ruefully. My dear, she added, even someone like me, who prides herself on her principles and her patriotism, often end up spending half the year in America just to be with her daughter and grandchild. But Belgin’s attention was wandering, her thoughts focused on her return to Istanbul . . .

"Dönü . . . to turn, one needs an axis; to orbit, a trajectory. Belgin’s thoughts were in free fall, spinning out of control. It’s a simple act. Motion in space. So why is it causing me such pain?"

Ah, but is it really as simple as that? A final return isn’t just a question of movement, a one-way voyage. You don’t think it’s as straightforward as that, do you? the elderly voice asked.

Isn’t it? asked Belgin.

But of course not, my dear! replied the woman, raising an eyebrow. "For example, let’s examine the metaphorical meaning of the word dönme, or ‘turning,’ as used by the Sufi; that is to say, let’s look at the two concepts involved: axis of rotation and cycle of existence. First of all, let me remind you that the ritual spinning practiced by the Mevlevi and Sufi orders is called the sema—no doubt known to you by more colorful names, like ‘the dance of the dervishes.’"

Yes, of course . . . said Belgin, feeling slightly ashamed that only now did she understand what the old woman was getting at. She may have been living in America for twelve years, but she felt certain she hadn’t become quite so ignorant of her own culture. She’d never been one of those Turks who slip into the unfortunate affectation of speaking Turkish with an American twang by their second year abroad, as well as forgetting words they’ve used all their lives.

Sufism is extremely popular in America these days, and we Turks often learn more about it over there! This, unfortunately, is yet another dramatic example of the ways our culture has been hijacked . . . the woman added.

As Belgin was wondering whether this complaint was directed at herself, the beautiful old woman in the next seat returned to her lecture.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it isn’t as though I have any personal experience of any religious cults and so forth. I’m a Kemalist: a secular, Republican patriot. My grandfather on my mother’s side may have been a Mevlevi sheikh, but all of his granddaughters received modern educations, went on to have careers, and became thoroughly secular and civilized Atatürkist members of society, praise be to Allah! Look at me, a retired history teacher!

Bewildered by the twists and turns of their conversation, Belgin nodded vacantly in a bid to stall the old woman. It was perhaps the perfect moment to respond with, Pleased to meet you; I’m Assistant Professor Belgin—I’m a geneticist. But Belgin didn’t bother. In any case, the title of assistant professor doesn’t exist in the Turkish academic system, its closest approximation being deputy university lecturer. And then, Belgin was still quite tense at the prospect of her final return.

Being a civilized nation doesn’t require the rejection of one’s own culture and traditions! An Eastern-Western synthesis is best for us, I think—or rather, absolutely essential! We must unite our local values with universal ones. Does it not follow, my dear, that we shouldn’t abandon our great philosopher and poet, Mevlana, to the Americans? the retired history teacher asked.

Rumi! said Belgin absentmindedly. The West calls him Rumi . . .

Yes, of course they do. And if we don’t claim him as our own, that’s just how the foreigners will steal all our values!

They fell silent as the plane glided over the Sea of Marmara.

You spoke of a ‘turning back’ to Istanbul, resumed the former history teacher. "The sema ceremony of the dervishes involves turning, but is in fact a metaphor for the circular movement of history. Not only do they whirl on their own axes, they also simultaneously revolve around the sheikhs. ‘Turn,’ ‘return,’ ‘whirl,’ ‘spin,’ ‘revolve’—they’re all the same word in our language, as you know."

Looking out of the window at the billowing clouds, Belgin imagined dervishes in white robes and conical red hats whirling with the clouds, spinning, eyes closed, heads tilted to the right, one hand extended palm upward toward the sky, the other downward toward the earth. She envied their serenity, felt a yearning for absolute calm, the spiritual purity that comes from balancing the earthly and the divine. And, for a fleeting moment, she felt bathed in cool whiteness, afforded a glimpse, however brief, into a mystical experience of wholeness and safety. Reassured, the color flowed back into her face, and she even smiled.

One must reach ecstasy! exclaimed her neighbor, startling Belgin, who had already forgotten all about her. You can’t turn without it!

Really, murmured Belgin. So I have to reach ecstasy to return?

What I mean is that you must rejoice. You do see, young lady, that a soul that is not rejoicing in purity can’t whirl. To ‘turn’ you must rejoice.

So, thought Belgin, that must be what’s missing from my final return to Istanbul—joy! I’m failing to rejoice. Do I have enough energy and joy for Istanbul? Do I have enough desire and courage for the wonderful man who is waiting for me down there in the airport? Do I have the joy I’ll need to start a new life with this man I love? Without it, how will I survive Istanbul? Or love? Or does defeat and disappointment await me in Istanbul, yet again?

"Of course, for those who can’t rejoice, tecavud will do just as well," threw in her neighbor.

Belgin nodded automatically. It was as if this beautiful old woman were reading her thoughts. Then she realized she wasn’t certain what the word tecavud meant, and frowned.

Which is to say, it’s permissible for those who can’t truly rejoice to appear to be feeling joy, the old woman explained.

Belgin laughed, incredulous. What do you mean? How can I fake joy?

Surely you don’t mean to say you’ve never done that, at least on occasion?

Am I to understand that you’re asking me if I’ve ever faked it? stammered Belgin, somewhat taken aback. The incredulity she felt was as great as that of her Western friends when they learned that she had been born and raised in a country in which some women were still subjected to virginity tests.

I think you understand exactly what I mean. After all, you’re not a child.

Belgin shook her head dispiritedly. She was just past forty, and very sensitive to any references to age.

I mean, you must be at least thirty-five, the history teacher hastily amended.

You’re too kind—I’m forty-one, you’ve shaved off quite a few years!

Some people are just born lucky, smiled her companion, before continuing where she’d left off: We were discussing the concept of turning. Angels whirl around the throne of God, faithful Muslims circle the Kaaba, planets orbit the sun. The ritual whirling of the dervishes reflects the divine nature of circularity. Do I make myself clear? But then again, according to some legends the dervishes whirl and whirl until they are lost in the sky . . . Keep that in mind when arriving at a decision about your own situation and all the turning involved . . .

They both smiled, one of them reflecting on the dervishes whirling up into the clouds, the other imagining herself whirling into oblivion in Istanbul. For a moment, the two of them were lost in their separate thoughts . . .

If Istanbul is the axis around which I turn, is love some kind of centrifugal force? How can it be that after telling myself I’d never fall in love again, couldn’t possibly share a future with anyone, I find myself head over heels—and at my age, no less? And why, all settled in the organized convenience of New York, do I find myself returning to the chaotic magnificence of Istanbul? Why go back to those twin nightmares: Istanbul and love, love and Istanbul! Am I out of my mind? Where did I find the courage to open my arms to love, let alone love in Istanbul? And if I really am ready to face both city and man, why this sinking feeling? And then, after having had my life repeatedly turned upside down by defeat and failure, why do I persist in asking such childish questions? As someone who had confided in a mere handful of others her entire life, Belgin couldn’t believe she was posing these questions to a total stranger. She swallowed hard and bowed her head, fearing that her confidences had been unseemly. Inside, storms raged; but her face remained impassive: not a leaf stirred.

Ulviye, exclaimed the passenger in the next seat by way of introduction. Ulviye Yeniça ! Ulviye New-Era! My dear late father, may he rest in radiance, chose this family name for us because it was both modern and purely Turkish.

Nice to meet you, Belgin said, back in control. I, of course, am named after the famous movie star, Belgin Doruk. My mother and father adored her. And my surname comes from my great-grandfather, a silversmith. So my full name is Belgin Gümü . Belgin Silver. I suppose my names are quite ordinary.

"Don’t say that, Belgin Hanim! First of all, silver is a precious and noble metal. Pay no mind to the provincials, those nouveau riche and their obsession with gold. They’re just copying the Arabs. We Turks are a people who have been known for centuries for the creativity and skill of our silverwork. Silver ornaments play a very important part in our culture."

She indicated her own silver ring and the brooch decorating her collar, and after a lengthy disquisition on each, returned to the subject of Belgin’s name:

Your mother and father made a very appropriate choice! she said. "Indeed, I’m certain that there’s not a single person of our generation who didn’t grow up enthralled by that shining star of the silver screen, Belgin Doruk! Who could remain unmoved by her elegance, her sophistication? And who could forget Ayhan I ik, our own Clark Gable, her debonair leading man in those black-and-white romantic comedies of the ’60s? Ah, Belgin and Ayhan! Ayhan and Belgin! Yes, she was the personification of everything a young lady should strive for and so few have attained, then or now. At the same time, the word belgin means ‘clear, open and pure’—all three highly desirable qualities. Your forename and surname are both superb. Even more importantly, a name has the power to bring its owner good fortune, you know."

Good fortune, eh? Luck and love . . . happiness and prosperity . . . So is happiness just a matter of luck? wondered Belgin. Is it destiny that brings me back to Istanbul? Perhaps that’s what the turning turns upon: destiny.

Returning, said Ulviye Yeniça , resuming their earlier discussion, "is like remembering; it involves going back to one’s history, community and personal experience. A remembrance of things past is an essential part of returning. And furthermore, only those who understand the past can comprehend the present, Belgin Hanim!"

Belgin had been burdened by the prospect of this final return for weeks, and the musings of her traveling companion had lightened her spirits by confirming that returning is never easy. She gave her neighbor a closer look. Yes, Ulviye Yeniça had something—a feminine beauty that belied her years; her brightly twinkling blue eyes gave her a coquettish air that burned to cinders any and all ageist preconceptions.

Perhaps it was an abundance of nervous energy, or it may have been the result of having been cooped up in a confined space for so long, but Belgin felt bold, even chatty enough to venture a personal remark:

Speaking of turning, who knows how many men have been smitten by those eyes of yours, how many heads you’ve sent spinning?

Ah-ha! chortled Ulviye Yeniça . You should have seen me in my youth, my dear . . . I inherited these eyes from my mother. My grandfather’s side of the family hails from Thessalonica. They migrated to Turkey following the Population Exchange Convention of 1923. But on my father’s side, we’ve been born and bred Istanbullu for generations!

Here we go again with being an Istanbullu! Belgin said to herself. But the face she turned to Ulviye Yeniça was affable, the tone she employed eminently reasonable: "My family has been settled in Bebek for many generations, Ulviye Hanim, but I don’t think birth certificates are the measure of who belongs to the city . . . nor of who is a true Istanbullu. Let’s take a certain fellow I met two years ago. He’s incredibly clever, creative and passionate; as an artist, he’s represented Turkey abroad. He also happens to have been born in a village in Adana, the seventh child of a mother who couldn’t read or write even in her mother tongue, which was Kurdish, and a father who had only an elementary school education and worked all his life on manual labor. Against all odds, while still a child, this man came to Istanbul to study, all alone. He has always tried, through his work and his example, to appreciate and even to contribute to the culture, history, and art of Istanbul. Doesn’t this man, who has adopted Istanbul as his home and Turkish as his language, have at least as valid a claim to being an Istanbullu as you and I?"

And just who is this artist? snapped Ulviye Yeniça .

Annoyed that Ulviye Yeniça had reduced the entire story to a name, Belgin nearly shouted, The sculptor Ayhan Pozaner! And if you’re saying that . . .

"My dear Belgin Hanim, interrupted Ulviye Yeniça , does the fact that you’ve formed some sort of attachment to this man, and are therefore unable to see certain things clearly, suddenly eliminate the importance of background and bloodline? Really, my dear, surely you haven’t forgotten who stabbed us in the back during the War of Liberation?"

Although a bit mystified by the turn the conversation had taken, and unable to see its connection with Ayhan and Istanbul, Belgin, ever the victim of breeding, instinctively sought common ground:

"But Ulviye Hanim, surely you’ll agree that it is the mixing of peoples and races over such a wide and bountiful geography that has made us such a unique and distinct nation? Furthermore, as a scientist, I can tell you that a diverse gene pool is healthy and desirable." But Ulviye Yeniça was having none of it, and had turned her head away in a fit of pique as Belgin persisted.

Look at any map and you’ll see that we have blood-ties to nearly all of our former colonies, near and far. You have genes from Thessalonica and the Balkans; mine are from Georgia and the Caucasus; Ayhan’s are Kurdish and Persian . . . Apart from the Ottomans, none of the other great European empires can boast as much open and honest diversity. You’re a historian, and perhaps know better than me . . . But did the people of those other empires ever properly intermingle? Think of how recently they’ve finally learned to celebrate diversity. How many of the Dutch have a secret Indonesian aunt; how many Englishmen have a conveniently forgotten Indian great-grandmother?

Now you’ve gone too far! I won’t have it, said Ulviye Yeniça . A dark shadow swept over her lovely face, darkening those playful blue eyes and threatening to coarsen her seeming refinement. She had turned into someone else. "I would never have thought it of you! First of all, the Ottomans had no colonies. They were our principalities, and organized according to a system completely different from the colonial model. Secondly, you ought to bear in mind the case of the Irish and the Scots, who are citizens of Great Britain and speak English, not their mother tongues, even at home. Their literature too is in English! Most importantly of all, it’s unbecoming for a well-educated, intellectual young Turkish woman like yourself to be mouthing the platitudes of the ‘Second Republic’—that’s thirdly! Everyone in Turkey is Turkish, end of story; no good can come to any of us from ethnic separatism!"

Belgin recoiled as though she’d accidentally stepped on a stranger’s foot. She was speechless. And more than a little upset . . . Slumping slightly, she drew back into her seat. Then she tried to understand what she had said to give so much offense.

"We’re perfectly aware that well-intentioned young people such as yourself, who have lost their sense of history due to living overseas for too long, often end up as pawns of the West! But we’re not letting go of so much as a handful of soil from this land of ours, every square inch of which has been watered with the blood of our ancestors, Belgin Hanim! While we’ve got breath in our bodies, our breasts shall be as shields against those traitors!"

Good grief! sighed Belgin, clasping her head in her hands. What does she mean by we? And just who does she consider a traitor? At that very moment, she felt a migraine coming on. Yes, a migraine, that most treacherous of traitors, repeatedly announcing its intentions as it creeps toward the head of its victim, hooks at the ready. Ulviye Yeniça misinterpreted Belgin’s grimace and grew even more affronted. In fact, Belgin was simply preoccupied with the migraine now stalking her, and the thought of meeting Ayhan, who was probably at the airport even now, waiting to greet her. How would she manage the reunion she had fantasized about for weeks, the rapidly approaching moment when he would clasp her in his arms? She glanced down at her stomach and found herself inexplicably astonished with herself. As though whatever she’d seen there had astounded her, and she wasn’t at all sure what to do about it. Then her two hands were on her stomach, holding it tight, as though to keep safe whatever was inside.

Look, I may have spoken a bit harshly, the old woman prattled on, "but ours is the generation that was brought up on tales of how, during the First World War, our grandmothers and grandfathers heroically defended our beloved homeland against those invading, latter-day crusaders. It may be a joke to you, but it was our ancestors, yours and mine, who inspired the slogan Çanakkale geçilmez: ‘The Straits of Gallipoli,’ as your Westerners would have it, ‘are impassable.’ But if you divide our people into Kurd, Laz, Circassian, Balkan, Arab, and Persian, the National Pact of 1920 will have come to naught. If the great Atatürk had favored such a model, surely he’d have introduced it—he wasn’t stupid, you know. God forbid! He must have known best, may he rest in peace in the company of angels!"

Belgin was dumfounded by the continuing verbal assault; her hands, which a moment earlier she’d been surprised to observe cradling her stomach, were now massaging her temples as she braced herself to withstand the hooks about to plunge into the base of her skull. At the same time, she was trying to understand the process by which she had been branded a pawn, ignorant of history, and an enemy of Atatürk. Like most Turks, she and her family were fervent admirers of Atatürk, and had grown to love him even more as the details of his personal life had begun to emerge. But Belgin was tired of all this. In a few moments she would be reunited with a most extraordinary man, the love of her life; all she wanted was to savor the moment. Not only that, but she would soon be back in Istanbul, the city she had abandoned so long ago. And all this with an impending migraine and the reproaches of Ulviye Yeniça , a retired historian she’d known for a full fifteen minutes, ringing in her ears. Belgin was very cross indeed with her fellow scientists for having failed to find a cure for migraines.

Western imperialists and missionaries are plotting to take what slipped through their fingers in the Treaty of Sèvres! Ah, if you had any idea what sorts of plot they’re hatching behind our backs! said Ulviye Yeniça in a rasping whisper. You’re an intelligent woman, please don’t let yourself be a pawn in their game. Do you think being an Istanbullu is easy? You think just anyone can move to the city and claim to be an Istanbullu?

Belgin had had enough. One hand at her temple, the other clutching her side, she said, "Don’t be ridiculous, Ulviye Hanim! Don’t try to make me complicit in your paranoia. There’s more to belonging to a city than a family tree. I was a New Yorker for years; Ayhan has been an Istanbullu since childhood: everyone has the right to choose their own