Cats of Istanbul
The first time I came to Istanbul, I told the taxi driver to take me to the centre. He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Right, the centre. Which one?” Istanbul, I now know, has many, many centres.
A cat strides through the open window of my room. It checks my luggage, wrinkles its nose at my discarded shoes and walks back out, its fur dappled by the sun.
The city’s boundaries fade. It straddles the strait between Europe and Asia, part of both, belonging to neither, spilling out from Bosporus in both directions. A map maker can draw lines and show exactly where Istanbul becomes Gebze, or Şamlar, or Kumköy, but the reality is much harder to pin down on the ground, both in space and in time.
Three thousand years ago it was called Lygos, but it was ancient even then. Greeks renamed it to Byzantion, which left the residue of byzantine and bezant in English. Convoluted and golden, and anyone who had ever walked its streets needs no explanation.
Romans tried their hand with Augusta Antonina and Nova Roma, but the names didn’t stick — Latin is too structured and angular a tongue for this free-flowing place.
Many followed. It was Miklagård to the Norse, Carigrad to Slavs, Asitane to Persians, Rūmiyyat al-kubra to the Arabs, but only the Greek name Constantinopolis remained through centuries until the Turks, if you believe the song, changed it to Istanbul.
The song lies. Istanbul, too, is just one of the old Greek names, its pronunciation worn at the edges through centuries of use.
Cats were here since the beginning, caring little about human names, knowing the city only as their own.
Empires came and empires went. People arrived speaking many languages. Some came to trade, some to stay, some to conquer and some to be conquered, some to be masters and some to be slaves. They built palaces and shops, churches and mosques. They brought their wars and their art, wars and art too often causing each other.
Human wars do not interest cats. They have their own battles, short and to the point, and scarred veterans keep watch over their domains.
In the square outside Hagia Sophia, where pashas once watched thoroughbreds race, seagulls scramble and chase bits of watermelon tossed to them by tourists.
Cats in Istanbul don’t chase bits of food, or butterflies, or mice. They ignore seagulls, keep a careful distance from crows and rarely acknowledge tourists.
The streets are crowded. It is May 19th, the anniversary of Atatürk’s decision to turn Turkey into a modern, democratic and secular country. The great man’s pictures are everywhere, monumental, overpowering, neatly concealing the fact that Erdoğan has successfully dismantled all of his legacy.
The last time I was here, hijabs could be seen here and there, but were more an exception than the rule. Now it’s the opposite. Men and women crowd the same streets, share the same spaces, together but apart, their worlds as separate as if they lived in different countries.
Perhaps this is inevitable. A thousand years ago, Al Andalus was the enlightened, scientific west of the continent where the caliph of Córdoba hosted mathematicians, poets, astronomers and physicians, while orthodox monks chanted in the basilicas of Constantinopolis, feverishly debated the proper observance of mass and wondered if women had souls.
Religions change, patterns remain.
Cats, too, remain. They slip through the cracks and go where they will, inhabiting both sides.
“Don’t play with fire!”, scolds the old man at the teahouse when I clumsily try to arrange the coals on my nargile. “That is my job. You are here to smoke and drink tea.” He deftly moves the embers with his long tongs, winks and moves to the next customer.
“He has been working here for forty-two years,” says the young man at the next table.
I nod. “I remember him from fifteen years ago.”
“Me too,” he laughs.
Then we sip our teas and envelop ourselves in clouds of aromatic smoke.
A cat observes from the tin roof. It knows people and their strange ways, but is really only interested in other cats who doze on the tea house’s pillows.
My trip is almost over. The places I’m travelling through are increasingly familiar. A few countries are left between me and home, a couple of trains, a few busses, a hostel or two, life’s small change.
A cat watches me drag my suitcase down the hotel stairs for the last time. It watches for a moment, turns and walks away.
I, too, play the cat and leave without saying goodbye. It’s easier this way.
