I awoke in the dream I had on the Bosporus.
The majestic body of water unravels—East from West, the Black Sea from the Marmara—similar to how you unravel pleasure, pain, light, dark, past, present, Heaven and Hell.
I loved the rhythm of your cobalt heels, clicking against the marble of winding ottoman steps.
The mysterious ghosts of this place arose off the glimmering pitch-black water, desiring to tell me forgotten things.
Progeny of Beşiktaş coming to welcome me from exile, chanting like the priest in Sourp Azvadzadzin, domed by Balyan’s sublime imagination. Ermeni, Ermeni, sen Ermenisin (Armenian, Armenian you are Armenian) the voice whispered in the dark of that night, evoking some ancient primordial nostalgia...
What does that mean? I thought. To be an Armenian here… now… an Armenian-American, returning to Bolis.
Something deep in my blood cried out from the ground. My mind spun round and round like a whirling derviş lost in a trance.
The voice echoed again faintly, suspended in the air for just a moment beneath the majestic canopy of a million fiery stars. It was my grandmother, the woman from the worn-out folded picture whom I’d never met and knew only from the pain in my father’s childish eyes. Sweetly she was saying…
“Take her hand in yours, chojukhus (my child). Hold her, love her, give yourself as Christ gave. Gaze upon her beauty like I was gazed upon by your grandfather.
Here on the Bosporus…
Abstract reality, truth hiding behind the stained glass of history. Look out past the soft pink glow, where the rising sun warms the horizon and the seagulls flock together. Look, see how their shadows fall on rich palaces and Mosques of Üsküdar; with their ornate minarets. Hear the Imam’s loud and terrifying call to prayer.
See how the lights sparkle, and the sky breaks in half, as you walk down the cobblestone streets near Sultanahmet, where mothers wept over their children.
Old city; blue mosque; star and crescent; kahvalti, breakfast buffet; midye dolma; grand bazaar; lights and silhouettes from a thousand Turkish lamps; Raki mixed with ice water stings the throat as the pungent grape smoke from the nargile vanishes as if life escaping into eternity before the backdrop of Hagia Sophia mid-morning. Old men; olive folded hands; rolled cigarette burning; golden cups of çay. Galata bridge; broken mosaics; newly-weds; bath house; sweet pomegranate juice; apricot lokhum; antique silver spoon; pistachio baklava; kaymak; a shared kiss.
Watch your footsteps as you get lost in this city, drowning out Turkish chatter, distracted by the smell of the wafting aroma from the street’s Döner.
Along Abbasağa street, walk carefully, quietly past the Armenian cemetery. Paying respects. Feel the tormented spirits longing for justice.
Aferim, yavris, eat, drink, laugh, cry, sing, fight, dance, make up, make life together. Love her like I was loved, before I died too soon.
This place does strange things to memory, yavrisi. Never forget.
Enjoy your bride. Focus on the light of the young girl’s eyes. Look way down, through the windows. See the soul.
Walk away hand-in-hand. Walk away and don’t look back, just as we did, here on the Bosporus.”
