The letter of invitation, times seventy, went out like this:
Dear cleric,
Greetings on behalf of the Turkish Interfaith Youth Community. We are a grassroots movement that strives to make right the misunderstandings between peoples of faith, and we hope you can take part in our first-ever symposium, July 19-21. Our theme is "Seeking a Common Ground" and we'll do so on Istanbul's 'Golden Horn'.
Historically, our city has been at the crossroads of many religious movements, and presently with the highest population of young people in Europe, we feel both an opportunity and an obligation to grant scholarships to those finalists who submit the best personal statement (1000 words max) to this end:
What is your notion of faith that lends to openness?
Submissions must be received by June 30. Scholarships (return air ticket, hotel accommodation and per diem 40 Euro) will be awarded July 7. More information, including our financial sponsors, can be found at
www.tiycsymposium as well as the enclosed brochure. Bear in mind we are a young foundation just finding our feet, so forgive our various naivetes.
With great anticipation to receive your personal statement,
Berkay Polat
TIYC president
"Too simple you think?" Derin, the actual drafter, asked Berkay.
"No, simple is good. I think we gotta soup up the website, though—throw in a few more people."
"You mean the people who are supposed to make it happen July 19th?"
"Don't worry about them," smiled Berkay. "Remember, this is a project of faith."
The first personal statements rolled in within a week, and most of them began something like, "My journey in faith has not been limited to my [Calvinist, Sufi, Benedictine, Hasidic, Orthodox] ordination, but of course that tradition and my own ministry within it has cultured my beliefs. I'm honored that I might share and also partake of other such journeys..." Some of them offered to bring a guitar or some kind of liturgical reading. Some wondered about the young people who'd attend, and whether they could likewise bring youth.
"Nix on that, for sure."
"Finances getting tight?"
"Never," deadpanned Derin, whose family inheritance was bottomless from the hydrafoil business and the thousands upon thousands of contracts across the Marmara.
"Kidding. While there's still time."
Though nearly everyone responded by June 30th, most did not submit anything that could resemble a 'personal statement', let alone evidence of an open-minded faith. The main complaint was the lack of a phone number or email contact to gather details or question the premise further. "I dread to think this is a scam," wrote a deacon of a brethren community, "especially if it raises the expectations of the well-meaning." Another demanded to know how TIYC obtained his address in the first place, assuming (correctly) that this was not, couldn't possibly be, a mass mail-out to all 'progressive thinking' religious leaders in Europe and the Middle East.
"S'pose we should answer him?"
"Not on your life! Anyway, we have our critical mass."
"Seven? And that's without yet evaluating 'the best'!"
"Seven at the Golden Horn—I like that. Let's book 'em."
They needed passport information to purchase the airline tickets, and they knew this second letter would have to avert those 'scam' instincts that perhaps any of those seven tacitly had, despite the passion of their statements. In this letter they still withheld their personal contact information, but instead included the website of the hotel and the assurance that they would be met at the airport July 18th. In most cases, there would be a $20 visa to purchase upon arrival—it, as well as the first day's 40 Euro, were enclosed in good faith.
"You know what I'm hoping here,...Are you listening?"
Berkay was nodding off. "What? What are you hoping for?"
"I'm hoping this actually works. I thought of something for the first day—a walk through Sultan Ahmet."
"How original! They'd do that anyway—I thought you wanted to get right to business."
"Oh, to be sure. But last night I began to get excited about the number seven. It's two cabs' worth—you and me—or a chartered dolmus. We could sit in the hotel conference room for three days or...take them someplace."
"You sure it won't diffuse the purpose?"
"Nope. I'm not sure. But I'd like to see them in a crowd, if you know what I mean."
"I do."
Maybe the money helped—passport numbers were sent expediently, accompanied with jotted phrases of anticipation: "This will be my first trip in years!" "My congregation thanks you for this chance to bear witness." "Can't wait for this unique fellowship!" There were a few questions about the agenda and what to pack and whether they'd get an advance look at a participants' list—decidedly, they wouldn't. The final mailing had airline tickets only. Indeed, the return flight was the evening of the 21st, reassuring, perhaps, in its own way.
Unlike Derin, Berkay was part of a large family who came from a long line of merchants, mostly in the Kapali Carsi. His teen-age brothers Kerem and Burak offered to help out on the 18th, meeting the guests one by one and escorting them by taxi to the Hotel Daphnis in Balat, one of the many hearts of the city. Kerem's English was not as practiced as Burak's, so he met up with a delegate from Poland and another from Armenia and asked if he might speak to them in Russian. "You know Russian?" exclaimed each in separate arrivals. "Da, nemnyoshka," explaining fluently that his family role in the bazaar was to engage with former Soviets and Slavic tourists. Each priest, impressed, asked many questions and Kerem offered some anecdotes, while remembering to stay on script and point out the various places of interest that would deepen the purpose of the conference. Burak did likewise in English to the individuals who arrived from Birmingham, Mersailles, Cairo, Hanover, and Bucharest.
At Daphnis, each guest checked in and received an envelop from the concierge that held a dinner voucher, a map of Balat and a welcome from Berkay and Derin. "Hos geldiniz! Happy you have made it. Our day tomorrow actually begins outside, at the front gates of the Ecumenical Patriarchate and the Church of St George within. Find it on the map just blocks away from this hotel. You may also want to visit the nearby Ahrida Synogogue, St Stephan Bulgarian Orthodox Church, the Yevtuz Sultan Selim Camii, and the Church of St Mary of the Mongols, all marked for your convenience. We will reference these on our tour tomorrow, starting 9am sharp at the Ecumenical Patriarchate. Lunch will be at Sultan Ahmet and we'll taxi you back to the hotel by late afternoon, more deeply informed, we hope, for the formal symposium on the following day."
"Will you be here tomorrow?" each guest asked Kerem or Burak.
"I'll be working at the Grand Bazaar, which you'll visit after lunch. But my brother Berkay will be there"--pointing precisely at the the patriarchate circled on the map.
"Ah, yes, Berkay...."
"You think they'll all show up at nine? Perhaps we should have met in lobby after all..."
"We've been over this—I don't want them to be too much in their own context. One look at us, for instance, and they may scamper up to their rooms, claiming some kind of travel nausea and the need to rest up before the 'real event' begins."
"Are you scripting this out, Derin? 'Cuz I'm not so good on my feet."
"I'm scripting this as much as they will. It's a symposium, remember? And that can only really happen organically."
"Enshalah."
Truth be told, Derin had been writing extensive notes for Day 1, especially, and the various prompts that would lead into Day 2. Meeting where they would, for example, Derin would ask the assembled guests to provide a working definition of 'interfaith' and use that as a lens for the various places they would visit today. Maybe they'd adapt it through conversation or factor in the details of each site. How would young people today appreciate this journey—not just the sight-seeing, but the contemplation and enquiry?
Soon enough they'd realize there really wasn't much to TIYC—Derin wouldn't lie, just as the brochure and website didn't exactly dissemble—but, free of charge, no one would be in a position to disparage the effort. And that led back to the impetus of their personal statements, which they could now reify.
All seven were there before 9am, gradually figuring out who was waiting for this very launch of conference. The vicar from Birmingham wore a small white collar, and the varied beards and headcover identified the imam, priests and rabbi. Knowing their assembly was by definition 'liberal', they dressed as they would in their secular interactions; knowing also they represented some cloistered conceptions, they exercised some reserve in their demeanor and small talk. No one was going to outright express what everyone wondered: 'What is this whole thing about?'
The question didn't dissipate when Berkay and Derin walked toward them, precisely at nine. Berkay demonstrated apt protocol by placing his right hand to the chest of his kurta and bowing slightly. Derin, to their surprise, was female, and her gesture followed more modestly. Her habib was fixed to ensure there weren't mixed messages in what she would do or say, for she, Berkay, introduced, would be their guide for the day.
"And you?" the rabbi wanted to know.
"I will remain throughout, of course. We all seem to be here, if we can clarify our names and any title of address you'd—"
"All of us? Is this it?" the German jerked his head.
"You are a group of seven, plus two is nine—it's a good number for our purposes today. Tomorrow our purposes expand," Berkay extemporated, and Derin silently rejoiced that he did not lie.
With those and some other protocols established (like who might go into a holy place, and how), Berkay's role gave over to Derin's, and the group was shepherded by her ethos, especially when she linked a detail to devotion—her own as a Muslim woman, and her sense that God uses many such details to speak to the apprehension and conditions of all creatures, whether they listen or not. As they made their way by tram down Divanyolu Caddesi, she pointed out a new Christian Science Reading Room with its distinct storefront appearance. "Rocks go through its windows sometimes, but it never throws anything back."
"Would you venture inside such a place?"
"I could—I'm free to—but have no need. My reading is well enough provided out in the open."
"...which kind of reminds us of the symposium prompt," Berkay added, on cue.
His voice was just here and there through much of the day, but at certain junctures he took necessary initiative. At the Blue Mosque, for instance, Derin couldn't lead the group beyond a certain area, and, as it happened, she noticed something at distance that required her and other women to avert their eyes. Things like this had happened before, though most knew only by hearsay: a rather large man near the minbar—emptied of an imam, at that—was rapt in an ecstasy that evidently brought on something of an epileptic seizure. His diminutive friend managed to wrest him to the floor and hold his thrashing head, and some volunteers rushed to pin down his arms and legs. In the electricity of the moment, all blood seemed to rush to his remaining appendage, and, giant that he was, his erection could scarcely be obscured. As the minutes passed and all things returned to relative calm, the man heaved and moaned the dying moments of the fit but clearly attempted to control himself. As he rose, all who looked could see the light gray of his pants turning dark, and his diminutive friend leading him out by the crook of his arm.
Outside it became a talking point, and Derin remained apart, slowly aiming for Hagia Sophia, their next stop, but stopping at a bench to let Berkay interpret such spirited possession, if that is what they saw.
They eventually met up with Derin, who had succumbed to an ice cream cone before their scheduled lunch near the Topkapi Palace, an hour away if they were to tour Hagia Sophia first. Most considered an ice cream a very good idea and those with other designs ducked inside a tea shop for a needed break. Berkay couldn't easily confide in Derin at this moment, but his eyes gleamed 'what a god-send' and, warily, she was hard-pressed to disagree.
They were engaging quite well with each other, the merchants around the east and west walls of the enormous sienna basilica, and roundly enjoying the unfolding of the day. Derin continued her modest role as guide, but her voice mattered less and less, to her gratification. "The cats are ubiquitous here," observed one cleric at lunch, and just as Derin would have attended to that fact, the generally quiet coptic chimed in: "yes, they rule this side of the Mediterranean, and no one objects to the lack of rats!" It gave the table a chance to focus on Cairo for awhile, then segue to Bucharest where the dogs were their cats, then Yerevan, and Lublin and all the areas they could represent. The symposium had begun in their minds, and though they silently still weren't sure what merited their scholarships, heart of hearts, they soaked the day in, as did their organizers.
After Topkapi they trekked to the final destination: the Kapali Carsi, where Berkay virtually grew up. "Yes! What I was waiting for! Will your young brother be there? He was so kind to settle me in yesterday."
"Bit of bad news that way: Bulak and Kerem had to make their way to Izmit this morning to purchase some fabrics." It was no lie, but pre-arranged all the same. Berkay had told his brothers that the guests would be coming to the bazaar this afternoon, but not that the merchandise in Izmit would require their presence exactly then.
Instead, the clerics talked with other merchants, mostly young, who knew English or, for two of them, Russian or, for another two, Arabic. The Grand Bazaar was an exhausting and exhilarating place, and it took some doing to usher the group into the waiting dolmus chartered for this cause. They continued to talk and point out the many curiosities that sauntered by them in the thick traffic, and languidly Derin and Berkay just listened and separately, silently strategized the difference that would constitute the next day.
"Here's tomorrow's per diem," Berkay distributed as they disembarked at the Daphnis. "I suppose I should have doled it out at the bazaar," which aroused some laughter. "You all dove right in to our culture and that, I guess, bodes well for tomorrow's more contemplative agenda."
"Which is? Can't you grant us any teasers?"
"Well, your personal statements, for one, and everything the letter said: a focus on faith, and openness, and youth. 9 am again, but this time in the ground floor conference room, as reserved."
"9 am!" "Looking forward to it." "Goodnight!" "—and tesekkur." "Yes! Tesekkur!" "Tesekkur edirum."
"Adieu."
Aleikem Salaam. We're in over our heads. And there's nothing here to go by.
There is, however, some inspiration that can be rummaged in gut feelings and intuition. "Thus we begin. Good morning, gentlemen, and thank you the day that was yesterday." General nods and a few distracted looks. "As Berkay had expressed, we're in for an expanded purpose today—"
"And tomorrow? Will we know of that today?"
Derin smiled congenially. "Tomorrow you go home, and leave us to our grass roots." She expected another question or two about the organization, the conspicuous lack of 'youth' or participants that would, in anyone's natural experience, constitute a symposium. But no question was voiced, so she went on with what she had prepared. "We can vaguely see--but you know from yesterday it's there--the Golden Horn that forms an artery in our complicated city. The Bosphorus is beyond important, but the Golden Horn defines us more. It's wide and active and the most beautiful spectacle at night. But it is also a dead channel, a false river that snakes as far inland as a mosquito bite, with about the same amount of power."
No one grabbed at this analogy, least of all for the ignorance of their setting.
"When you were selected and we knew you were seven, and that we'd be here at this hotel, I turned to Berkay—no lie—and said, 'Seven at the Golden Horn—I like that.'"
"She did, I remember," Berkay chimed, but no one looked at him.
"There's a poem I occasionally spell out to my students—you may have surmised by now I'm a teacher, specifically of teenagers, specifically language arts. It goes—and I'd appreciate if you'd write out in your conference tablets what I'll do on this flipboard:
We Real Cool [that's the title]
Seven at the Golden Shovel [the subtitle, and the connection hereby]"
"Excuse me," the Romanian said, "you want that we would write down what you say, too?"
“Well, it's up to you. What I say isn't so vital. It's a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks, by the way. And like she probably would, I invite your guesses as to where it's going:
We real cool. We [next line]
Left school. We [make stanza space and then next line]
Lurk late. We [guesses? They may be pool players at that 'Golden Shovel'...]
Strike [… how?] straight. We
Sing"
"songs?" the Hasid offered, while others puzzled more in vain.
"sin. [you can almost end things there, but still:] We
Thin gin."
"I don't understand what's going on." the Sufi said "Where are the being verbs?"
"To 'thin' a drink is technically a verb—maybe that is what 'we' are doing..."
"Okay, so what next?"
"We [skip a line for the final stanza]
Jazz June. We [guesses? There's usually many.... rhymes with 'June'?... No?...]
Die […...]" Some wrote it down before the coptic whispered for the group,
"soon."
Berkay, who hadn't heard this poem before, let the moment float or sink, but striking, as it were, straight, announced two things. "Two things," he repeated what his mind flashed into speech."One is that this symposium, despite appearances, is far more reaching than anyone here imagines— "
"I don't understand," piped the Armenian, who held cupped hands to the foolish little poem he, like everyone else, had dutifully written out. "It's like Arcady Dolgoruky, Dostoevsky's 'Adolescent', who has this idee fixe of some profound idea that he can never articulate--and that everyone is supposed to esteem! I mean, what is the nature of this symposium you keep on obfuscating?"
"As a matter of fact, that was the second thing, now that we're there."
"Where!?"
"On the 'common ground' that defines all of you—"
"Oh, for heaven's sake!"
"No, no, now give the man a chance—"
"For more riddles? Where is the thing we came for?"
"Here." Derin stepped in, sensing that Berkay was going to crumble fast. "You came to know more. And the only thing we knew about you, through some painstaking research and cross-checks of stiffled injunctions," gulping some saliva, "in the municipalities of your past and sometime present,
you have common ground."
No one uttered anything for a half minute, and no one was going to refute what Berkay clinically announced: "you know yourselves. You are all pedeophiles."
There weren't any microphones in the room or other ways to record the ensuing hour. Berkay exitted before anyone said a word, then Derin, who thought it necessary to say in parting, “he was one of yours until he left that school. You can scarcely imagine what last month was like."
The seven sat there for an hour at least, and four stayed into the afternoon. Whatever mumbles came to terms was hermitically sealed as they slowly slipped their separate ways, trudging back to the Blue Mosque, vying for an early flight, looking for nothing at Kapali Carsi, staring at a mock brochure, dining with ubiquitous cats, entering a reading room, and sinking headlong to the bottom of the Golden Horn.
