Evening. Walking up a steep flight of steps, I found myself looking down at the old city of Mardin (Turkey). Behind me was an immense building structure made of stones. An iron gate was left open at an entrance—an invitation—and I entered its courtyard. A large pond was in the middle, fed by a fountain at the far end of a wall. The trickling water sound lured me and I was able to enjoy a moment of solitude before a guard caught my presence, stepped out of the shadow. We couldn’t speak to each other, but he led me to Mehmet Bayram, a young man who was working on the computer in a room, and he spoke a little English.
“Come back tomorrow and meet my uncle. He will be happy to tell you about this place.”
I had inadvertently wandered into the Zinciriye Medresesi. Built in 1385, it was now used as a school for Kurdish, Aramaic and Arabic language studies. The uncle, Yıldırım, worked at the school and spoke seven languages.
“Do you know the significance of water in a building?” He asked, but eager to give me the answer. “There are three. First, it is a natural sound barrier, like the one that you see, separating one classroom from another. Second, it is soothing to the nerves. Third, if you want to tell a secret, best to do it next to a waterfall so no one may eavesdrop on you.”
Mehmet showed me a photo of himself taken at the pond. The subject and its reflection—which is real and which is illusion?
