We walked, under the nearly full moon, down the ancient stone steps. The old city of Mardin was vibrant with small shops selling vegetables, soaps, clothing and sundries. The sound of rolling metal shutters followed us. It was early evening. The shops were closing, and with them, out went the lights. But the moon was high and the sky was clear. A minaret was shining like a bejeweled tower. Here and there a glow from someone’s window guided us. For centuries people continued to live in these stone-cut dwellings and cats scaled the walls like flying ninjas.
Mardin was a city overlooking the plains of Mesopotamia. Built on the side of the mountain, the city had one narrow main street. In recent years, it was “discovered” and is becoming a tourist spot.
We spent the evening at the Karmer cafe, ran by a women cooperative. A group of young men were playing music—guitar, baglama and a tambourine. They sang, song after song, with laughter and lots of smoking in between. I was moved to write, listening to their music. Time was forgotten. When I finally looked up, it was close to midnight. The music was still going. But when I started to put my coat on, they stopped. Maybe we were each other’s muse. I wouldn’t know for sure.
Photos by Dore Steinberg
