Mardin – Clara Hsu

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?

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

Tag: Mardin

By A Pondering Pond

The Steps Of Mardin