We were late. The taxi driver - who we knew was overcharging us, but we went along with it anyway because it was a cold, rainy public holiday and he was right where we needed him to be - dropped us off at the wrong place. We had showed him our destination on a map, and it wasn't far away. But he overshot it and dropped us off at the completely wrong place. It took another quick taxi ride to get near it and about 20 minutes of exploring on foot before we were standing in a narrow side street, about to give up.
Our appointment to visit and tour Ashkenaz Synagogue was at 9:15 am. It was 9:23 and Emily hates being late. Using my best navigational skills, we had gotten to where it seemed the synagogue should have been, but we found nothing. The guard in front of the nearby French Lycee had pointed us in this direction and the map agreed with him. I was a little nervous about asking anyone for directions to a synagogue. We had both been nervous about asking the taxi driver.
Nonetheless, just as we were about to give up, Emily decided to walk into the computer parts shop across the street and asked if we were near our destination. The man there said, "No" with a wry smile and took her to the front of the store where he pointed up at the dome with a big star on it just behind where I we had been standing. He pointed to the unmarked metal door next to where we had stood and told us to ring the bell.
Sure enough, it was the right place and we were expected. We had to identify ourselves and show our passports as we stood in a holding area between two giant, heavy metal security doors. More than one guard stood by. The synagogue kept no street-level signs or markings. You either have to know where it is, or look up to the dome which can only be seen from one side, on one street.
This synagogue of 500 congregants lives in fear.
Once we got past the security chamber, we found a beautiful synagogue designed at the turn of the century by an Italian architect who was apparently well-known at the time. A very nice, elderly Turkish gentleman met us and began speaking to us mostly in French and seemed to enjoy saying Madame Emily (which does sound very nice French).
Fortunately, I could roll with that and asked if French was his best language. He said he speaks it well enough and seemed very happy that he wouldn't have to try to speak to us in the little English he knows. I had to then explain that Madame Emily doesn't speak French - which didn't surprise him, but it meant he had to go back to his usual schtick which involves sitting foreign visitors down in the sanctuary, pulling out a pad of paper and explaining facts about the building, the congregation and its history in an unusual mix of Turkish, English, French, Hebrew, writing numbers and a few rough sketches.
Amazingly, we understood. Had we not had some knowledge of at least two foreign languages, I'm not sure how it would have gone. The whole thing was fascinating in and of itself.
We gathered this: The synagogue was built around 1907 using monies donated by Austro-Hungarian Emperor Franz Josef. I would love to have learned more about why the Emperor of Austria - a dying empire which saw much of its Jewish population emigrating to America and elsewhere - donated money to build a synagogue in Istanbul. But I wasn't sure our guide would have that information and it seemed far too complex to explain through drawings and our special creole we had just invented.
The building runs four stories down into the hillside with one floor just for heating and others for kitchens, the rabbi's study, offices, and social areas. The sanctuary itself had two mezzanine levels where women sit for services.
Turkey has 23,000 Jews, 19,000 of which live in Istanbul and only 1,000 of which are Ashkenazi. There were once three Ashkenazi synagogues - the oldest one is now closed and was turned into a museum.
We were allowed to wander freely and take photos. I had never seen a synagogue with a dome before, and imagine this was an adaptation to the Istanbul environment.
We left to get over to Ahrida Synagogue, a Sefardic temple with a history dating back to the early 17th century. A friend of Emily's parents helped us arrange to visit some of the city's synagogues. Visitor's must apply to the Istanbul Rabbinate for permission and appointments. We had to fill out forms and submit our copies of our passports, contacts of our personal references and explain why we wanted to visit. We were given precise times and locations. The synagogues had paperwork on us when we arrived.
Getting to Ahrida involved one of the craziest taxi rides I've had outside of the third world with a taxi driver who didn't know the destination exactly, but who was clever enough to get to the right area, ask people walking by and then navigate the maze of small, narrow, cobblestone streets in what was clearly a very old, nice neighborhood. The fare came to a reasonable 8.5 Lira, I gave him 20, he tipped himself 1.5 and gave me back 10 Lira. Fantastic.
Ahrida was also invisible to the street and hidden by tall walls and a large, heavy metal security gate. When we rang, the man who came to the gate asked immediately if it was Emily and checked the copy of our passports he already had to identify us. We received no tour, but were allowed - like several other visitors who were scheduled for 10:30 - to walk around the synagogue which felt old and loved. The hand-carved wood pulpit was hundreds of years old. We learned from someone else's guide that Ahrida has no membership mechanisms, but about 100 people attend services each week.
While the wooden seating and fixtures were clearly loved and cared for, the building and walls showed their age. Beautiful old wallpaper decorating the doorways has faded, frayed and started to chip away.
What we learned from this is that while Jews have a long history in Istanbul, not too many remain. Those who do, keep their Judaism locked behind heavy metal gates and security bells. Visitors are not openly welcomed. Trust is gone. The most central synagogue in town, Neve Shalom, has been bombed several times.
In a city with giant and beautiful mosques and churches on display for the world, the synagogues cloak themselves. People come to peer at you through security cameras and holes in the gate before you can be admitted.
It wasn't always this way. The Ottoman Empire was actually very tolerant of its minorities. Look back 100 to 150 years ago and only about half of Istanbul was muslim. Greek and Armenian Orthodox were a large part of the Istanbul community - as were Jews.
Many things changed after the Republic - and especially after the riots of the early 1950's when Greeks and Jews were pulled out of their homes and businesses to be beaten and raped while mobs destroyed everything they owned. People took the hint and centuries of co-existence ended as Greek ethnics fled to Greece and Jews emigrated.
Of course, the Armenians suffered the worst fate at the end of the Ottoman and beginning of the Republican eras when they were put on "The Long March" of "relocation" - aka the Armenian Genocide of the early Republic.
Today, Jews - who probably consider themselves Turkish and Istanbullus - live a precarious life. This is the first and only place I've been where I have had trepidation asking for directions to a synagogue. Emily and I often choose not to mention Israel when conversing in public
Yesterday reminded me why my grandmother - who was so proud to be Jewish in her home, and who hosted every holiday with joy - was uncomfortable with wearing a star or a chai necklace. Growing up the daughter of poor, illiterate (in English) Jewish immigrants from Galecia and Austria - she knew antisemitism. She could love to go to synagogue, but feared being too closely identified as being Jewish in general society.
It was only two generations ago. I have lived with a luxury that even my father didn't have growing up in a small town in Upstate New York - to be open, proud and completely comfortable in being Jewish. I have the gift to breathe freely because my great grandparents decided they didn't want to live like the Jews in Istanbul live today.
Our appointment to visit and tour Ashkenaz Synagogue was at 9:15 am. It was 9:23 and Emily hates being late. Using my best navigational skills, we had gotten to where it seemed the synagogue should have been, but we found nothing. The guard in front of the nearby French Lycee had pointed us in this direction and the map agreed with him. I was a little nervous about asking anyone for directions to a synagogue. We had both been nervous about asking the taxi driver.
Nonetheless, just as we were about to give up, Emily decided to walk into the computer parts shop across the street and asked if we were near our destination. The man there said, "No" with a wry smile and took her to the front of the store where he pointed up at the dome with a big star on it just behind where I we had been standing. He pointed to the unmarked metal door next to where we had stood and told us to ring the bell.
Sure enough, it was the right place and we were expected. We had to identify ourselves and show our passports as we stood in a holding area between two giant, heavy metal security doors. More than one guard stood by. The synagogue kept no street-level signs or markings. You either have to know where it is, or look up to the dome which can only be seen from one side, on one street.
This synagogue of 500 congregants lives in fear.
Once we got past the security chamber, we found a beautiful synagogue designed at the turn of the century by an Italian architect who was apparently well-known at the time. A very nice, elderly Turkish gentleman met us and began speaking to us mostly in French and seemed to enjoy saying Madame Emily (which does sound very nice French).
Fortunately, I could roll with that and asked if French was his best language. He said he speaks it well enough and seemed very happy that he wouldn't have to try to speak to us in the little English he knows. I had to then explain that Madame Emily doesn't speak French - which didn't surprise him, but it meant he had to go back to his usual schtick which involves sitting foreign visitors down in the sanctuary, pulling out a pad of paper and explaining facts about the building, the congregation and its history in an unusual mix of Turkish, English, French, Hebrew, writing numbers and a few rough sketches.
Amazingly, we understood. Had we not had some knowledge of at least two foreign languages, I'm not sure how it would have gone. The whole thing was fascinating in and of itself.
We gathered this: The synagogue was built around 1907 using monies donated by Austro-Hungarian Emperor Franz Josef. I would love to have learned more about why the Emperor of Austria - a dying empire which saw much of its Jewish population emigrating to America and elsewhere - donated money to build a synagogue in Istanbul. But I wasn't sure our guide would have that information and it seemed far too complex to explain through drawings and our special creole we had just invented.
The building runs four stories down into the hillside with one floor just for heating and others for kitchens, the rabbi's study, offices, and social areas. The sanctuary itself had two mezzanine levels where women sit for services.
Turkey has 23,000 Jews, 19,000 of which live in Istanbul and only 1,000 of which are Ashkenazi. There were once three Ashkenazi synagogues - the oldest one is now closed and was turned into a museum.
We were allowed to wander freely and take photos. I had never seen a synagogue with a dome before, and imagine this was an adaptation to the Istanbul environment.
We left to get over to Ahrida Synagogue, a Sefardic temple with a history dating back to the early 17th century. A friend of Emily's parents helped us arrange to visit some of the city's synagogues. Visitor's must apply to the Istanbul Rabbinate for permission and appointments. We had to fill out forms and submit our copies of our passports, contacts of our personal references and explain why we wanted to visit. We were given precise times and locations. The synagogues had paperwork on us when we arrived.
Getting to Ahrida involved one of the craziest taxi rides I've had outside of the third world with a taxi driver who didn't know the destination exactly, but who was clever enough to get to the right area, ask people walking by and then navigate the maze of small, narrow, cobblestone streets in what was clearly a very old, nice neighborhood. The fare came to a reasonable 8.5 Lira, I gave him 20, he tipped himself 1.5 and gave me back 10 Lira. Fantastic.
Ahrida was also invisible to the street and hidden by tall walls and a large, heavy metal security gate. When we rang, the man who came to the gate asked immediately if it was Emily and checked the copy of our passports he already had to identify us. We received no tour, but were allowed - like several other visitors who were scheduled for 10:30 - to walk around the synagogue which felt old and loved. The hand-carved wood pulpit was hundreds of years old. We learned from someone else's guide that Ahrida has no membership mechanisms, but about 100 people attend services each week.
While the wooden seating and fixtures were clearly loved and cared for, the building and walls showed their age. Beautiful old wallpaper decorating the doorways has faded, frayed and started to chip away.
What we learned from this is that while Jews have a long history in Istanbul, not too many remain. Those who do, keep their Judaism locked behind heavy metal gates and security bells. Visitors are not openly welcomed. Trust is gone. The most central synagogue in town, Neve Shalom, has been bombed several times.
In a city with giant and beautiful mosques and churches on display for the world, the synagogues cloak themselves. People come to peer at you through security cameras and holes in the gate before you can be admitted.
It wasn't always this way. The Ottoman Empire was actually very tolerant of its minorities. Look back 100 to 150 years ago and only about half of Istanbul was muslim. Greek and Armenian Orthodox were a large part of the Istanbul community - as were Jews.
Many things changed after the Republic - and especially after the riots of the early 1950's when Greeks and Jews were pulled out of their homes and businesses to be beaten and raped while mobs destroyed everything they owned. People took the hint and centuries of co-existence ended as Greek ethnics fled to Greece and Jews emigrated.
Of course, the Armenians suffered the worst fate at the end of the Ottoman and beginning of the Republican eras when they were put on "The Long March" of "relocation" - aka the Armenian Genocide of the early Republic.
Today, Jews - who probably consider themselves Turkish and Istanbullus - live a precarious life. This is the first and only place I've been where I have had trepidation asking for directions to a synagogue. Emily and I often choose not to mention Israel when conversing in public
Yesterday reminded me why my grandmother - who was so proud to be Jewish in her home, and who hosted every holiday with joy - was uncomfortable with wearing a star or a chai necklace. Growing up the daughter of poor, illiterate (in English) Jewish immigrants from Galecia and Austria - she knew antisemitism. She could love to go to synagogue, but feared being too closely identified as being Jewish in general society.
It was only two generations ago. I have lived with a luxury that even my father didn't have growing up in a small town in Upstate New York - to be open, proud and completely comfortable in being Jewish. I have the gift to breathe freely because my great grandparents decided they didn't want to live like the Jews in Istanbul live today.
Eric you are amazing man! thanks for sharing your travels.
Posted by: Ray | 10/30/2010 at 08:37 AM