Underneath Istanbul

Published in Baedeker, Spring 2013

Chandler Lesesne West

I spent my fall break in Istanbul with my friend Asena Eren Arioglu and her family. Asena and I became close friends when we were both exchange students in Italy. I didn’t know much about Asena’s city before I went there. Istanbul, called Constantinople during the days of the Ottoman Empire, is divided into two sides by the Bosphorus – a channel connecting the Black Sea and the Marmaro. The Western side of the Bosphorus is considered a part of Europe, and the Eastern side is considered Asia. Asena lives on the Asian side, in a part of Istanbul called Üsküdar. My second day in Istanbul was the first time we ventured into the European side and the historical center. We saw many of Istanbul’s star tourist attractions that day – The Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Grand Bazaar, and, my favorite, the spellbinding Basilica Cistern.

Though we tried in English and in Italian, Asena couldn’t seem to explain to me exactly what it was we were going to see. I couldn’t get a clear idea of what to expect. “You’ll just have to see it for yourself,” she told me as we waited in line.

I had to stay completely silent as we neared the ticket counter. Turkish students get free entrance, and Asena knew that if I let her do the talking, the man behind the desk would assume I was Turkish too and wouldn’t charge me. I kept my lips sealed until we were well past the counter, tickets and pamphlets in hand, and descending a staircase. It was dark, cool and smelled a little damp. Asena asked me if I was ready and I said yes, although I didn’t know what I was ready for, since there wasn’t enough light to make out the words on the pamphlet. We were headed underground.

The Turkish name for the cistern, Yerebatan Sarayi, directly translates to “Sunken Palace” and I find that an apt description of what it looked like. It was a huge expanse of columns that stretched far back, supporting high arched ceilings. Asena explained that people stored water here long ago for the different structures, from basilicas to palaces, which stood above it throughout history. I learned later that the place was originally built by Emperor Constantine, and later rebuilt and expanded by Emperor Justinian. The room was now filled with only a few feet of water, and we walked through on a raised pathway. Carp swam below.

“Sometimes the water evaporates up, then drips down,” Asena whispered to me, “so don’t be surprised if you get splashed. We say the droplets are good luck.” There was no real reason to be whispering, but it seemed right somehow. The cistern demanded a certain reverence. The beauty of the place combined with the low lighting for an effect that was haunting and eerie. It felt mystical, even.

The marble columns that surrounded us were of all different types. There were Doric elements, Ionic elements, and Corinthian elements. Some were made of granite and some were made of marble. There was no reason or organization to it. It was all mixed up and seemed cryptic and strange. At the same time, in a way it felt right that the columns should be so mixed up. Istanbul is a mixed up city – darting disconcertingly back and forth between European and Asiatic influences. I learned later that the way the columns mirrored the city was due to a process called spoliation: parts were salvaged from the ruins of older buildings and used in the construction of newer ones.

Asena showed me one particular column with a bizarre story. It had teardrop shaped designs going all the way down. It looked like the column was crying. Asena explained that this was called the Column of Tears and it was erected in memory of all the workers who drowned during the construction of the cistern. She said there’d been hundreds of casualties among the thousands of slaves who’d been involved in the construction. In my mind, as I looked at the column’s stone tears, the empty space above and around me seemed to fill up with the swimming ghosts of the drowned. It sent a shiver down my spine.

At the very back corner, there was another eerie sight. At the base of two of the columns were meticulously carved Medusa heads. I asked Asena why they were there, since the cistern’s intended use was to store water, so they would have been submerged and unseen when the cistern was functioning. I also asked her why one of the heads was placed sideways and the other one was upside-down. She told me that their purpose was a mystery, but their placement was for superstitious reasons. “They’re situated that way to keep you from turning to stone,” she said. Medusa has this power, but only if her eyes are met straight on.

When Asena and I finished our exploration of the cistern, and emerged back into the sunlight of Istanbul, I had to squint my eyes until they adjusted to the brightness. The motor-sounds of passing cars and loud cries of vendors selling pomegranates, roasted corn and other snacks were shocking after the reverent silence and softly echoing dripping sounds of underground. I couldn’t stop thinking of the Basilica Cistern for the rest of that day. It is amazing to know what secrets and mysteries await underground, beneath the bustle of cities known and loved.