İstanbul is Burning

When a clown moves into a palace, he does not become king. The palace becomes a circus.

Turkish Proverb

Rome wasn’t burnt in a day, but at what point did they smell the smoke?

Victor Neverman

Dantés St Pierre should not be blamed for the fall of civilization. I mean, say what you will. He’s a fucking ass-tulip. Göt lalesi, as they say. A well-dressed göt lalesi. He’s an interloping shite-hawk. But a mastermind? He’s got the foresight of a musking goat. No, Dantés had no idea revolution was fomenting when he invited Diana over for a swim. And Dantés certainly did not anticipate Diana extending the invitation my way, thereby placing me at ground-zero. He’s not to blame for my ordeal. No. I’ve no beef with him.

Nevertheless: fuck that guy. 

Dantés, infernal Frenchman. Hot-stuff Parisienne. Photo-journalist. Friend of Diana’s. They’ve collaborated together in the past. Fashion shoots. & shit. At his behest, she set out across the city to the Istanbul Hyatt to swim at the “world famous” pool. Diana brought me. Naturally. We met Dantés in the lobby. After cheek kisses with Diana, this heroin-chic dude said to me he only had the one extra guest entry and I would have to purchase my own day pass. A day pass for sixty Euros. For what? To go piss in his fancy-ass-tulip hotel pool? Fine. I’ll pay. I might be cheap, but I am also petty; too petty to be cheap in front of this French bastard. But before I was going to pay the sum, I wanted Diana to confirm she wanted me around if the first place. 

Shall I?, I asked her. Diana shrugged her perfectly sculpted shoulders and said, do what you want to do, Vic.

It wasn’t the affirmation I was looking for. Feigning indifference, I left them to their cute little reunion. I left them to their swims. I left the Hyatt. I went to get a drink elsewhere. 

Pepe Rosso is a boozy little Italian bistro where I wiled away the hours waiting on Diana’s call. The first negroni was very strong; I pivoted to Efes, a Turkish beer. No word from Diana. I had a second negroni. Still no word from her. Enough. I left the bistro for the tram station to find passage south, back to Old Constantinople. Diana, I figured, could find her own damn way back. Or stay with at the Hyatt with Dantés St Pierre for all I fucking care. 

And this is how I found myself in a city of revolt with a wicked gin buzz. 

The tram ride should have been a simple commute through Istanbul, south along the path I had traveled north with Diana hours earlier. Because the tram track goes through the city streets, it’s pace is at the whimsy of traffic congestion. When auto traffic went into a standstill, so too did the tram. The city had become immobile; a parking lot. This was going to take a while. Inconvenient, but nothing alarming… until the first slap of a hand against the tram window. It was followed by hand slaps on either side of the tram. Outside, a horde of young men wearing black were taking to the streets. As they passed our tram and idling cars, they violently smacked their hands against windows and on hoods. They came from every direction, descending on the street to cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war. They were legion. Hundreds. More. 

Gin does not mix well with adrenaline. 

I knew I couldn’t stay on the tram. The other commuters were concerned with the commotion, yet too paralyzed with fear to act. Perhaps they felt secure in this tin box, but the tram was a trap. Nowhere to run if we stayed on board. I decided to step off into the chaos. On foot, I would be autonomous. Reliant on nothing but my own wits. Which would be enough. 

As my friend Old Ibrahim would say: Vic Neverman has fucked more cats than most others have caught mice. It’s his Turkish way of saying I have experienced some shit. And I have. What’s a social uprising to me? Nothing. A Tuesday. I have a few tricks up my sleeve. First: assimilation. If I take off this goofy orange vest and tuck my baseball cap into the waistband of my back, I resemble a Turk (special thanks to the Ottomans for occupying my ancestral homeland). Second: instinct. What made me a successful pizza delivery boy is my uncanny sense of direction. Best rat in a maze; that’s me! Ariadne’s thread or not. Navigating through an uprising on foot may be dangerous, but I would find a way. And third: knowledge. As a student of history, I recognized exactly what was happening around me. 

Allow me to Neverman-splain: a century ago, the Young Turks, led by the World War I veteran who would become known as “Ataturk”, rose in defiance of the Ottoman sultan. They wanted a secular, westernized government. And the right to drink. A little dive bar lore: Ataturk was known for drinking up to a half-liter of rakı anise liquor a day. Before he died of cirrhosis. Türkiye today, however, is ruled by religious radical strongmen who have called Ataturk a miserable drunk. Pulling the country back in the direction of Islamic conservatism, the current powers-that-be have been closing meyhanes – the rakı speakeasies once beloved by Ataturk. Ergo: what this riotous crowd represented was the New Young Turks. I was sure of it. This riot was the pendulum swing against the religious radicals. This was the first sparks of a Turkish Spring. 

Hell yeah. Let’s fucking go. 

Before my descent into chaos, I consulted my journal. I had a list of helpful words & phrases which may be the difference between surviving the night or drifting down the Dardanelles with the morning tide. Blending-in with the crowd would be key. Even if this rebellion had pro-Western sentiments, it would be unwise for me to be easily identifiable as a westerner. On this night, I would become Turk. 

Next step: stop sitting as a duck and get off this damn tram. 

The first thing one notices when plunging into the throes of a revolution is the music. 

Chanting. 

Stomping. 

Song. 

Rhythmic. I danced to their drum beat. 

I danced to the smell of sweat, pepper & sumac. 

Hello my fellow Turkish youth!

Moving within the masses, I was flotsam in the tumult of a sea of change. Shoulder to shoulder, we marched. Me & my brothers-in-arms. I swooned with righteous spirit. Perhaps this was my moment too. Was this Young Turk cause for a secular Türkiye a hill I was willing to die on? Nah, but… maybe? 

I did not know their language, I certainly did not know their protest songs, but I sang with them. ish. When I sang, I could at least match their vowels, like a dog howling along to a country song.

We were united. United against? United against the bad guys. Whoever they may be. Hopefully the current president. I’d even be okay with being against American imperialism. As long as we represented the underdog. Then I remembered… shit… the original Young Turks did possess genocidal tendencies. Especially when it came to Greeks & Armenians. Sigh. Nationalists can be real dicks. I decided to quell my enthusiasm until I understood what it was we were fighting for. Or fighting against. 

The streets of the Karaköy neighborhood were lined with riot police. Batons. Protective face masks. Shields stamped “POLIS”. They had setup barricades. This was a good thing. The police were monitoring the situation, not yet attempting to disperse. Perhaps they were more concerned with guarding the store fronts of this commercial district. But any spark could set off this powder keg. 

Recalling my yoga breath, I calmed myself. The seduction of the uprising was getting me over-heated. I reminded myself bleeding for the Turkish cause does not make me a Turkish citizen. Prisons here would not be kind to an American. I needed to get out before everything turns to shit. Swim with the current to break away and escape the city. I needed to get out of Türkiye before the airports close and the military declares marshal law. But I did kinda dig it. Being here. A part of history. 

There were open bottles of beer being passed amongst our ranks. My brothers presented me with a warm bottle of Efes. Delighted, I took the beer and said, Şerefe! My brothers looked at me as if the words came out of an anus that opened in the middle of my forehead. I had said the right word: şerefe, but coming out of my mouth, it sounded wrong. They knew I wasn’t one of them. They knew I was a fraud. I took a swig from their bottle and passed it back. As my suspicious brothers conferred, I ducked to tie my shoe, allowing the crowd to march past me. Descending through the ranks, I found new soldiers to walk with. With these brothers, I wouldn’t make the same mistake of speaking. 

The fever had peaked. The riotous sentiments appeared to have plateaued. I became hopeful tensions would not escalate further. Our voices could be heard without violence. For the moment, I believed it. I realized how wrong I was when the first flares were ignited. Throughout the crowd of hundreds, dozens of protestors were setting off flares. Why? There was plenty of street light. This was the escalation I feared. The police tightened their baton grips. Rioters smashed their beer bottles in the street. More flares were lit. This was not an impromptu march on the government. This was a planned rebellion. The revolution was likely already being televised, TikTok’d, live-streamed on social media. My guts churned. 

The American State Department must be on alert. They were likely drawing a statement to condemn the violence of my revolution. I wondered, how will I find my way out of Türkiye? Hell, how will I find a way out of Istanbul? I had to get to Ibrahim. Warn him. Let him know to protect his family. But first, find a safe-house for me to wait for the Marines. Or get me on a boat to Greece. 

I didn’t dare take out my phone. English text of my display would give me away. Fortunately, I did not need a map. I knew the direction out of Karaköy. Traffic was at a standstill, but the tram lines south were easy to follow. While the march furthered its progression, I began moving diagonally, using the current to propel me out off the stream. 

Out of the nucleus of the revolt, on the outskirts, the dissenters were more sparse. Waves of protesters were still pouring in from the side streets to join with the greater mob. I sidestepped them and silently wished them well. I moved along the periphery of the protest until I could break away cleanly. 

Once I saw my chance, I ran. Through shin-splints and Campari belches, I ran. 

The tram-line guided me across the Galata Bridge. Out in the open, I felt vulnerable crossing the Golden Horn in the direction of Old Constantinople. No longer was I an odd duck hidden by the flock. Exposed on the bridge, I could easily be identified as an outsider. The familiar shoe-shine trickster who hustled me out of 20 Euros earlier in the week attempted to stage his con again, but I sprinted past him, ignoring his insults & heckles. I am no a son of a donkey!; you are a son of a donkey!

Shit. I was breathless. Arriving at the ancient gates of the Constantinople. Like it was 1453 all over again. Someone sound the bells! Wake Constantine XI out of bed. The city is under siege!

In the old quarter of Fatih, I arrived at the unmarked kebab house. The rendezvous point. In the cool evening, my sweat-dampened clothes gave me shivers. I had long lost my gin buzz and could use a beer as a palette cleanse. There was a spark of a match in the shadows. A dark figure drew upon a cigarette before releasing a plume of smoke. I asked if the man had any cherries to sell. In heavily-accented English, I heard Ibrahim say, I do have cherries, but they have not ripened. I was relieved. It was code: we were safe. Good to see you, Uncle Abe, I said. He asked if I had been followed. Maybe across the bridge, but I detoured through the Grand Bazar. No chance anyone was able to keep up with me through the markets.

Come, Ibrahim said with a subtle tilt of his head. Are you wanting a cigarette, Victor?, he asked as he knocked at a door. No thanks, Uncle Abe, I said. I only smoke after having to kill a good man or after having lain with a bad woman. Ibrahim smiled politely at this. He’s heard me say it before. 

A bolt was undone and we were escorted into Mehmet’s Kebab House. I was brought to a sink where I could wash the grime from my face & hands. You will tell us, Ibrahim said, what you have seen tonight. But first, you must eat. Have drink.

How could I have any appetite after experiencing the beginnings of a revolution? Then I smelled the kebab meat. This could be my last chance for a decent meal. For a drink. Tonight would be a long night. A difficult exodus. There would be planning. Little sleep. Scheming. Bribing. Praying. I should eat first. Inshallah. If it is the will of god, let Vic eat. There was doner kebab, lavaş bread, yoghurt. A moderately cool bottle of Efes. I found my appetite. I ate, I drank & I told my story. 

Ibrahim asked about Diana. 

Oh… Yeah. Shit. 

We should send someone. I escaped & never looked back. My phone showed no missed messages. She must be hidden away safely at the Hyatt. Or perhaps she found the American Embassy. She’s resourceful and a helluva lot smarter than I. But we should send someone. Someone else. A Turk. A real Turk. 

Ibrahim translated to the other men in the restaurant. Weary mustachioed Turks, likely the fathers & grandfathers of the rioters, each of them smoking cigarettes, sitting on hard chairs, one television between them showing a soccer match. They nodded at Ibrahim’s words. Apprehension clear on their faces. 

Show us, Victor, Ibrahim pushed a map before me. Show us where the violence started. I retraced my steps, going north out of the old city, over the Golden Horn, past the Tower of Galata and back to the center of Karaköy. Here, I said, tapping the map. Near the stadium…

Clapping interrupted my concentration as the attention of the room turned back to the television. The Turkey Cola Eagles scored a goal. Ibrahim smiled and gave me a grandfatherly pat on the cheek. Yes, Victor, Ibrahim said to me, this is as I thought. 

Who: Pepe Rosso

Where: an Italian Bistro in Istanbul, near the Istanbul Hyatt

What: a negroni

When: before the fall of civilization.