We needed to do it. Have a break. After spending the autumn of 2020 in Istanbul among more than 16 million other Covid-anxious people we decided in early November to leave the busy and claustrophobic city life with all its covid-fobia and limitations, and go into hiding on one of the Princes Islands. We wanted to find peace of mind to write a novel and capture the atmosphere of the island. The nine small islands are located about one and a half hours boat ride southeast of the centre of Istanbul in the Marmara Sea. The Princes Islands got their name because of Byzantine emperors’ practice of sending troublesome princes there to be blinded, exiled or executed. Today’s citizens of Istanbul call them simply ‘Adalar’ meaning: The Islands.
We rented an old house for a month near the harbour of Büyükada, the largest of the islands. It was a old idyllic house, build, we was told, by Armenians and one of the oldest on the island. When we arrived it turned out that we did not have the house to ourselves: the owner lived in the living room with his cat. He was a young and pleasant guy, a Kurdish poet and translator of literature from Arabic to Turkish. Despite the unexpected guest, we decided to stay, seeing it as a opportunity to live with one of the locals. The next day we walked up the hill from the harbour filled with cafes, restaurants and souvenir shops, all of them half empty due to the Covid-19 pandemic, and continued through endless rows of old sleepy Ottoman-Victorian summer mansions, built by wealthy Ottoman families, especially Greeks, Jews and Armenians – until the forest took over and send us into a calm and relaxing atmosphere with beautiful palette of autumn colours. Finally we could take off our masks and breathe.
PHOTO: Sila Yalazan // @silayalazan
TEXT: Steen Andersen // @just_another_alter_ego