Istanbul, stranger than heaven

“Spain? Turkey?”
Every time I felt the urge to escape somewhere, Istanbul was the first city that came to mind.
But somehow, I always ended up choosing other places instead.

Finally, I arrived in Istanbul, Turkey. On the way to the hotel, I noticed some romantic restaurants by the sea. After dropping off my luggage, I headed out in search of one. As I walked, the busy shopping area faded, replaced by a maze of narrow alleys leading toward the water. Tourists disappeared, and soon I found myself in a quiet, unfamiliar backstreet split into two paths.

Mesmerized by the city I had long dreamed of, I didn’t realize someone had been following me. A face I had passed several times reappeared. That’s when I knew something was wrong. A group of teenage boys—likely Kurdish—started to close in on me. It was already too late. I felt someone’s breath behind me. At the same time, my bag was yanked.

I was pulled back and spun to the side. A large, dark hand grabbed my bag and tugged hard. I instinctively held on to the strap, but I couldn’t overpower the teenager’s strength and fell forward.

Still gripping the bag, I was dragged across the cobblestone ground until the strap finally snapped. Though it happened in seconds, it felt like forever. I heard voices around me, but no one stepped in to help—only watched. The boy, victorious, looked back with a mocking grin before disappearing into the distance.

I tried to get up, but my body wouldn’t move. I lay in the middle of the alley in shock. The onlookers scattered, glancing at me as they left. It felt like the entire crowd was in on it. Anger boiled inside me.

As I slowly came to my senses, pain radiated from my knee. It was bleeding, my whole body bruised and sore. My legs were so swollen I couldn’t fit into my pants. I couldn’t bend my knees or even walk.

It was early January, and Istanbul was bitterly cold. During the holiday, people slaughtered sheep, and blood spilled out onto the streets. The metallic smell, the brutality—it all disgusted me. I had planned to continue my trip to Greece after Turkey, but that now seemed impossible.
Because government offices were closed for the holiday, I was stuck in Turkey until they reopened and I could replace my passport.

I rested my head on a pillow by the hotel window. Outside, people in fresh clothes hurried by, carrying boxes of baklava, celebrating and returning home smiling. Every morning at 6 a.m., the Islamic prayer call rang out through the city, but in my ears, it sounded like a cry of rage. It woke me from my shallow sleep.

I turned on the TV and flipped through channels until a Korean drama called “Hae-shin” appeared. Lying in bed watching it reminded me of a friend who had once visited New York from Paris. Instead of sightseeing, he stayed in and binge-watched a Korean drama, “Damo,” before flying back. Back then, I had thought, “How pathetic.”

Now I realized—I was the pathetic one.