Assignment 3- I miss Istanbul

Melancholy, a feeling that Orhan described so eloquently in Istanbul, was intangible, existing only as some old memory written on thin, white pages filled with black printed words. Or so I thought.

My mind was blank, filled with only quiet voices and soft Turkish music playing from the speakers above my head. I registered little else from my surroundings. Shoved against the dreaded window seat, I sat upright in an uncomfortable position. The blinding white light outside shined through the two small oval windows next to my cheek. I squint. My hands jumped at the tan blinds and shut them before my eyes stung and my vision blurred from moisture. I heard the plane engines roar and braced myself for takeoff. While above the world and among puffy white clouds, I waited with both eagerness and impatience for that rare view of the pocket-sized city below. Unexpected, I felt the bittersweet sadness. I felt it in the way my eyes stopped blinking and lingered at the disappearing land below, the way my mind flashed pictures of Turkish delights, tulip shaped tea cups, yellow taxis, stone pavements, and mosques on hillsides, and the way my mouth lifted up in a simple, transient smile.

I miss Istanbul.



I miss the weird, drowsy feeling of waking up at 5 o’clock in the morning to a man’s voice, seeming to echo all around me. In my half-sleep state, I tried to locate the source of this noise. Was the sound coming from a radio in the room? It was dark. I could only see the outlines of bunk beds, a table, and the window across the room. I lifted my body; a failed attempt and I fell back onto my stiff mattress. I heard the ruffling sound of blankets, a sigh, and two clicks. The window closed and so did my eyes. The now distant chant followed me into my dreams. This was call to prayer, the sound of Istanbul.

I miss the sweaty palms, veins pulsing loudly, and my heart racing at an abnormal speed as I bargained for the first time. “I will buy it for two lira”. My voice was quiet, passive in an annoying way. The man in a blue, half-buttoned up shirt and black pants stood with most of his weight on one leg and the other relaxing out in front held up four fingers and smiled, showing his smoke damaged teeth. “I give you for 4 lira”. My mind was racing to tap into the Asian response that would get me what I want. I gave up. Perhaps I did not possess that innate bargaining skill. Tur suk cu lar, I replay each syllables over and over in my head, and gave him the best version of my Turkish thank you. I smiled goodbye and stepped back into the crowd, with cramped bodies pushing, shoving me along the traffic of shoppers.

I miss the steep hills and uneven cobblestone pavements. In Berlin, I walked for hours and felt no tightness of skin around my calves, aching in my leg muscles, or the sore feeling in my back. Berlin, a flat land with large streets, cross walks, and walled in shops was replaced with Istanbul’s narrow alleyways, open fruit markets, and large hillsides. Berlin at night was quiet, peaceful in a sense. Istanbul, with its neon lights illuminating the large streets filled with people walking, talking over loud music and thumping bass, was invigorating. Vendors stood behind their tables yelling out “ni hao ma”, “pretty lady”, and “I have this for you”. Stray cats, like the bees in Berlin, wandered around, fearless among the people. It was nearing 2 A.M and yet this city remained alive.




I miss the fast pace world where crazy ships moved about aimlessly in a vibrant blue sea, passing each other with only a few inches apart. “In Turkey, there are no rules, you create your own”, a Turkish friend announced before I ran, with full force across a street, nervous and praying for survival. Traffic rules did not exist here. I will never forget the Taxi driver with one hand on the wheel, the other holding a grilled corn. With each giant carefree bite of his corn, I gulped in air, a shocked breath. My heart nearly stopped beating and my feet slammed down at an invisible brake. This cycle repeated for the next 10 minutes as the driver continued down the road at 70 km/hr while eating, changing lanes, and passing cars.






I expected Istanbul to be a city of ancient history, rich culture, and cheap shopping. Little did I know that this city would sweep me off my feet, take me out of my comfort zone, and throw me into a pool of new experiences. In just four short days, I was able to discover the place where I felt both at home and out of place. Perhaps I drank too much Turkish tea, eaten too sweet of a peach, walked up too many hills, and sat on too many benches stained with dark green pigeon poop. Perhaps it all ended too quickly because “too much” wasn’t enough. I wanted more of this city than just some 4 days’ memory.

I stared out of the plane’s small, plastic window at a disappearing city. I felt that feeling. The feeling of longing, remembrance for a place I fell in love with.

I miss Istanbul.

No man's land

I found no man’s land, cropped into an even rectangle and placed in the middle of a thriving city. I was reminded of the rice patties in Vietnam, yet this was unlike any countryside I have seen. Wet grass drowned under the constant bombardment of sprinkler water. Empty bottles, black and white garbage bags, ripped cardboard boxes, cigarette butts, and what seemed like all of Berlin’s garbage was scattered around this green land. On each side sits fancy glass buildings, one of which had a lattice structure, strong and flimsy. Strong because it was grounded and build high. Flimsy because with one rock thrown, a hit and a simple crack to the glass could give rise to a domino effect shatter. Parked all along the front of this building were slick black cars, Mercedes Benz and BMW. I half expected men in pitched black sunglasses with clear, slinky-like plastic wires sneaking out of their necks and connecting to their ears. A gunshot and everyone dropped to the ground. A battle ensued. Loud bangs filled the place as fast spinning bullets cut through air and drilled through metal, human tissues, and cemented ground. Yes, I only half expected that. I actually saw newly paved streets full of speedy cars, sweaty joggers, and energetic bikers. It seemed surreal. This was not the Berlin I knew, but what did I know?

Before I came here, I had pictured rare colorful flowers, majestic fountains, and a grand pathway to large front doors guarded by men with stern faces and stiff bodies. I expected a building, centuries old with gothic style architecture. I wanted impact. A bam! There it is, in all of its glory and might. I got no man’s land. By now, I should have learned not to expect, but to experience. Somehow, this place did not seem like it should fit that sentiment. Pupils dilated and sympathetic nervous system kicked in. I am ready for action. No, not something I felt being there at that place.

No pictures, only memories

In the ninth grade, my English teacher assigned our class a short story to read. The book had a dark brown cover with worn out, ripped edges. While reading, I saw the word “Holocaust” and quickly glanced over it. At this time, I was accustomed to skipping over words that I did not know. You may ask, how is that possible? Trust me, I faced many dropped mouths and wide opened eyes that day in room 131. I watched as my classmates’ emotions fluctuate from shocked to bafflement, and finally to genuine curiosity. The funny thing is, my expressions mirrored theirs completely. I was just as confused as they were. I can’t explain why or how I missed such an important event in history, but I missed it.

I enter a crowded hallway. The smell of burnt wood takes me by surprise. The strong odor and small space make my head spin. I take deeper breaths, but I am losing it. I feel aggressive. By some self-preservation mechanism, my body straightens up. I take one big breath and held it in as if I was preparing to plunge into a lake. With an unyielding strength, I shove past the fortress of bodies. One last push and I stagger into a wide, open room. I let out a breath of relief. My eyes scan the hallway that I just escaped from and I see the wooden wall, chipped and blackened by fire. I turn back around to find myself in an oddly familiar place. The spacious room has glass display cabinets line against all sides of the wall. A museum. In this world of black and white, I see old photographs of families, faded names on documents, long unused medical instruments, and stained shoes. For the first time, my camera hangs from my wrist, lifeless. No pictures. My eyes are the lenses and I soak in the details of each item behind the clear glass window, making a copy of them in my memory.

I see color, a yellow star sewn onto striped pajamas. An uncanny quietness penetrates the room. With colors came a change of atmosphere. A silent film plays in my head. I see a life in those pajamas, someone with eyes drooped and puffy. A body curled up, knees glued to the chest and arms wrapped tightly around thin frail legs. The pajamas shake in rhythm with the shivering body that hugs a cold, white wall. No sleep tonight and a hopeless morning.

Far from that room, I stand on tiny rocks scattered across a cemented ground and slowly breathe. A cool breeze blows by and for a second, my skin loses the burning sensation caused by the sun. I walk off, with the final picture of large gray cement walls erected from the ground and lined along a path separating sachsenhausen from a small-town neighborhood.

A tour to remember

Underneath the train station existed this whole different world in Berlin. I first entered a room that was more like a small metal box. Air is warm. Breathing becomes hard as steamy wet particles rush in my lungs. Lights are dim, but I can clearly see the yellow paint spelling out the words Zum Manner Abort. My first guess for the meaning of these words would be “Warning! Dangerous Area”, but it actually translates into Men’s restroom. I was curious as to why the Germans did not use the male and female symbols to indicate the restrooms. Perhaps all the people who find sanctuary in this bunker could speak and read German. Perhaps when one’s life is on the line, trivial things such as knowing how to read and going to the bathroom are irrelevant. Perhaps my mind is wandering because I feel myself losing control of my own body and mind as the oxygen rushing to my head slowly dwindles.

I hear different sounds of shoes thumping, clanking against the hard cemented floors. My steps are forced. I move slowly. The room becomes a bit darker and my eyes stare out of a cloudy film. My fingers attempted to wrap itself around my pen and take control. I am in that phase where my hands are spelling out words but my mind was not making it move. The writings in my journal, like my memory, are random unfathomable scribbles. Images of old toilets, war artifacts, steep stairs, wooden benches and beds flash quickly through my recollections of that small, dark bunker. I was dizzy and I fell forward several times only to have my body’s own reflexes yank me back into position. My mind tried to justify these “symptoms” as my knees were locked for too long and that I am tired.

It wasn’t until I slowly dragged myself out of the bunker with whatever force I had left that my stream of consciousness returned. Right then, I knew that it wasn’t tiredness or locked knees; it was the unforgettable experience I shared with the German people during WWII. I have never felt so many different sensations while being in a place. This was a reality tour. I was actually feeling, breathing, seeing the way a person would while hiding in a bunker during an air raid.

Reality of War

As I sit listening to the many facts about the Nazis, I could only think about the various bullet holes that distinctly marked the building behind me. Thoughts about bombs dropping, guns firing, and dark clouds of smoke raced through my head. My mind filled with vivid scenes from my brother’s favorite movie Saving Private Ryan of soldiers sneaking along the walls, hiding in holes, peaking out broken windows, aimlessly shooting at their enemies. It was all Hollywood right? Maybe not.

It occurred to me that I could be standing in the middle of a battle zone, which made pain, death, and war become very real. It was hard for me to grasp my mind around the idea that although WWII happened decades ago, the ramifications of this war still linger and I can physically touch it on the bricks of a building.

“You cannot just think that these people were stupid.” Toby was talking about the Nazi officials. I listened as I sat on the stones that marked the exact location of the Nazi headquarters. This place gave birth to horrible plans of exterminating millions of people. It is difficult to understand the psychology behind a mob mentality. At that moment, I found myself wondering what I would have done. Would I also be swept up by the Nazi propaganda? Would I diligently plan an efficient way to kill a mass group of people? I would never know. I stand where those men and women of the Nazi party once stood, but I am not surrounded by the same trees, grass, buildings, dirt, fences, or roads as they did. I can only see the detrimental outcomes that they helped create.

I walked further along the path with displays of black and white photographs and writing. This was the Topography of Terror. The title strikes me as fitting to the topic of Nazi Germany, but the atmosphere of this museum was rather unbefitting. The displays were orderly placed in their positions, and I felt peaceful with the warm breeze, shady trees, and quietness surrounding me.

My calm feeling was disrupted by a photograph of a young woman. She had short hair with slight curls at the ends. She had light smooth skin and clear light eyes. I was curious because I never really thought about women’s roles in wars. When I saw this woman, I wonder whether she was a Nazi. Did she participate in the actual battles or the planning? Perhaps she is a victim. Is she German, Russian, or American? So I read her story. She was a French freelance writer living in Germany. She worked for the Nazi party until they discovered that she was illegally collecting pictures of Nazi crimes and helped her husband in search for new contracts in the resistance. I would have never guessed all of these facts from simply looking at her face. However, her picture indeed caught my eye and I was able to learn more about her hardships and role during WWII.

Berlin Wall

Manuela led us toward the Berlin wall and along the way we walked on an uneven path with large and small pieces of stones cemented to the ground. We stopped at one point and I looked down to see two lines of bricks stretching along the sidewalk. Wedged in between the bricks is a small gold plate that said “Berliner Mauer 1961-1989”. This is the exact location where the Berlin wall once stood. An invisible wall lies before my feet and I can imagine bicycle wheels, shoes, paper, gum, and glass that this wall faces each day. It would have been very easy for me to miss this intangible wall, but once I discovered it, my surroundings became much more meaningful. As I try to think of myself as this wall, I look to my right and to my left becoming aware of the power I held as both the link and disconnect between East and West Berlin.

When we reached the first part of the actual remains of the wall and facing me was bright and colorful graffiti, I suddenly felt confused and surprised because I had expected the wall to be hundreds of feet high and very intimidating.

The image of the wall I had in my head was certainly too glorified and I realized that the wall was more of a symbolic barrier. Although artists have made the wall bright, full of life, and welcoming, I knew that the underlying message was there behind the maze of paint, writings, and pictures. The personal messages that the artists send out through the means of art are unique and many of them are helping preserve this important part of Berlin culture. From the various paintings that I saw I could see how the wall separated families, cut off cultural ties, instilled fear, and caused death. Although only small parts of this wall remained, its history is never gone.

The theme of lost and reestablished certainly connects with the experience I had watching the wall slowly be taken over by plain white paint and artists reconstructing it again. It is interesting to me that the wall can endure time, weather, dirt, and vandalism. Although the artwork slowly fades away, the wall still remains and artists are able to repaint their original artworks to continue their messages whether it is about reunification, freedom, human rights, or consumerism.

Assigment 1- Journey Journal

After touring Humboldt University, I was in a state of awe from the interesting facts that I learned and the many different statues, sculptures, and photographs that I saw. I first entered the main building of Humboldt university through large doors that pushed forward like a palace gate opening for a royal family. I saw a room that was nearly empty save for the small coffee stand on the side.

Not long after, more people rushed in for the tour and I followed the group being directed towards the left and up a set of stone stairs. After I took my first step, my eyes caught the gold letters making up words that were foreign to me. The room was dim and yet the letters shine in a striking way that made sure a person would not miss it. Normally I would take a picture of this interesting writing on the wall and then move on, but something else held my attention. It was this small almost invisible writing on the bottom right side. The large gold lettering created a shadow that overpowered the tiny “Karl Marx”. Indeed, this was an essential part of the entire piece of writing on the wall. This was Karl Marx’s quote and an important one at that. It was interesting to me that his name was not emphasized as much as his quote.

At this time, I did not have a journal to record all of my memories, so I went out to look for one in Alexanderplaz. I went with my classmates to a discounted bookstore and saw several notebooks marked with white numbers on yellow tags indicating the price. There was a limited amount of notebooks offered and the one that I bought is the simplest and most convenient one. Right away, I wrote down all that I saw that day and also my postcard experience.

1st day- The Beginning

I stepped out of Tegel airport and into the city of Berlin. My first memory is of bright orange banners and advertisement screens. It occurred to me that I had subconsciously expected Berlin to be completely different from America and was surprised to see a lot of similarities between the two countries. Aside from the various German signs that I could not read, I was able to recognize nearly everything from the BMW cars and the large glass buildings to H&M dresses and Adidas bag.

As the bus speeds off towards Alexanderplaz, I started to notice more unique buildings, churches, stores, and as each of these flash before my eyes, I realized that I was in a whole new country.