A man;
A mosque;
and me.
I had walked around the block at least twice.
I could hear the call of the mezzuin from the minarets above (or at least the recordings blaring out of the speakers mounted there). Men of all ages rushed passed me and disappeared
through narrow doorways that led to dark stairways.
I just wasn’t sure if I could follow them.
I had been told that this was one of the prettiest mosques in Istanbul, adorned with blue Iznik tiles... but I couldn’t find my way in. I was standing right underneath it, but the walls on all four sides had been given over to market stalls. It was hot and crowded, Istanbul was on holiday and so was I. I bought a bottle of water from a man selling out of a shopping trolley in the middle of the laneway and sighed,
I wasn’t giving up.
A nearby shopkeeper tried to sell me something.
“I am looking for the mosque” I said. “The Rüstem Pasha Mosque”.
I must have sounded silly because clearly we were standing right underneath it.
“How do I get in?” I asked.
“This way” he said and he disappeared into a sea of people.
I hurried to keep up. We retraced my steps around the corner and
he pointed to one of the narrow entrances I had been too afraid to take.
“Here, you go up.” he said.
“Is it OK?” I asked, I wasn’t sure if women were allowed,
certainly not foreign ones like me.
“Yes, yes” he said “It’s OK”. I started to wrap my pashmina across my bare shoulders and he shook his head, “You don’t have to” he said, “it’s OK, go up”.
I left him at the bottom of the stairs, men were still rushing past me on their way to prayer. At the top of the second flight of stairs a cool open courtyard greeted me. A large collection of shoes and sandals lay in a haphazard pile near the entrance to the mosque, and a handful of other tourists were waiting patiently for prayer time to finish.
A few women arrived to pray, dressed in long sleeved feraces and headscarves, leaving their shoes at the door they went into pray in their place behind the men.
I sat on the raised area in front of the mosque, the stone was cool and there was a gentle sea breeze coming from the Golden Horn.
In front of me was a stone fountain for washing.
Next to it was a 2 litre water bottle filled with pink detergent.
Behind me, at the mosque’s facade, a few men lined up to pray.
I placed my camera on the ground next to where I sat, and pointing it away from me, I pressed the shutter.