Berkley Center

My mother has always loved the hazzan’s prayer on Yom Kippur. We were lucky enough at my synagogue to have a cantor with a voice that actually made prayer seem ethereal and otherworldly. For me, it has always been the alternating moments of silence and chanting that makes prayer profound. There is nothing comparable to the sound of voices bouncing off a well-designed sacred space and really clouding my mind with music. At my Episcopal high school, I loved going to chapel daily simply for the singing, as much as we often acted a bit silly during the more fun hymns.

The first week of March, I went to Turkey. For reasons even unknown to myself, I developed a fascination with Istanbul and determined that I would, if nothing else, go there during my time abroad. I will never forget my first visit to a mosque. I suppose it doesn’t hurt that I went to the Blue Mosque of Istanbul, which crowns a hilltop of the massive city. Yet, even the impressive atmosphere—the gilded decorations, the beautifully formed inscriptions, the airy domes—paled in comparison to my encounter with the call to prayer.

As I walked the streets of Istanbul, my synapses were going into overload. I could hear the nearby mutterings of other pedestrians and the urgings of storeowners to buy their goods. “Where are you from? Come have tea! You are my sunshine, where are you going?” Those selling their wares were loud, although friendly. These shouts were all but cancelled out when the muezzins called out over the seemingly infinite number of sound systems. I was travelling with two friends, who related our second day that they couldn’t sleep through the call to prayer at 5 a.m. What call to prayer? I had missed it the first night. Needless to say, I had plenty of opportunities to compensate.

There’s something a bit supernatural about it. So many mosques appear in the Istanbul skyline that it almost seems that there are more places of worship than places to live. More importantly, each projects the call at a deafening volume, five times a day. Each has its own sound system and loudspeakers. The various muezzins—those who lead and recite the call to prayer—reach out to those in the streets, their voices overlapping and flooding passersby with a gush of aural information. You hear and feel it all the way in your toes.

Yet, life doesn’t stop for the call to prayer. Yes, the mosques fill up with people praying, but the crowds don’t necessarily thin out on the streets. It isn’t just the call to prayer that is so apparent. The dress of almost the entire city has to be taken into account. I saw more headscarves than hair as well as my first burqa, or rather, first 100. Religion is threaded throughout daily life, be it through a reminder five times daily or the evil eye charms hanging at every shop. I often joke about the many epiphanies I have daily, but I truly had one every few minutes in Istanbul.

I realized that though I have studied the veil affairs of France in detail as well as other countries, I still truly have no concept of what such a widespread practice of covering the head and face means on a societal level. It is particularly difficult to consider since it seems such anomaly for someone in the United States, at least where I am from, or in Spain to wear a headscarf. I tried to imagine the people of Istanbul walking through the streets of the United States, and I didn’t even get past an initial attempt. I then tried to compare my experience in Istanbul to that of Spain. There is just no comparison. I could rack my brain trying to find some consistencies regarding faith and daily life; surely I would find some. Yet, all in all, the fundamental visual differences are astounding.

This, I can imagine, is what makes intercultural and interreligious dialogue so undeniably complicated. Sometimes the differences between cultures are so vastly apparent that getting past them seems incomprehensible. At least here in Spain, I can find some comfort in looking somewhat similar to those around me. My faith does not have to constantly be on display. But what about in a place such as Turkey, where manifestations of religion are everywhere?

When I returned to Spain and was asked about my trip, I made vague attempts to describe my experience. I could share my countless photographs, my unforgettable story about a Turkish toilet, and even some chocolate I had brought back for a true “taste” of Turkey. Yet, I have come to realize through all my adventures thus far that the most unforgettable and invaluable aspects of encountering another culture are intangible.

Really, they have to be experienced personally. The blare of a loudspeaker those five times a day, the urge to don a headscarf and see how it made me feel about my female identity, the constant stream of questions raised that challenge previous conceptions and beliefs. These are the experiences that have impressed upon me the importance of taking in my surroundings and delving a bit deeper into the places I go. Moreover, the ability to find inspiration in something seemingly transcendental like the call to prayer in the same way I find in prayer in a synagogue or even a church has given me the hope that perhaps anyone could do the same, given the chance to personally experience other cultures.