A little Turkish boy with a wooden stick

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A man who loves stories and collects them as other collect postcards, can’t but share them, otherwise they will haunt him and might as well start to rule his reality through feelings and deeds. Thus, the only way to let the old pictures go is to give them life. That’s my plan for the rest of my life, even if no one shows the slightest interest in them, there must liberation.

A new story to tell

Imagine the scene: the oldest district in Fatith named Balat, one of the historically richest places in Istanbul, yet unfairly neglected by many tourists, especially now during coronavirus restrictions. Quietly walking along the curvy paving streets, where famous coffee shops are still closed, a girl is devouring the peaceful scenery with her sparkled eyes barely paying attention to her companion’s words. It’s still early in the morning. The naked sun is covering colorful wooden and stone houses, washing away the sleepiness of the neighborhood. The girl is escorted by a reputable guide who volunteered to show her the fading beauty of utterly amazing ancient skinny tall houses, and most importantly to tell her old forgotten stories behind shabby rusted gates with vines covering the broken locks and fancy Mediterranean style cottages of all the colors imaginable. It was her main objective to hear the precious story of little significance to many, yet not her. The stories of love and abandon, of greedy pashas and noble fishermen, of a little beauty in a tattered cloths noticed by both a kind and plain street shoe cleaner boy and a sinful and lustful merchant. The girl longed to become part of their lives and follow them toward heaven or hell, depending on their choices and intentions.

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