Istanbul is a beautiful, sprawling metropolis, with a population of roughly 13 million-- more than four times that of Chicago. The ornate architecture, exotic sights and smells from the open-air markets and doner stands, and-- perhaps most of all-- the dozens of minarets that dot the skyline make Istanbul one of the most distinctive and recognizable cities in the world. But for me, the sounds that came from the loudspeakers perched high atop each mosque's minarets were just as memorable as the mosques themselves!
In Islam, a salah is an obligatory call to prayer. Five times a day, every day, each mosque broadcasts a chant or incantation over the loudspeakers, and practicing Muslims either make their way to the nearest place of worship or take time out of their day to pray. I believe adhan is the term for the actual call, but since I'm more assured in my alliteration abilities than I am in my accurate Arabic, salah will have to suffice.
I stayed primarily in the Sultanahmet district during my visit; most of the tourist attractions are located there, as well as an unusually high concentration of mosques. Because the mosques are so close together, it's not unusual to hear two, three, or four nearly simultaneous calls to prayer. While this was a little jarring at dawn, the other four caused me to stop dead in my tracks every time.
The chants were basically the same, but each started within seconds of the others, and not all the muezzin (the guys who recite the adhan) began on the same pitch. The scales used in Eastern music are already foreign to my classically trained Western ears; the intervals (or distance) between pitches are often smaller than ours, and they are hardly even-tempered. And when they overlapped in a cacophonous canon, coming from every corner of the city, the chords that were created gave me chills.
Was it dissonance? Harmony? Something else? I honestly don't know; it was unlike anything I've ever heard before, and it shorted the musical circuits in my brain that are hardwired to think in half steps and major thirds and dominant sevenths. I felt like a musical illiterate, but was so moved by the unintentional chorus created by the centuries-old religious practice that I too, was compelled to stop what I was doing and to reflect. I didn't ponder the teachings of the Quran, because I don't know them, but I appreciated the daily reminders nonetheless.
Equally fascinating to me, once the salah stopped and I could function again, was that this incredible aural treat was little more than background noise to millions of Istanbul's residents. I am grateful that I was able to take home an extra sensory perception (not to be confused with an extra-sensory perception, aka ESP) as a souvenir from my trip. In addition to the sights, tastes, and smells of Istanbul, the sounds of Turkey, which I'll never be able to sufficiently describe or accurately recreate, have nonetheless etched themselves into my permanent memory.
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