Podcasts about ataturk

A century after Kemal Atatürk galvanized the Turkish people and founded modern Turkey on the ashes of the Ottoman Empire -- and upon new principles of secularism, populism, and republicanism -- the current president is turning Turkey into an autocracy. Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, 71, has been in power for 22 years and is acting like he wants to rule for the rest of his life. He is jailing political opponents and critical journalists while stuffing the judiciary with friendly judges. In this episode, the Middle East Institute's Gönül Tol delves into Erdoğan's push for complete power while reflecting on the enduring -- and now endangered -- principles of Kemalism. Further reading:  Turkey Is Now a Full-Blown Autocracy by Gönül Tol for Foreign Affairs, the official publication of the Council on Foreign Relations Erdoğan's War: A Strongman's Struggle at Home and in Syria by Gönül Tol    

Saul is a wild boy, he just bought a gold tooth (then lost it)! And, he's out there getting ladies to toss his salad! Other topics include Middle Eastern food, current events (Trump and Zelensky), the history of Ottoman and Ataturk, and the LA Kings epic fail on Armenian Pride Night. Plus, you'll get to know the crew behind DOBT (comedians Drew Daly and Armand Gorjian) in a new segment called "Meet the Producers."Dogs of Browntown stars comedians Hormoz Rashidi, Joel "Joelberg" Jimenez and Saul Trujillo. Three brown dudes, one good time. Coming atcha from Joel's abuela's house in Los Angeles, CA.Follow us here:@dogsofbrowntown on IGHormoz RashidiJoel JimenezSaul TrujilloProduced by Drew Daly and Armand Gorjian.

Michael Erdman is Head of Middle East and Central Asian Collections at The British Library with overall responsibility for all manuscript holdings in Arabic, Armenian, Azerbaijani, Chagatai, Coptic, Hebrew, Kurdish, Ottoman Turkish, Persian, and Syriac. I talked with him about my recent magazine hunting exploits in Istanbul, and how what we found fits into the overall history of magazine publishing in Turkey. Esoteric, I know, but hey, this is where passion takes you.

Last time we spoke about the beginning of the Kumul Rebellion. In 1931, tensions in Kumul escalated after a Muslim girl spurned Han tax collector Chang Mu, leading to his violent death at a family dinner. Enraged, Uyghurs retaliated against Chinese officials, igniting a rebellion. Chaos ensued as rebels targeted Han settlers, ultimately capturing Kumul with little resistance. Amidst the unrest, Yulbars Khan sought support from military leader Ma Chongying, who planned to mobilize his forces to help the Uyghurs. What began as a local incident spiraled into an all-out revolt against oppressive rule. In 1931, young warlord Ma Chongying sought to establish a Muslim empire in Central Asia, leading a small force of Tungan cavalry. As his army attempted to besiege Kumul Old City, they faced fierce resistance from Chinese troops. Despite several assaults, the lack of heavy artillery hampered Ma's progress. Eventually, Ma faced defeat due to a serious injury. After his recuperation, his forces joined with Uyghur insurgents, sparking a guerrilla war against oppressive provincial troops, leading to increasing unrest and rebellion.   #133 Kumul Rebellion part 2: Uprisings in southern Xinjiang Welcome to the Fall and Rise of China Podcast, I am your dutiful host Craig Watson. But, before we start I want to also remind you this podcast is only made possible through the efforts of Kings and Generals over at Youtube. Perhaps you want to learn more about the history of Asia? Kings and Generals have an assortment of episodes on history of asia and much more  so go give them a look over on Youtube. So please subscribe to Kings and Generals over at Youtube and to continue helping us produce this content please check out www.patreon.com/kingsandgenerals. If you are still hungry for some more history related content, over on my channel, the Pacific War Channel where I cover the history of China and Japan from the 19th century until the end of the Pacific War. So in the last episode we spoke about the beginning of the Kumul Rebellion. Now the Kumul Rebellion is actually a series of other rebellions all interlaced into this larger blanket known as the Xinjiang Wars. To be blunt, Xinjiang was the wild west from the 1930s until basically the formation of the PRC. We briefly went over the various groups that inhabit northwestern China, they all had their own interests. I want to start off by looking at the situation of southern Xinjiang. Back in June of 1924, Ma Fuxing, the T'ai of Kashgar was executed. His executioner was Ma Shaowu who had just received the post of Taoyin over the oasis city of Khotan. There was of course always tension, but southern Xinjiang was relatively peaceful in the 1920s. Then Governor Yang Zengxin was assassinated in July of 1928. During the last years of his rule, southern Xinjiang often referred to as Kashgaria, remained entrenched in the British sphere of influence after the collapse of Tsarist Russia and the subsequent closure of the Imperial Russian consulate-General at Kashgar.  Going further back in time, in August of 1918, Sir Geoerge Macartney, the long standing British Consul General to Kashar had retired. His successor was Colonel P. T Etherton, a hardcore anti-communist who actively was cooperating with anti-Soviet Basmachi guerillas in the western portion of Turkestan. One of his missions was to curb Soviet influence in southern Xinjiang. Yang Zengxin understood the British policy towards Xinjiang was to push the Soviets out via enabling the survival of his independent Han led regime. Thus Yang Zengxin was very friendly to the British and allowed them to exercise considerable political influence in Tien Shan. Despite this Soviet influence spread in Ili and Zungharia. This prompted Yang Zengxin to secretly cooperate with the British in Kashgar to counter the looming red growth north of his province. Now by 1924, through a combination of military necessities and the re-emergence of Soviet Russia as Xinjiang's largest trading partner, this forced Yang Zengxin to push away the British. Following the Sino-Soviet agreement of 1924 which effectively saw the establishment of diplomatic relations between Moscow and Beijing, the Soviet government at Omsk dispatched an envoy to Xinjiang to discuss mutual consular representation. Both sides reached an agreement on October 6th, providing for an exchange of consulate-generals between Tashkent and Urumqi and for Soviet consulates in Chuguchak, Kulja, Shara Sume and Kashgar. The new Soviet presence in Kashgar was quite upsetting for the British. It also allowed the Soviets direct access to the densely populated oases of Tarim Basin, the source of nearly all Xinjiang's revenue.  Shortly after the Soviet Consulate in Kashgar officially opened on October 10, 1925, a local power struggle emerged involving Max Doumpiss, the Soviet Consul, of Latvian origin, Major Gillan, the British Consul-General at that time, and the Taoyin of Kashgar. Sino-Soviet relations in southern Xinjiang took a troubled turn in November 1925 when large quantities of silver bullion were discovered hidden in thirty-four boxes labeled as Soviet 'diplomatic bags,' intended for the Kashgar consulate. The Kashgar Taoyin, who was reportedly offended by the 'subtle spread of Soviet propaganda' in the southern oases, retaliated by expelling several suspected Russian agents. In March 1926, significant riots erupted in Kashgar, which the Chinese authorities attributed to an interpreter at the Soviet Consulate named Akbar 'Ali. The unrest was quelled by a force of 400 local Tungan troops, and Akbar 'Ali was imprisoned; the Taoyin ignored subsequent Soviet demands for his release. The rapid increase in the number of European consular staff from around fifteen in 1925 to between thirty and forty by 1927 also alarmed Chinese officials. All these developments were likely reported to Governor Yang Tseng-hsin in Urumchi, who was likely dealing with similar situations at the newly established Soviet Consulates in Kulja, Chuguchak, and Shara Sume. It appears that, with discreet British support, Yang decided to take actions to curb the expansion of Soviet influence in Kashgar. The Kashgar Taoyin then took up a strong anti-soviet stance. Alongside this Yang Zengxin's nephew, the officer in command of Chinese troops along the Kashgar northern frontier, suddenly became a frequent visitor to the British consulate General at Chini Bagh. After the death of the old Taoyin in 1927, Ma Shaowu came over from Khotan to replace him and with this came heightened anti-soviet policies in southern Xinjiang. Ma Shaowu first began by imprisoning 60 alleged local communists and tightened Chinese control over Kashgars northern frontier. The freedom of the Soviet Consul team to travel within southern Xinjiang was tightened to the extreme and all Kashgar citizens suspected of pro-soviet sympathies became targets for confiscation of their property or deportation to other oases. Yang Zengxin backed Ma Shaowu's attempts to limit Soviet influence in Tarim Basin by imposing severe tax on Muslims leaving southern Xinjiang to go on Hajj via the USSR. Similarly, new legislative was unleashed requiring merchants going into the USSR to deposit large sums of money to the Chinese authorities in Kashgar who would forfeit if the depositor failed to return to Xinjiang within 60 days.  These policies did not completely insulate southern Xinjiang from Soviet influence; however, they did ensure that at the time of Yang Zengxin's assassination in 1928, the southern region of the province—especially Ma Shao-wu's domain around Kashgar, Yarkand, and Khotan—maintained a significant degree of independence from the Soviet Union. This stood in stark contrast to areas like the Ili Valley, Chuguchak, and Shara Sume, where Soviet influence became dominant shortly after 1925, and even to the provincial capital of Urumqi, where, by the spring of 1928, the Soviet Consul-General had considerable sway. It was likely due to Ma Shaowu's anti-Soviet position and the persistent dominance of British influence in southern Xinjiang during the final years of Yang Zengxin's administration that Kashgar emerged as a hub of conservative Muslim opposition to Chinese governance in the 1930s. Yang Zengxins intentional efforts to sever southern Xinjiang from Soviet influence resulted in the Uighurs and, to a lesser extent, the Kirghiz of the Tarim Basin being less influenced by the 'progressive' nationalist propaganda from Soviet-controlled Western Turkestan compared to the Turkic-speaking Muslims of the Ili Valley and Zungharia. This is not to imply that the socialist nationalism promoted by the Jadidists after 1917 was entirely ineffective south of the Tien Shan; however, Kashgar, situated outside the Soviet zone in northwestern Sinkiang, became a natural refuge for right-wing Turkic nationalists and Islamic traditionalists who opposed Chinese authority yet were even more fiercely against the encroachment of 'atheistic communism' and its Soviet supporters in Central Asia. Many of these right-wing Turkic-speaking nationalists were former Basmachi guerrillas, primarily of Uzbek, Kazakh, and Kirghiz descent, but also included several Ottoman Turks and, according to Caroe, "old men who had fought against the Chinese at Kashgar." Among the most notable Basmachi leaders who sought refuge in Kashgar was Janib Beg, a Kirghiz who would play a significant role in the politics of southern xinjiang during the early 1930s. Following Yang Zengxin's assassination in July 1928, Soviet influence in southern Xinjiang began to grow rapidly; nevertheless, at the onset of the Kumul Rebellion in 1931, reports of forced collectivization and the suppression of nomadic lifestyles in Western Turkestan led many Turkic Muslims in southern Xinjiang to be wary of Soviet intentions. If, during the late 1920s and early 1930's, the Turkic Muslims of southern Xinjiang were divided in their approach towards the Soviets and the newly formed Turkic-Tajik SSR's in western Turkestan, they all were united in their attitude towards their Tungan brethren to the east. Unlike the Turkic Muslim rebels of Kumul, the Uyghurs and Kirghiz of southern Xinjiang were far too distant from Gansu to appeal for assistance from the Tungan warlords, such as the 5 Ma Clique. Besides the Han Chinese officials, rule over the oases of Tarim Basin had long been held by Tungans. Ma Fuxing, the Titai of Kashgar had ruthlessly exploited his Turkic Muslim subjects between 1916-1924. He himself was a Hui Muslim from Yunnan, as was Ma Shaowu. The Turkic Muslims of southern Xinjiang therefore had zero illusions of any “muslim brotherhood” with their Tungan brethren. It was Tungan troops who intervened to suppress any demonstration against Chinese rule. The Tungans of Tarim Basin were allies to the Han Chinese administration and thus enemies to the Turkic Muslim peoples. The western rim of Tarim Basin was in a unique political situation during the later half of Yang Zengxins rule as a large part of its Turkic Muslim population looked neither to the progressive Muslim leadership of western Turkestan nor the Tungan warlords of Gansu. Instead they looked at the regimes in Turkey and Afghanistans, both quite conservative. Contacts in these places were sparse ever since the Qing reconquest of Xinjiang. After the defeat of the Ottoman Empire in WW1, contact ceased to exist at all. Emotional links to what once was however lingerd, and the nationalist revolution of Ataturk sprang something of a Turkish renaissance inspiring Turkic peoples from Crimea to Kumul.  As for Afghanistan, there existed more concrete religious and political contacts with southern Xinjiang. In 1919, Amir Aman Allah, the last Muhammadzay ruler of Afghanistan had taken the throne after the death of his father. He became an impetuous ruler who brought forth his own downfall through a series of radical reforms that caused a revolution by 1928. Yet in his first years of rule he had widespread support of Muslim peoples in central asia, especially after he began the Third Afghan war against Britain, combined with a Jihad for Afghan independence. Because of this the British were forced to recognize Afghanistan's right to independent foreign policy. During this period, it is rumored Amir Aman Allah had toyed with the idea of forming an Islamic Confederacy which would have included Afghanistan, Bukhara, Khiva and Khokand. He would have also been interested in influence over Xinjiang where numerous Afghan merchants resided under British protection. Following Britains recognition of Afghanistan's right to independent foreign policy, with the 1919 treaty of Peshawar, British diplomatic protection for Afghan citizens in Xinjiang was lifted. Amir Aman Allah then established independent diplomatic links between Kabul and Urumqi, sending a delegation in 1922 led by Muhammad Sharif Khan. The Chinese officials regarded the Afghan mission as a trade delegation, but Muhammad Sharif Khan carried with him printed visiting cards styling himself as Afghanistan's Consul-General in Xinjiang. Alongside this he brought draft agreements demanding full extraterritorial rights and other privileges for Afghan subjects in Xinjiang and the right to import opium freely into the province. It is to no surprise Yang Zengxin refused to recognize the mission causing a dispute that would drag on for years. It became a long standing issue for th Turkic speaking Muslims of southern Xinjiang. There were many who looked to Afghanistan to help them against Chinese oppression. Now getting back to our timeline, with the initial outbreak of the Kumul Rebellion and the Tungan invasion, Jin Shujen had made every effort to prevent news of these events occurring mostly in the northeast from getting into the south. But of course one cannot stop the flow of information completely. Rumors and reports of the rebellious activities northeast flooded into the oases of Tarim Basin, invigorating anti-Chinese zeal, from peoples already suffering from increased taxation and inflation caused by unbacked paper currency paying for Jin's war efforts. Jin was well aware of the discontent south in his province, but he was emboldened by his victory of Ma Chongying as well as the recent delivery of 4000 rifles and 4 million rounds of ammunition from British held India. Thus he determined to maintain his current stance. It would prove to be a very fateful decision. The Kumul Rebellion was not crushed by any means. In fact the brutality following the relief of Kumul Old City caused outrage amongst the Turkic speaking peoples and sent refugees westwards towards Turfan. By May of 1932, Ma Chongying had dispatched a young Tungan Lt, Ma Shihming to take command over his Tungan forces remaining in Xinjiang. Ma Shihming quickly established his HQ in Turfan and began to cooperate with the Turkic speaking Muslim insurgents who owed their allegiance to Yulbars Khan and Khoja Niyas Haiji. It's also believed he made contact with Ma Fuming, a Tungan officer in command of the Xinjiang provincial forces at Turfan.  By mere coincidence, in May of 1932, Jin had also elected to seek revenge against Tsetsen Puntsag Gegeen, the Torgut Mongol regent inhabiting Tien Shan. That same guy he had asked for military aid from who simply took his army away. Tsetsen Puntsag Gegeen was invited to come back to Urumqi where he was to attend an investigation into the assassination plot laid against him. On May 21st, shortly after his arrival, he alongside two Torgut officers and the young Torgut Prince were all invited to an official banquet at Jin Shujens yamen. Now you might be thinking, who in their right mind would fall for that shit? Especially given the Yang Zengxin banquet story. Well according to R.P Watts, the British Vice Consul General at Kashgar who happened to be in Urumqi at the time. “While drinking the usual preliminary cup of tea the regent and the two military officers were led out into a courtyard and executed. According to Chinese custom in such matters proper observance was accorded to the high rank of regent even at the moment of execution. A red carpet was spread on the ground on which he was invited to seat himself. He was then killed by being shot through the head from behind by one of the governor's special executioners. His two companions being men of inferior rank were not given the privilege of a red carpet to sit on whilst being executed.”  The young Torgut prince was allowed to return to Kara Shahr, man that must have been an awkward desert. So Jin hoped the harsh action would terrify the young prince into submission. As you may have guessed, Jin actions were quite toxic for the Torgut Mongols. Might I add the Torgut Mongols were probably the only non Chinese group in Xinjiang that may have sided with Jin against the Turkic peoples? So to tally up things a bit here. Jin pissed off the Uyghurs and Tungans of Turfan, the Kirghiz of Tian Shan and now the Torguts.  In early 1932, Turkic Muslim opposition to forced collectivization and suppression of nomadism by Stalin in the Kazakh and Kirghiz regions of Soviet Central Asia, saw many spill over into Xinjiang. By March of 1932, large numbers of Kirghiz fled the border and were pursued by Soviet forces. A series of skirmishes and raids broke out in the border region. The Soviet Kirghiz naturally received aid from the Xinjiang Kirghiz and in June a Chinese official was killed by Kirghiz insurgents in Tien Shan. The Chinese were outraged, prompting Ma Shaowu to unleash 300 troops from Kashgar New City and 200 troops from Kashgar Old City to defend the frontier area. These units were soon joined by another 100 troops from Opal and 200 from Uch Turfan all under the leadership of Brigadier Yang, the nephew to the late Yang Zengxin. In July Yang's men began joint operations with the Soviets against the Kirghiz insurgents who were led by Id Mirab. The Chinese forces were said to quote “The Chinese forces had been suffering badly from want of opium', and reportedly behaved very badly towards Kirghiz, a number of whom were driven to take refuge in Russian territory”. To try a force the submission of the Kirghiz, Yang's forces took 70 hostages from Kirghiz families and brought them to imprisoned them the oases of Khotan, Keriya and Charchan. Thus Jin and Ma Shaowu had succeeded within a few months of Ma Chongyings withdrawal back into Gansu in both alienating the Turkic speaking and Mongol nomads of Tien Shan. The Sino-Soviet cooperation against the Kirghiz had also not gone unnoticed by other Muslim groups.  Meanwhile the Kumul Rebellion had spread westwards. By Autumn of 1932, months after the arrival of Ma Shihming to Turfan, Ma Fuming joined the rebels cause. Wu Aichen wrote it was his belief that Ma Fuming's decision was based on the continuing flow of Muslim refugees from Kumul to Turfan combined with reports of mass executions being carried out by Xing Fayu. But like I had mentioned, there is also strong evidence Ma Shihming probably negotiated an alliance with Ma Fuming. Wu Aichen wrote Ma Fumings first rebellious action was to send a telegram to Jin requesting he dispatch reinforcements while he also sent a letter to Xing Fayu over in Kumul to come quickly to Turfan. The reinforcements arrived at the oasis without suspecting a thing and were “shot down to the last man” by Ma Fumings forces as they passed the city gates. A few days later another detachment of 100 men led by Xing Fayu reached Turfan only to suffer the same fate. Xing Fayu was taken captive and “tortured to death in public with every refinement of cruelty and vileness of method”. Following Ma Fumings official defection, the Turfan Depression quickly emerged as the main center of Muslim rebellion in northeastern Xinjiang. Kumul which had been laid to ruin by Jin was abandoned to the Turkic Muslim insurgents and a handful of Tungan troops. A large portion of Tungan forces consisting of those following Ma Fuming and Ma Sushiming massed at Turfan preparing to march upon Urumqi, lying 100 miles northwest. The storm brewing in Turfan was followed up by a series of uncoordinated uprisings amongst the Turkic speaking Muslims of southern Xinjiang. The Uyghurs of Tarim Basin and Kirghiz of Tien Shan realized Jin's grip over the province was weakening and the presence of Tungan forces in Turfan effectively cut off the oases of the south from Urumqi and Jin's White Russian troops, whom otherwise may have scared them into submission. The White Russians and other provincial forces were hard pressed by Ma Fuming and Ma Shihming. Reports also spread that Ma Chongying would soon re-enter the fray in person and that Chang Peiyuan, the Military commander over at Ili had fallen out with Jin. Thus the Turkic speaking Muslims of southern Xinjiang knew the time was ripe to rebel against Chinese rule. In the winter uprising began at Pichan, just east of Turfan and at Kara Shahr about 175 miles southwest. Lack of Torgut support at Kara Shahr following the murder of Tsetsen Puntsag Gegeen basically sealed the fate of the Chinese forces within the city. The new Tungan leader, Ma Chanzeng emerged the commander of rebel forces in the region. Disregarding the increasingly intense conflict between Ma Shih-ming and the provincial forces along the Turfan-Urumqi road, Ma Chan-ts'ang moved westward, seizing Bugur in early February and progressing to Kucha. There, he formed a strategic alliance with Temiir, the local Uyghur leader, who was noted by Wu Aichen as "a capable individual who had managed the mule wagon service." After occupying Kucha without any resistance, the combined forces of Ma Chanzeng and Temiir continued their advance toward Aksu, capturing the small town of Bai along the way. Ma Shaowu was the Taoyin of Kashgar and second most powerful official in the provincial administration after Jin, thus found himself cut off from Urumqi by two separate armies of Muslim rebels each composed of Tungan and Turkic factions. One of these armies held a small but militarily competent Tungan force led by Ma Chanzeng with a large contingent of poorly armed Uyghur peasants owing their allegiance to Temur. This force advanced southwest towards Aksu, while the other army consisting of a loose coalition of competent Tungan troops under Ma Shihming and Ma Fuming with Turkic speaking Muslim peasants owing allegiance to Khoja Niyas Haiji and Yulbars Khan pressed their attack directly upon Urumqi. In February of 1933 to add further confusion in the south, the rebellion against the Chinese spread southwards across the Tarim Basin to its southern rim. Uprising against the Chinese administration broke out simultaneously amongst the gold miners of the southern oases who had long resented the provincial governments fixed rate for the purchase of gold in Xinjiang alongside brutal working conditions. The spiraling inflation from Jin's worthless currency which was used to pay for the gold only made things worse. By spring their patience had run out, the Uyghurs led by Ismail Khan Khoja seized control of Kara Kash killing a large number of Han Chinese. Meanwhile the Uyghurs at Keriya seized control over the Surghak mines and threatened to take control over the whole oasis. Prominent rebel demands included a fair price for gold and silver and prohibition of the purchase of precious metals with paper currency. More urgent demands were lowering taxes, ending government tyranny, introducing Shari a law and stationing Muslim troops in every city. Now these demands were very real, they were willing to stand down if they were met. One anonymous writer of the demand notices placed at Karakash was as follows “A friend for the sake of friendship will make known a friend's defects and save him from the consequences of his defects. You, who are supposed to rule, cannot even realize this, but try to seek out the supporter of Islam to kill him. Foolish infidels like you are not fit to rule ... How can an infidel, who cannot distinguish between a friend and a foe, be fit to rule? You infidels think that because you have rifles, guns ... and money, you can depend on them; but we depend upon God in whose hands are our lives. You infidels think that you will take our lives. If you do not send a reply to this notice we are ready. If we die we are martyrs. If we survive we are conquerors. We are living but long for death”. Ma Shaowu elected to first move against the Muslim insurgents threatening Aksu, most likely reasoning that if Ma Chanzeng and Temur were defeated the weaker rebel forces at KaraKash and Surghak would just crumble. There also was the fact Ma Shihmings men at Turfan had severed the telegraph line between Urumqi and Kashgar, and that line had been re-routed via Aksu, but if Aksu fell to the rebels, communications with the capital would only be possible via the USSR. At this point its estimated Brigadier Yang had a mixed army of 280 cavalry and 150 infantry as he set out for Aksu on February 6th. Ma Shaowu's position was not good. On February 9th, Jin Shujen's younger brother, Jin Shuqi the commander in chief at Kashgar New City suddenly died of illness. He was replaced with a Chinese officer called Liu who took command of his three detachments of cavalry, about 480 men and a single detachment of artillery, about 160 men. Ma Shaowu held control over two regiments of cavalry, 700 men and 3 detachments of infantry, around 300 men all stationed at Kashgar Old City. In mid february reports reached Kashgar that Brigadier Yang was heavily outnumbered by the rebels under Ma Chanzeng and Temur and had fallen back from Aksu to a defensive line at Maral Bashi. On the 23rd celebrations were held at Kashgar to mark Jin handing Ma Shadowu the new title of Special Commissioner for the Suppression of Bandits. During the celebration, salutes were fired at the yamen and KMT flags were flown from buildings throughout the city. Afterwards all of Liu's forces were sent to Maral Bashi to bolster Yang.  Now in a bid to suppress the uprisings at Surghak and KaraKash before a full scale uprising could develop on the southern road, 200 men led by Colonel Li were dispatched to Khotan, while another force under Colonel Chin was dispatched to Yarkland. Because of these movements of troops to Khotan and Maral Bashi, there was a serious depletion of defenders for Kashgar. Thus Ma Shaowu ordered a raising of Kirghiz levies and recalled some Chinese troops from the frontier districts west of Kashgar. Thus the Chinese garrison at Sarikol pulled out to Kashgar, leaving the region's Tajik population to their own devices. At Kashgar, troops posted on the walls of both cities had strict orders to close all gates at 7pm, with major curfew laws set into place.Despite all of this the provincial troops proved very inept at stemming the rebel advance along both the north and south roads into Kashgar. On the 25th, the rebels entered Aksu Old City, shooting up all its Chinese residents, seized their property, stormed the arsenal and looted the treasury. Later on Ma Changzeng and Temur led an estimated 4700 ill armed Uyghur irregular army to advance on Maral Bashi and Kashgar.  In the Keriya, the Chinese officials consented to convert to Islam and to surrender their possessions; however, on March 3, thirty-five Chinese individuals, including top officials, were executed, with their heads displayed in the marketplace. On February 28, the Old City of Khotan fell into the hands of rebels with little resistance, while the New City of Khotan was besieged before capitulating to the insurgents on March 16th. Following the rebel successes in Khotan, it was reported that 266 Han Chinese converted to Islam, and both the treasury and arsenal of the New City—containing "thousands of weapons and nearly a ton of gold"—were seized by the insurgents. Additionally, uprisings led by a Uighur named ‘Abd ai-Qadir took place in Chira, and in Shamba Bazaar, several Han Chinese and two Hindu moneylenders were killed. Further afield from Keriya, the town of Niya succumbed to the rebel forces from Khotan, while even farther east, at the isolated oases of Charchan and Charkhlik, reports indicate that peaceful insurrections occurred after a small Tungan contingent loyal to Ma Shih-ming entered the region via a little-used desert route connecting Kara Shahr and Lop. Meanwhile, to the west of Khotan, Uighur forces under Isma'il Khan Khoja obstructed the main route to Yarkand at the Tokhta Langar caravanserai, repelling all but two delegates sent from Kashgar by Ma Shao-wu, who aimed to negotiate with the rebel leaders in Khotan. No further news was received from the two Begs allowed to continue to Khotan, and with their diplomatic mission's failure, the entire southern route from the eastern outskirts of the Guma oasis to the distant Lop Nor fell out of Chinese control. To fortify their position against potential counterattacks from Kashgar, the rebel leaders in Khotan destroyed roadside wells in the desert east of Guma and began establishing a clearly Islamic governance in the areas they had liberated. By mid March, Ma Shaowu's control over southern Xinjiang was limited to just a wedge of territory around Kashgar, Maral Bashi and Yarkland. Moral was so low, Ma Shaowu asked the British Indian government for military assistance as it seemed apparent no help would come from Urumqi. Ma Shaowu had received 3 telegrams from Jin via the USSR lines; the first confirmed his position as Commander in Chief; the second relayed Jin's brothers death and the third directed Jin Kashgar representatives to remit a large sum of money to his personal bank account in Tientsin. That last signal must have been a banger to read. I would like to take this time to remind you all that this podcast is only made possible through the efforts of Kings and Generals over at Youtube. Please go subscribe to Kings and Generals over at Youtube and to continue helping us produce this content please check out www.patreon.com/kingsandgenerals. If you are still hungry after that, give my personal channel a look over at The Pacific War Channel at Youtube, it would mean a lot to me. The Kumul Rebellion quicked off a storm of different groups' grievances and Jin Shujen did a banger job of pissing off…pretty much every single group. In the southern portions of Xinjiang massive uprisings began and it seemed a tidal wave would hit the entire province.  

Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day for January 2, 2025 is: potpourri • poh-pur-REE • noun Potpourri is a mixture of dried flower petals, leaves, and spices that is used to make a room smell pleasant. When used figuratively potpourri refers to a collection of various different things. // Her favorite winter potpourri includes cinnamon sticks, cloves, and orange peel. // The book is a potpourri of stories about family, community, and food. See the entry > Examples: “The windows here are festooned with a potpourri of book jackets, portraits of Ataturk cheek by jowl with Turkey's great poet of opposition, Nâzım Hikmet, and stars of Yeşilçam, the populist Turkish cinema of days gone by.” — Barry Yourgrau, LitHub.com, 15 Feb. 2023 Did you know? Some people delight in the scent of potpourri, and others find it cloying. Happily, this word manages to contain elements which will make each of these groups feel that their preferences are linguistically supported. Potpourri is used today to refer literally to a fragrant mixture of flowers, herbs, etc., and figuratively to a miscellaneous collection, or medley, of things. But potpourri first referred to a kind of stew of meat and vegetables, usually including sausage and chickpeas. It was borrowed from French, where pot pourri translates directly as “putrid pot”; the French word was a translation of the Spanish olla podrida, which likewise means “rotten pot.” We don't know why both the Spanish and the French gave their stews such unappetizing names, although it has been suggested that the Spanish method of slowly cooking this dish over a fire may have had something to do with it. Regardless, after referring solely to stew for its first hundred and some-odd years, potpourri began to be used for an aromatic blend of dried flowers in the middle of the 18th century, and within the next hundred years was being applied to mixtures and collections of all kinds of things.

Fin de semana de viaje y cultura en "Un buen día para viajar" en este puente festivo, y hoy sábado 7 de diciembre las horas más viajeras de Rpa con sabios como Sara Moro que desde el Bellas Artes nos habla de dos obras que ahora están en la Galería de las Colecciones Reales de Madrid, las infantas hijas de Felipe V e Isabel de Farnesio, María Teresa y María Antonia de Borbón, del gran pintor Van Loo…seguimos a continuación nuestro viaje en la sección de caminería con Víctor Guerra, hablando de cementerios especiales de Asturias, en esta ocasión dos del concejo de Valdés, el impresionante de Luarca y el curiosísimo de Barcia…Francisco Borge culmina la primera hora con una visión exhaustiva y profunda de aquel Oviedo en el periodo del rey Alfonso III…segunda hora magnífica que iniciamos con Javier Biosca que es jefe de sección en internacional de elDiario.es doble grado en periodismo y relaciones internacionales y especializado en geopolítica y seguridad internacional que nos llevará a Turquía desde los tiempos de Ataturk hasta la actual de Erdogan con historias de espionaje y secuestros que os sorprenderán…y cierre de tinte arqueológico con un tema poco conocido, la importancia de la paleogenética en la arqueología y la trascendencia que está teniendo el yacimiento de La Cerrosa en Peñamellera Baja en este ámbito científico, nos lo cuenta Íñigo Olalde licenciado en Biología y Doctor en Paleogenómica por la Universidad Pompeu Fabra…dos horas estupendas de viaje radiofónico en Rpa

Fin de semana de viaje y cultura en "Un buen día para viajar" en este puente festivo, y hoy sábado 7 de diciembre las horas más viajeras de Rpa con sabios como Sara Moro que desde el Bellas Artes nos habla de dos obras que ahora están en la Galería de las Colecciones Reales de Madrid, las infantas hijas de Felipe V e Isabel de Farnesio, María Teresa y María Antonia de Borbón, del gran pintor Van Loo…seguimos a continuación nuestro viaje en la sección de caminería con Víctor Guerra, hablando de cementerios especiales de Asturias, en esta ocasión dos del concejo de Valdés, el impresionante de Luarca y el curiosísimo de Barcia…Francisco Borge culmina la primera hora con una visión exhaustiva y profunda de aquel Oviedo en el periodo del rey Alfonso III…segunda hora magnífica que iniciamos con Javier Biosca que es jefe de sección en internacional de elDiario.es doble grado en periodismo y relaciones internacionales y especializado en geopolítica y seguridad internacional que nos llevará a Turquía desde los tiempos de Ataturk hasta la actual de Erdogan con historias de espionaje y secuestros que os sorprenderán…y cierre de tinte arqueológico con un tema poco conocido, la importancia de la paleogenética en la arqueología y la trascendencia que está teniendo el yacimiento de La Cerrosa en Peñamellera Baja en este ámbito científico, nos lo cuenta Íñigo Olalde licenciado en Biología y Doctor en Paleogenómica por la Universidad Pompeu Fabra…dos horas estupendas de viaje radiofónico en Rpa

The sudden ascent of Mohammed bin Salman from an obscure royal heir to the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia — the country's de facto ruler — has fascinated Jonathan Rugman, an author and longtime correspondent in the Middle East. Jonathan's latest BBC documentary, “The Kingdom,” traces MBS's life from an unruly youth to a series of Machiavellian maneuvers to cut ahead of cousins and uncles in the line of royal succession. Jonathan's reporting illuminates a brash but secretive young autocrat whose wealth and power have few equals anywhere on the planet. After years of high-profile murder, jailings, and crackdowns, a formidable question remains: What more does MBS want? Jonathan Rugman is a Visiting Lecturer in the journalism department at City, University of London, who has reported from some 50 countries during his 30-year journalism career. He is the author of “Ataturk's Children – Turkey and the Kurds” and “The Killing in the Consulate,” in which he investigated the murder of the Saudi journalist Jamal Khashoggi. His numerous awards include a BAFTA for his coverage of the Paris terror attacks of 2015.

On the 1st September 1922 the Turkish Parliament in the new capital of Ankara formally abolished the Sultanate, so ending more than 600 years of Ottoman Rule. The Ottoman Empire had ended, but in its place came the Republic of Turkey, under the leadership of Mustafa Kemal Pasha also known as Ataturk. Today we discuss the fall of the Ottoman Empire and the rise of Turkey with historian Murat Siviloglu and journalist and author Alec Marsh. Alec's new book, After the Flood, is a thriller set in the new state of Turkey in the 1930s and Murat is a historian of the period. Alec Marsh Links After the Flood Alec on X Aspects of History Links Latest Issue out - Annual Subscription to Aspects of History Magazine only $9.99/£9.99 Ollie on X Aspects of History on Instagram Check out Badlands Ranch: badlandsranch.com/AOH Get in touch: history@aspectsofhistory.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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TESTO DELL'ARTICOLO ➜ https://www.bastabugie.it/it/articoli.php?id=7723LA TERRIBILE STORIA DIMENTICATA DEI FRANCESCANI MARTIRIZZATI DAI MUSULMANI di Rino CammilleriOggi voglio ricordare i sette francescani, e non solo loro, che nel 1920 vennero martirizzati dai musulmani. Nel 1920,dunque dopo la fine della Grande Guerra, dopo i trattati di pace, dopo che Kemal Ataturk aveva respinto i Greci e salvato la Turchia. Che, lo ricordiamo, era stata alleata degli sconfitti Imperi centrali.Il genocidio del popolo armeno - il primo, nella storia, a convertirsi al cristianesimo - era stato completato da un pezzo, i turchi, stretti tra i Bolscevichi di Lenin a nord e le potenze occidentali, soprattutto Inghilterra e Francia, che si spartirono il loro ex impero, dopo aver orribilmente incendiato Salonicco (la più ricca delle loro città, ma ricca grazie a greci e armeni), visto che Ataturk intendeva modernizzare il suo popolo vietando fez, veli e barbe per dare un sterzata laica alla vita turca (ben rendendosi conto che la causa dell'arretratezza stava proprio nella religione), avrebbero potuto smetterla con le scimitarre e l'uccisione inutile e insensata dei cristiani. Invece no. Ecco la storia che andiamo a raccontare.Alla fine del 1919 tre francescani, due  italiani e un ungherese, vennero assegnati dalla Custodia della Terra Santa a Mugiukderest, in Armenia. Erano padre Francesco De Vittorio (38 anni), fratel Alfredo Dolentz (67), austriaco, e fratel Salvatore Sabatini (45). La missione era completamente distrutta e ora, a guerra finita, la Custodia intendeva ripristinarla in qualche modo. Provvisti di denaro, i tre riuscirono a farvi affluire le famiglie superstiti e a radunare la trentina di bambini rimasti orfani. Sotto la loro direzione si cominciò a riattare qualche casa e, soprattutto, a impiantare un orfanotrofio per quei bambini abbandonati che chissà come erano riusciti a scappare al genocidio. I tre frati erano tutto: medici, farmacisti, vivandieri, maestri, padri. Ma nel gennaio del 1920 ricominciò l'incubo: la notizia che i massacri di cristiani erano ripresi giunse fino alla missione e quei poveri disgraziati, la cui sfortuna non sembrava aver mai fine, presero a disperarsi. Dove altro sarebbero potuti andare? Ora che avevano riguadagnato un minimo di tranquillità, pur nella miseria, bisognava di nuovo scappare?UN INVITO A CENALeggo in una vecchia news del Centro studi Giuseppe Federici che ai tre frati, in pensiero per i loro orfanelli, si presentò uno del posto, un musulmano di cui avevano fatto la  conoscenza e che si era comportato sempre amabilmente con loro. Ne conosciamo il nome: Leuimen Oglu Alì. Aveva una grande casa e si  offrì di ospitare i missionari e tutti gli orfanelli. Anzi, poiché c'era ancora posto, poteva accogliere anche tutti i pochi cristiani del luogo. E arrivò a mettere a disposizione alcuni locali per gli oggetti, le cose care che ognuno avesse ritenuto di portare con sé. Cominciò così il trasloco. In quella nuova casa sarebbero stati al sicuro, così aveva garantito loro l'anfitrione. Anche se si fosse scatenato il pogrom, lui li avrebbe protetti, perché nessuno avrebbe osato violare la casa di un notabile musulmano. Erano a cena, gentilmente offerta dal loro ospite, quando i tre frati sentirono colpi di fucile provenienti dalla strada. D'istinto si alzarono da tavola per sbirciare dalle finestre, ma a quel punto Leuimen Oglu Alì gettò la maschera. Estratta una pistola, mentre i tre gli davano le spalle li freddò con pochi colpi, poi andò ad aprire il portone di quelli fuori, con cui era d'accordo. Dei cristiani e orfanelli non ne rimase vivo neppure uno. Poi la banda di assassini andò a saccheggiare la chiesa, l'orfanotrofio e le case delle vittime, completando l'opera con un bel falò di tutto. Tutto questo accadde il 23 gennaio 1920.CHIESA BRUCIATAPadre Alberto Amarisse, 46 anni, era superiore alla missione di Jenige-Rale. Negli stessi giorni i turchi invasero l'Armenia e uccisero lui e tutti gli altri cristiani. Padre Stefano Jalincatjan, 51 anni, armeno, era superiore alla missione Donkalè. Scappato all'ora dalle guerra, era tornato per riunire i superstiti e cercare di ricostruire quanto era stato distrutto. Ma il 23 gennaio 1920 i turchi tornarono. Capeggiati da tal Naggiar Mustafà, si avventarono nel villaggio e presero a incendiare tutto. I cristiani si rifugiarono in chiesa e, nella missione, mentre i turchi li calpestavano di fucilate. Ma prevalse l'opinione di risparmiare munizioni, visto che quelli si erano barricati. Così, mano alla benzina, diedero fuoco a tutto e arrostirono gli sventurati, missionario compreso. Al giovane fratel Giuseppe Achillian, 25 anni e armeno pure lui, andò meglio. Nel senso che non morì ammazzato. Invasa l'Armenia, ricominciarono le marcie forzate della popolazione cristiana. Molti morirono di stenti e fatica. Lui, il più giovane e in forze, partito il 23 gennaio, resistette fino al 15 del mese successivo. Ma, arrivato ad Adana, schiantò per lo strapazzo. E, se questa fu la sorte, figurarsi quella di donne, vecchi e bambini. L'italiano padre Leonardo Bellucci, 39 anni, dopo il servizio militare (il clero italiano non era ancora esentato, lo sarà con Mussolini), finita la guerra fu assegnata alla missione di Aleppo come economo e insegnante nel collegio che i francescani avevano là. Stava recandosi a Gerusalemme in treno quando, alla stazione di Kherbet el- Ghazi, un gruppo di beduini armati lo costrinse a scendere. Venne freddato sul posto a colpi di fucile. E, non contenti ne impalarono il cadavere. Allah è grande. Forse Abramo sbagliò a mettere incinta Agar...

As we limber up for next week's new episode about the great Una Marson, join us for this exclusive bonus about her international work. We know Una now as the voice and face of the BBC's wartime 'Caribbean Voices' but she was so much more, representing women of colour at major international conferences and working with world leaders like Haile Selassie and Ataturk.Next week, there's more exclusive material about Una's time in Jamaica in the 1930s before we launch the full episode on Thursday.

Met de stichting van de moderne Turkse staat heeft Ataturk ook het muziekonderwijs willen hervormen. Daartoe werden in de jaren dertig Paul Hindemith en Béla Bartók uitgenodigd de Turkse staat van advies te dienen. Bartók concentreerde zich daarbij vooral op het volksmuziekonderzoek. De weerslag daarvan is tot op de dag van vandaag in veel Turkse […]

PREVIEW: From a two hour interview about the withdrawal from Afghanistan, August 2021, Author Jerry Duleavy analyzes the consequences of abandoning Bagram airbase fr the airport in central Kabul.   https://www.amazon.com/Kabul-Untold-Bidens-American-Warriors/dp/1546005307/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701296521&sr=1-1 1928, Ataturk with the King of Afghanistan

The Father of All Turks, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk was a revolutionary, a hardcore military commander, a bulwark against Fascism, a reformer, a humanitarian, and a man who worked to rebuild bridges with the peoples he had warred against. The United Nations declared him a humanitarian hero, the Australians built a statue for him even though he'd fought against them in war, and it's actually illegal in Turkiye to say anything bad about him in public. Not just anybody gets that sort of treatment.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Alors Premier ministre, David Cameron avait été à l'origine du vote sur le Brexit, même si lui-même militait pour le maintien du Royaume-Uni au sein de l'Union Européenne. David Cameron est de retour, cette fois au poste de ministre des Affaires Étrangères du Royaume-Uni. Un retour qui a été accueilli avec beaucoup de politesse et de pragmatisme à défaut d'enthousiasme à Bruxelles, la capitale européenne. Les précisions de Jean-Jacques Hery.  En Italie, dormir sous une tente, dans la rue, pour témoigner du mal logementEn Italie, les étudiants ont lancé un vaste mouvement de protestation contre l'explosion des loyers dans les grandes villes et pour réclamer plus d'appartements, plus de chambres à louer, comme à Rome, Blandine Hugonnet.    Le Parlement polonais change de visageEn Pologne, la nouvelle Assemblée vient de commencer son travail, et la nouvelle majorité qui a battu le camp des nationalistes conservateurs du PiS, se met à l'ouvrage pour donner un nouveau cap au pays, avec dès maintenant au programme, des dossiers importants. Martin Chabal. L'Albanie, bonne élève du camp occidentalIl y a un peu plus de 30 ans, l'Albanie était considérée comme la « Corée du Nord de l'Europe », un pays totalitaire, isolé du reste du continent. Aujourd'hui, renversement de l'histoire, le pays est devenu le pôle pro-occidental des Balkans. Si le processus d'intégration est relancé depuis l'an dernier (2022), la jeunesse albanaise, l'une des plus europhiles du continent, s'impatiente et attend des résultats concrets. Reportage à Tirana de Louis Seiller. Turquie : Özgür Özel, nouveau président du CHPEn Turquie, l'opposition se réorganise après sa défaite aux élections. Les partisans du CHP, le parti républicain du peuple, ont décidé de changer de cap en choisissant un nouveau président, Özgür Özel. Ce député de 49 ans, inconnu sur la scène internationale et à peine plus sur la scène politique turque, a désormais la tâche de redonner un nouvel élan à ce parti formé par le père de la République turque, Ataturk. Romain Lemaresquier.

: Kate Adie presents stories from Israel, Turkey, Switzerland, DRC and Indonesia Four weeks on from Hamas' deadly attack in Israel, details continue to emerge about the killing spree. Israelis are wrestling with the impact and the consequences - and the release by Hamas of a hostage video this week has added pressure on Benjamin Netanyahu to secure their release. Paul Adams finds there's a pervasive sense of insecurity in the streets of Jerusalem, with violent incidents puncturing any veneer of calm. Victoria Craig spoke to people at a rally in Istanbul's Ataturk airport, where the Turkish President was vocal in his support for Hamas and unflinching in his criticism of Israel's offensive in Gaza. She reflects on how far this is a step change in Turkey's relationship with Israel. It's Peace Week in Geneva. Diplomats, aid workers and academics gather annually here to discuss ways to achieve peace. This year, as conflict rages in the Middle East and beyond, some are asking whether international organisations – and international law, are losing their relevance, says Imogen Foulkes. The east of the Democratic Republic of Congo is a region which has endured multiple crises – with many still unfolding. Hugh Kinsella Cunningham tracked the Congolese military as it tackled the most pressing challenge of fighting the rebel group, M23. Since Russia invaded Ukraine last year, millions of Ukrainians have fled their homes; they're internally displaced or finding refuge in neighbouring countries. And some have taken longer-haul journeys to the other side of the world. Michelle Jana Chan discovered the Ukrainian community on the Indonesian island of Bali. Series Producer: Serena Tarling Editor: Bridget Harney Production Coordinator: Gemma Ashman

Turkey marked its 100th year as a republic on October 29th, and Turks have been debating the country's evolution and how it measures up to the vision of the deeply secular Kemal Ataturk. While celebrations focused on the previous 100 years, it is also clear that President Erdogan's ambition is to usher in another century forged more in his own image. Ryan Gingeras, a professor in the Department of National Security Affairs at the Naval Postgraduate School and an expert on Turkish, Balkan, and Middle East history, joins Thanos Davelis to discuss this centenary and its broader implications, both within and outside Turkey.You can read the articles we discuss on our podcast here:Erdogan's dreams of eclipsing Ataturk unfulfilled as Turkish republic turns 100Turkey's path of no return, away from the WestEclipsing Turkey's centenary, Erdogan tells pro-Palestinian rally: Israel is occupierPM Mitsotakis meets with SYRIZA leader Kasselakis in first encounterCyprus plans to send humanitarian aid directly to Gaza by ship, where UN personnel would receive it

Paul Cohen was born in the Netherlands and lived in Israel before moving to Australia years ago. He and his wife (whom he met in Israel) are very involved in the subject of Jews and Jesus and Israel. His perspectives include a desire for peace and sitting down to honestly talk about issues. His irenic nature unfolds clearly in this 3rd of 5 episodes on the subject of the Israel/ Hamas war. The historical marker includes the establishment of the Republic of Turkey (now Turkeye) by Ataturk,  the famous Black Tuesday in the US, and the invasion by Israel in the Sinai peninsula in 1956. Support the showThanks for listening. Please share the pod with your mates, and feel free to comment right here! Write to Bob on his email -- bobmendo@AOL.comLink to https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100078996765315 on Facebook. Bobs Your Uncle features the opinions of Bob Mendelsohn and any of his guests.To financially support the podcast, go to the Patreon site and choose Gold, Silver or Bronze levels. Thanks for that! https://www.patreon.com/BobsYourUncle To read Bob's 1999 autobiography, click this link https://bit.ly/StoryBob To see photos of any of Bob's guests, they are all on an album on his Flickr site click here: https://www.flickr.com/photos/bobmendo/albums/72177720296857670

"Authority, without any condition and reservation, belongs to the nation." A military commander named Mustafa Kemal uttered these words in 1923, on the eve of the founding of the Republic of Turkey. He would later rename himself Ataturk, "Father of the Turks." And he was outlining a vision for the future: a future where old empires were buried and new nations reigned supreme. That vision would resonate beyond the borders of the new Turkey, becoming a shining example for leaders around the world of how to build a single unified national identity — no matter the cost.

Best-selling author and renown geopolitical analyst Robert D. Kaplan discusses his new book "The Loom of Time: Between Empire and Anarchy, from the Mediterranean to China". Empire has worked to stave off anarchy in the Middle East and it's the first time in memory where there is no imperial authority in the Greater Middle East. China has been doing a lot in the Middle East and it's ambitions are economic, military, diplomatic, cultural, etc. In his book he does deep dive on countries in the region where he speaks to political elites. We discuss Turkey and how Erdogan has been the most influential leader since Ataturk, moving the country back toward Islam. He also provides insights on Egypt and Saudi Arabia and China's vie for the World Island. Watch On BitChute / Brighteon / Rokfin / Rumble / PentagonTube Geopolitics & Empire · Robert Kaplan: China Seeks World Island as Middle East Forges New Architecture #382 *Support Geopolitics & Empire! Become a Member https://geopoliticsandempire.substack.comDonate https://geopoliticsandempire.com/donationsConsult https://geopoliticsandempire.com/consultation **Visit Our Affiliates & Sponsors! Above Phone https://abovephone.com/?above=geopoliticseasyDNS (use code GEOPOLITICS for 15% off!) https://easydns.comEscape The Technocracy course (15% discount using link) https://escapethetechnocracy.com/geopoliticsPassVult https://passvult.comSociatates Civis (CitizenHR, CitizenIT, CitizenPL) https://societates-civis.comWise Wolf Gold https://www.wolfpack.gold/?ref=geopolitics Websites Robert D. Kaplan https://robertdkaplan.com The Loom of Time https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/672341/the-loom-of-time-by-robert-d-kaplan About Robert D. Kaplan ROBERT D. KAPLAN is the bestselling author of twenty-two books on foreign affairs and travel translated into many languages, including The Loom of Time, The Tragic Mind, Adriatic, The Good American, The Coming Anarchy, Balkan Ghosts, Asia's Cauldron, and The Revenge of Geography. He holds the Robert Strausz-Hupé Chair in Geopolitics at the Foreign Policy Research Institute. For three decades he reported on foreign affairs for The Atlantic. A senior adviser at Eurasia Group, he was chief geopolitical analyst at Stratfor, a visiting professor at the United States Naval Academy, a senior fellow at the Center for a New American Security, and a member of both the Pentagon's Defense Policy Board and the U. S. Navy's Executive Panel. Foreign Policy magazine twice named him one of the world's “Top 100 Global Thinkers.” *Podcast intro music is from the song "The Queens Jig" by "Musicke & Mirth" from their album "Music for Two Lyra Viols": http://musicke-mirth.de/en/recordings.html (available on iTunes or Amazon)

A new movement is underway in Greece, and is taking place on its beaches in the middle of the tourist season. Citizens on a number of popular islands have been mobilizing to reclaim their beaches from private businesses, a number of which have illegally covered the seafront with umbrellas and sunbeds. These demonstrations are already starting to have an impact, with the so-called “beach towel movement” not only raising questions about the sustainability of the current tourism model in Greece, but also taking on a political dimension. Nick Malkoutzis, the co-founder and editor of Macropolis.gr, a political and economic analysis site that focuses on Greece, joins Thanos Davelis to discuss the “beach towel movement” and its broader impact. You can read the articles we discuss on our podcast here:Government cracks down on sun lounger sprawl as public mood towards tourism soursThe spread of rented lounge chairs on Greece's beaches brings a pledge to increase inspectionsPM announces high-level cooperation council with EgyptTurkey fumes as Disney axes founding father series after Armenian outcryTurkey investigates reported cancellation of Disney Plus series on Ataturk

Steun ons op: https://ikgaleven.backme.org Telegram groep: https://t.me/+GfCzzTOU-kkxZmRk Lale Gül: https://instagram.com/laaalegul/ Ömer Uyar: https://instagram.com/omer_34/ Instagram: https://instagram.com/ikgalevenpodcast/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/ikgaleven TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@ikgalevenpodcast

Niente da fare, anche stavolta. Come nel 2005 per il Milan, vittima della clamorosa rimonta del Liverpool, anche quest'anno Istanbul è stata amara per la squadra italiana, in questo caso l'Inter, impegnata nella finale di Champions tra il Bosforo e i Dardanelli. La coppa dalle Grandi Orecchie va ancora a un club inglese, il Manchester City, al primo successo della sua storia nella competizione. Ma che eredità lascia questa sfida a un città che è ponte tra Europa e Asia, e cuore di una Turchia che anche attraverso l'organizzazione dei grandi eventi sportivi si sta sedendo ai tavoli che contano della politica internazionale? Dario Ricci ce lo racconta camminando tra lo stadio Ataturk e la Moschea Blu, le cisterne sotterranee e la Torre di Galata.

*) Palestinians protesting 'Flag March' face Israeli fire Israeli forces have fired tear gas and live bullets at Palestinians in occupied Gaza as they protested against a "flag march" in occupied Jerusalem. One Gaza resident was wounded in the protests against the annual event marking Israel's capture of Jerusalem in the 1967 war. Thousands of illegal Israeli settlers and far-right Israelis had gathered in occupied East Jerusalem, raising racist chants against Arabs and also storming Al Aqsa Mosque compound. *) Pakistan police outside Imran Khan's house Pakistani police have kept up their presence around the home of former prime minister Imran Khan as a deadline to hand over suspects allegedly sheltered inside expired. The siege and the authorities' demand for the suspects, wanted in violent protests over Khan's recent detention, have raised fears of renewed clashes. Khan had demanded a probe into the violence, but denied his supporters were behind it, instead accusing Pakistan's ruling party of trying to foment trouble between his supporters and the army. *) China unveils Central Asia development plan China's President Xi Jinping has unveiled an ambitious plan to help further modernise and develop Central Asia in an address at the China-Central Asia Summit. Xi said China stands ready to synergise development strategies with the five Central Asian nations of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan. He also urged the six countries to oppose external interference in their internal affairs and maintain a zero-tolerance stance against separatism and extremism. *) Scores killed in central Nigeria clashes More than 3,000 people have been displaced in central Nigeria after 85 people were killed in clashes between herders and farmers. The violence erupted on May 15th in several villages of Plateau State, an area which has struggled with ethnic and religious tensions for years. It was unclear what triggered this week's attacks in Mangu district, but tit-for-tat killings between herders and farmers often spiral into village raids by heavily armed gangs. And finally… *) Türkiye marks Commemoration of Ataturk, Youth and Sports Day Türkiye celebrates the 104th anniversary of the Commemoration of Ataturk, Youth and Sports Day, a milestone marking the beginning of the country's War of Independence. 19 May 1919 was the day when Türkiye's founder Mustafa Kemal Ataturk arrived in the Black Sea city of Samsun to launch the war that transformed the Turkish republic. The national holiday, dedicated to the Turkish youth by Ataturk, sees youth take part in sporting and cultural activities with official ceremonies across the country.

En este episodio: un viaje por la Turquia Moderna, en el centenario de su fundación; analizamos las 2 principales figuras que han marcado a Turquia durante estos 100 años, Ataturk y Erdogan; El 14 de mayo se conmemora el 75 aniversario de la Fundación Estado de Israel, un poco de la historia detrás de su fundación; por otro lado, Siria ha vuelto al club de los chicos cool de Medio Oriente; Sudafrica molesta con las expresiones del embajador americano y más

Todays guest is Lee Peltier - Lee is a former Liverpool academy graduate, who has gone on to make over 500 appearances in the professional game. We discussed: Playing at the Ataturk stadium in the Champions League The time 'The King' bounced a ball off Benitez's head in training Lee's incident at HT for Leeds when he bounced a boot off Brian McDermott TAA and where Lee see's his position in the future Training with the man himself, Steven Gerrard. It was an absolute pleasure to have Lee on the podcast, he's a top lad who has a huge decision to make in the summer in regards to staying in the game or finishing on a high with Rotherham... Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

He's the most powerful leader since Ataturk founded the modern Turkish republic a century ago. After three stints as prime minister, the highly divisive and populist Recep Tayyip Erdogan is seeking a third consecutive term as president in Sunday's elections. A champion of religious piety and low interest rates, his popularity has been hit by a cost-of-living crisis caused by rampant inflation. In this special edition, we take a closer look and speak to Deniz Yonucu from Newcastle University about how Erdogan has become more divisive over time. We also hear from our correspondent Shona Bhattacharyya about why conservative women appear to be losing enthusiasm for the incumbent. Finally, we take a look at Erdogan's main rival, Kemal Kilicdaroglu.

In deze aflevering gaan we terug in de tijd. Honderd jaar geleden werd de Turkse republiek gesticht door Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, de vader van de Turken. Hij is een ideologisch voorbeeld voor velen, een cultfiguur voor sommigen, én de laatste jaren ook een symbool voor oppositie tegen de conservatieve koers van de huidige regering onder leiding van Erdogan. Er wordt wel eens gezegd dat Ataturk, misschien wel Erdogan's grootste rivaal is. Ook al is ie al 84 jaar dood. Waarom speelt Ataturk nu nog zo'n grote rol in Turkije? En hoe verhoudt Erdogan zich tot hem? In de vijfdelige serie "Erdogan: de naschok" neemt NOS Turkije-correspondent Mitra Nazar je mee naar een land onder hoogspanning. Een land verzonken in rouw, angst en onzekerheid. En waar voor het eerst een scenario mogelijk is waarin Erdogan van het toneel verdwijnt. Presentatie, redactie en montage: Mitra Nazar Eindmixage: Homam Alakkad Eindredactie: Lars Hulshof

How did Ataturk view the Ottomans? What is the status of the Ottoman Empire today? Who was Gertrude Bell? And how did Ottomans wear such big turbans? Listen as William and Anita answer your questions in our end of series Q&A. LRB Empire offer: lrb.me/empire This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/empirepod. Twitter: @Empirepoduk Goalhangerpodcasts.com Producer: Callum Hill Exec Producer: Jack Davenport Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Greeks are retreating to Smyrna in the face of Ataturk's victory. The city, once one of the jewels of the Ottoman kingdom, is set to face devastation hitherto unknown. William and Anita are once again joined by Giles Milton as they discuss the catastrophe that occurred in Smyrna in 1922 and the central role this played in the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. To hear Giles' podcast - Cover Up: Ministry of Secrets - on the great unsolved Cold War mystery of Lionel 'Buster' Crabb, follow this link: https://listen.sonymusic-podcasts.link/p-nDsNzN LRB Empire offer: lrb.me/empire This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/empirepod. Twitter: @Empirepoduk Goalhangerpodcasts.com Producer: Callum Hill Exec Producer: Jack Davenport Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The First World War is over. There is unrest across Anatolia, exacerbated by the Greek invasion coming through Smyrna. Turkish forces are swelling to fight back against the Greeks, and at their head... Mustafa Kemal. Otherwise known as Ataturk. Join William and Anita this week as they are twice joined by Giles Milton to discuss the events of Smyrna in 1922 and the rise of Ataturk. LRB Empire offer: lrb.me/empire This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/empirepod. Twitter: @Empirepoduk Goalhangerpodcasts.com Producer: Callum Hill Exec Producer: Jack Davenport Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

In this episode, Alaattin Kilic and Cameron Deggin are talking about the upcoming Istanbul National Park project as part of the Green Regeneration vision, as well as the investment opportunities available around The New Istanbul National Park. (00:00) Introduction (00:18) Istanbul National Park Project (01:33) The investment opportunities available around The New Istanbul National Park (02:15) Sefaköy Area (02:25) Sinpaş Boulevard Project (03:10) Construction work has begun at Ataturk Airport (03:53) Time to invest! (05:34) Istanbul Financial Centre (06:30) A similar is about to happen next to Ataturk Airport!Reach us at:Whatsapp: wa.me/908505325195 |Website: www.propertyturkey.com |Instagram: www.instagram.com/propertyturkeycom |YouTube: www.youtube.com/PropertyTurkeyCom

Reccep Tayyib Erdogan is towering politician. He has dominated Turkey for 20 years and is now being compared to Ataturk as a man who has changed the direction of Turkish society. And he matters not only to Turkey but to the international community more generally partly because of Turkey's geo-strategic position but also because he has the power to influence the future direction of political Islam - so what has he done, what does it signify and is he fearful of being imprisoned if he lost power? Owen Bennett-Jones discusses Erdogan with Dimitar Bechev who has studied the man for his book Turkey Under Erdogan: How a Country Turned from Democracy and the West (Yale University Press, 2022). Owen Bennett-Jones is a freelance journalist and writer. A former BBC correspondent and presenter he has been a resident foreign correspondent in Bucharest, Geneva, Islamabad, Hanoi and Beirut. He is recently wrote a history of the Bhutto dynasty which was published by Yale University Press. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/new-books-network

Reccep Tayyib Erdogan is towering politician. He has dominated Turkey for 20 years and is now being compared to Ataturk as a man who has changed the direction of Turkish society. And he matters not only to Turkey but to the international community more generally partly because of Turkey's geo-strategic position but also because he has the power to influence the future direction of political Islam - so what has he done, what does it signify and is he fearful of being imprisoned if he lost power? Owen Bennett-Jones discusses Erdogan with Dimitar Bechev who has studied the man for his book Turkey Under Erdogan: How a Country Turned from Democracy and the West (Yale University Press, 2022). Owen Bennett-Jones is a freelance journalist and writer. A former BBC correspondent and presenter he has been a resident foreign correspondent in Bucharest, Geneva, Islamabad, Hanoi and Beirut. He is recently wrote a history of the Bhutto dynasty which was published by Yale University Press. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/history

Reccep Tayyib Erdogan is towering politician. He has dominated Turkey for 20 years and is now being compared to Ataturk as a man who has changed the direction of Turkish society. And he matters not only to Turkey but to the international community more generally partly because of Turkey's geo-strategic position but also because he has the power to influence the future direction of political Islam - so what has he done, what does it signify and is he fearful of being imprisoned if he lost power? Owen Bennett-Jones discusses Erdogan with Dimitar Bechev who has studied the man for his book Turkey Under Erdogan: How a Country Turned from Democracy and the West (Yale University Press, 2022). Owen Bennett-Jones is a freelance journalist and writer. A former BBC correspondent and presenter he has been a resident foreign correspondent in Bucharest, Geneva, Islamabad, Hanoi and Beirut. He is recently wrote a history of the Bhutto dynasty which was published by Yale University Press. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/political-science

Reccep Tayyib Erdogan is towering politician. He has dominated Turkey for 20 years and is now being compared to Ataturk as a man who has changed the direction of Turkish society. And he matters not only to Turkey but to the international community more generally partly because of Turkey's geo-strategic position but also because he has the power to influence the future direction of political Islam - so what has he done, what does it signify and is he fearful of being imprisoned if he lost power? Owen Bennett-Jones discusses Erdogan with Dimitar Bechev who has studied the man for his book Turkey Under Erdogan: How a Country Turned from Democracy and the West (Yale University Press, 2022). Owen Bennett-Jones is a freelance journalist and writer. A former BBC correspondent and presenter he has been a resident foreign correspondent in Bucharest, Geneva, Islamabad, Hanoi and Beirut. He is recently wrote a history of the Bhutto dynasty which was published by Yale University Press. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/middle-eastern-studies

Reccep Tayyib Erdogan is towering politician. He has dominated Turkey for 20 years and is now being compared to Ataturk as a man who has changed the direction of Turkish society. And he matters not only to Turkey but to the international community more generally partly because of Turkey's geo-strategic position but also because he has the power to influence the future direction of political Islam - so what has he done, what does it signify and is he fearful of being imprisoned if he lost power? Owen Bennett-Jones discusses Erdogan with Dimitar Bechev who has studied the man for his book Turkey Under Erdogan: How a Country Turned from Democracy and the West (Yale University Press, 2022). Owen Bennett-Jones is a freelance journalist and writer. A former BBC correspondent and presenter he has been a resident foreign correspondent in Bucharest, Geneva, Islamabad, Hanoi and Beirut. He is recently wrote a history of the Bhutto dynasty which was published by Yale University Press. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/biography

Reccep Tayyib Erdogan is towering politician. He has dominated Turkey for 20 years and is now being compared to Ataturk as a man who has changed the direction of Turkish society. And he matters not only to Turkey but to the international community more generally partly because of Turkey's geo-strategic position but also because he has the power to influence the future direction of political Islam - so what has he done, what does it signify and is he fearful of being imprisoned if he lost power? Owen Bennett-Jones discusses Erdogan with Dimitar Bechev who has studied the man for his book Turkey Under Erdogan: How a Country Turned from Democracy and the West (Yale University Press, 2022). Owen Bennett-Jones is a freelance journalist and writer. A former BBC correspondent and presenter he has been a resident foreign correspondent in Bucharest, Geneva, Islamabad, Hanoi and Beirut. He is recently wrote a history of the Bhutto dynasty which was published by Yale University Press. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Reccep Tayyib Erdogan is towering politician. He has dominated Turkey for 20 years and is now being compared to Ataturk as a man who has changed the direction of Turkish society. And he matters not only to Turkey but to the international community more generally partly because of Turkey's geo-strategic position but also because he has the power to influence the future direction of political Islam - so what has he done, what does it signify and is he fearful of being imprisoned if he lost power? Owen Bennett-Jones discusses Erdogan with Dimitar Bechev who has studied the man for his book Turkey Under Erdogan: How a Country Turned from Democracy and the West (Yale University Press, 2022). Owen Bennett-Jones is a freelance journalist and writer. A former BBC correspondent and presenter he has been a resident foreign correspondent in Bucharest, Geneva, Islamabad, Hanoi and Beirut. He is recently wrote a history of the Bhutto dynasty which was published by Yale University Press. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/european-studies

Reccep Tayyib Erdogan is towering politician. He has dominated Turkey for 20 years and is now being compared to Ataturk as a man who has changed the direction of Turkish society. And he matters not only to Turkey but to the international community more generally partly because of Turkey's geo-strategic position but also because he has the power to influence the future direction of political Islam - so what has he done, what does it signify and is he fearful of being imprisoned if he lost power? Owen Bennett-Jones discusses Erdogan with Dimitar Bechev who has studied the man for his book Turkey Under Erdogan: How a Country Turned from Democracy and the West (Yale University Press, 2022). Owen Bennett-Jones is a freelance journalist and writer. A former BBC correspondent and presenter he has been a resident foreign correspondent in Bucharest, Geneva, Islamabad, Hanoi and Beirut. He is recently wrote a history of the Bhutto dynasty which was published by Yale University Press. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/eastern-european-studies

Reccep Tayyib Erdogan is towering politician. He has dominated Turkey for 20 years and is now being compared to Ataturk as a man who has changed the direction of Turkish society. And he matters not only to Turkey but to the international community more generally partly because of Turkey's geo-strategic position but also because he has the power to influence the future direction of political Islam - so what has he done, what does it signify and is he fearful of being imprisoned if he lost power? Owen Bennett-Jones discusses Erdogan with Dimitar Bechev who has studied the man for his book Turkey Under Erdogan: How a Country Turned from Democracy and the West (Yale University Press, 2022). Owen Bennett-Jones is a freelance journalist and writer. A former BBC correspondent and presenter he has been a resident foreign correspondent in Bucharest, Geneva, Islamabad, Hanoi and Beirut. He is recently wrote a history of the Bhutto dynasty which was published by Yale University Press. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

What happens after an Empire collapses? Who can mend the broken pieces and unite them into one nation? Once religion is ingrained into the fabric of a government, how can the two be separated? In this episode, my guest and I explore the remarkable creation of a modern, progressive nation, the Turkish Republic, in 1923, following the collapse of the Ottoman Empire.The Ottoman Empire once stretched across North Africa, the Middle East, and Europe, encircling most of the Mediterranean Sea; but the heart of the Empire always lay within the land now known as Türkiye (formerly spelled 'Turkey'). After the fall of the Empire, it was the leadership of one man, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, which kept European nations from claiming the land as their own.Ataturk united Türkiye against all odds to create a nation and society ahead of its times. Modern freedoms were granted to all Turks, and women in particular enjoyed opportunities not yet established in other countries. One striking example is that Ataturk refused to force Turkish women to be identified by the titles "Mrs." and "Miss." because he believed that a woman's identity cannot be described by whether or not she is married. Turkish women thank you, Ataturk!

Nella seconda puntata di Controluce, Mauro Suma e lo psichiatra Raffaele Morelli tornano alla drammatica notte del 26 maggio 2005, provando ad andare a fondo della notte dell'Atatürk e a rispondere a domande impresse nella mente di ogni tifoso rossonero da anni.

In this episode of Straight Talk, Alaattin Kilic and Cameron Deggin talk about the upcoming Istanbul National Park project within the scope of the Green Regeneration vision. (00:00) Introduction (00:57) What Does "Invest in Green" Mean? (07:15) Green Projects in Istanbul (09:30) Istanbul National Park (10:31) Developments and Regenerations Around the National Park (11:10) Sefaköy Area (15:28) Who'd Go in For Green Development?Reach us at:Whatsapp: wa.me/908505325195 |Website: www.propertyturkey.com |Instagram: www.instagram.com/propertyturkeycom |YouTube: www.youtube.com/PropertyTurkeyCom

Ivak is a Turkish photographer and filmmaker in Prague who also works for a living in a "real job" as his mom told him he would have to do when he got interested in arts back home in Bursa in Turkey.    In this Part 1 out of 2 episodes, he told me about the Ottoman empire that stretched so far into Europe, The Middle East and Northern Africa that they called the Mediterranean sea their "lake".  What does such a glorious past do to a nation?    We discussed how Ataturk changed and modernised Turkey and how that created a rift in the social fabric that still exists today.   And a lot more....   In Part 2 that is out in 4 days we discuss Turkey today, Erdogan, Gay and Trans people in Turkey and the classic kebab question that every Turk gets...   Ivak's photos are here https://www.instagram.com/monolumia/ https://www.ivak.org/   The Bunker https://www.facebook.com/Blablabunker https://www.instagram.com/thebunkerprague/ https://www.youtube.com/theblablabunker  

La final de la Champions me devuelve a Portugal en lugar de a Estambul. A Oporto y a O Dragao en lugar del Ataturk turco. Y es un buen momento para echar un vistazo a todo lo que rodea al partido y al fútbol poniendo la oreja por las calles de la ciudad lusa. Es el Peine previo a la final. Aquí se puede escuchar todos los capítulos de #ElPelao​​ #Podcast​​

I can think of nothing more exciting than the prospect of touching down and finding oneself in Istanbul. When you’re there it really feels like you’re in Constantinople, the legendary nexus of East and West. The city is tinted in sepia, like an old photograph. It has a palpable historical gravity. You feel as if you could wander around a corner and stumble upon some significant artifact, as would Indiana Jones. It’s not just that it is an old city. Europe is full of musty, old cities emitting the last wheezing respirations of life. Not Istanbul. Its former glory is also its present glory. The city doesn’t need life support, because it’s still spry and muscular, in the prime of life.I had only 36 hours in the city on a long layover. Thirty-six hours, you may well note, is a ludicrously insufficient amount of time to investigate the historical depths of Constantinople in full. And I’d agree with you. But it sure as heck beats nothing. Plus, I didn’t have to book an extra airfare, rather than just pick one with a long layover. Pretty savvy, if you ask me. I had booked accommodations at the ‘Cheers’ hostel, so named not for the American television show of the 1980s but for what British youths say instead of "thanks" at the end of a transaction. That's where I headed now.I hoped off the metro in the sepia-tone city center. Actually I wasn’t sure if it was the city center. I didn’t know the first thing about Istanbul or how it was laid out. But it seemed bustling, and there was a grandly-domed Mosque, called Sultan Ahmet, which took up about the same footprint as a football stadium. I meandered up the side street on which Cheers was located. Meandering is the only form of locomotion one can perform on an Istanbul side street. Each street heads in some direction but only vaguely and with dramatic reorientations at unexpected points, like the trend line of the stock market. I noticed that the streets were littered with kittens. They were feral cats, in the sense that no one owned them. But they didn’t look scraggily like most intercity fauna. From the looks of the bowl of milk on the sidewalk, people took care of them. I made my way down the street with my suitcase, scanning each brightly lit façade for some indication that I had found my temporary home. Then from the cool shade of an ivory laced café called a voice:“Hey, man. Are you looking for Cheers?”“Yes,” I said.“Well, you found it, man!”A Turkish fellow named Ahmed greeted me as if I were an old friend. He took me into the hostel to the front desk, where he introduced me to Sinan. They both had the air of men who had been relieved of ambition through many devoted years spent with Mary Jane. They were ludicrously welcoming, and I loved them immediately.“Are you staying at Cheers, man?” Sinan asked this as if a buddy had unexpectedly popped by to crash on his couch. I informed him of my intention to do so.Sinan and Ahmed showed me around the place. The building was long and lean, with a tight spiral staircase running up its spine. Everything was wooden and well-worn. The first floor had a modest kitchen in the back, where breakfast would be served. My room was on the second floor, with twelve bunks and a bathroom, arrayed in an unusually spacious room. The third floor had more rooms. On the floor above that was the in-house bar, where I made the acquaintance of yet another warm and kindly Turkish guy who invited me back to enjoy half-priced beers at happy hour. The bar boasted a spectacular view of Sultan Ahmet’s dome, pillared at four sides by great, spear-like columns, the scene practically springing in through the window as it would in a 3D movie.There is an idea from psychology called the "explore-exploit tradeoff." It is a decision-making dilemma that any thinking organism must solve: I can either choose the option I know to be the best right now (exploit), or I can try something new in hopes that it might prove even more beneficial (explore). It is notoriously difficult to describe the optimal solution to the explore-exploit tradeoff. The crux of the matter is that it’s tough to know when you’ve collected enough information to stop exploring and start exploiting. Well, I developed my own solution to the problem. I had several weeks before made a reservation at a restaurant called Mikla, which was recommended by a gourmand friend of mine who had recently spent two weeks in Turkey. It was a tasting menu establishment, where the general arrangement is to hand the waiter an immense wad of cash in the promise that sometime later he will return, course by course, with a series of whatever the chef has on offer, minusculy proportioned and neatly arranged. Like White Rabbit in Moscow. I enjoy that sort of thing, and so does my friend. I trust his tastes, too. My solution to the tradeoff, at least when it comes to restaurants, is to exploit his explorations. He said Mikla was the best thing in Turkey.However, earlier that day I had sent Mikla an email canceling the reservation. It was a lot of money. Not as much as it would be at an equivalent restaurant in US, or somewhere else relishing an economy that isn’t teetering on the verge of collapse. But certainly it would cost more than whatever I’d be able to find stumbling around the streets. When I got to the hostel I equivocated for a bit. Would it be worth it? At length I decided to fetch up at the restaurant and let fate decide—if they still had a table, I’d snag it. What the hell? I’m worth it.When I left the hostel I wasn’t sure if I was in Europe or Asia. Approximately half of Istanbul belongs to one and half to the other. I assumed since I was on one side of Istanbul and Mikla was on the other that I'd crossed from continent to the other. I felt as though I was crossing a border illicitly, as if into a forbidden nation. I wasn’t, I later learned. But I reveled in the sense of espionage anyway. When I inspected the map, it looked like Mikla was on a main drag. But as I trekked up the hill on which it was situated, I learned it was most emphatically not. Maps of Istanbul bear only a loose correspondence with reality, as the streets are constantly shifting, like the moving staircases of the dormitories at Hogwarts.I presented myself at Mikla on the 18th floor of a hotel situated on Istanbul’s highest eminence. I had walked for about an hour to get there, mostly uphill, and it was really hot out. I showed up in a bit of a tizzy, more than a bit disheveled. I was wearing running shoes, which had been a different color when I bought them, green shorts that extended down only as far as my upper thigh, and had a soot-stained face that brought to mind an industrious but unfortunate character in a Charles Dickens novel. I looked like s**t, really. I inquired with the maitre d’ about the possibility of restoring my previously appointed spot in the dining room. He demurred and told me it was full-up. The restaurant, I could see, was empty. I managed to negotiate a spot at the bar. Then I excused myself because, as I told him, I had come prepared to change into something more presentable. He directed me to the men’s room. While I was changing in the tiny bathroom, a guy came in to check on me. He offered some banal explanation for his presence, like making sure I knew how to operate the flush handle on the toilet. But really he was there on orders from the maitre d’ to ascertain whether I had in fact transmogrified into a form that was presentable and unlikely to cause embarrassment or mirth among the other dining patrons. I had put on dark jeans and a light blue linen collared shirt. I had also wiped the grime from my cheeks. I wouldn’t be turning any heads, neither for reasons of sexual intrigue nor arresting sartorial faux pas. I made my way back to the host’s table. He had managed, magically, to find a table for me, provided I could vacate by 9pm. Excellent.I submitted my request for the full tasting menu and a glass of Turkish rosé. Then I went to look out over the city. It was amazing. When I returned to my seat I beckoned the garçon. “I have a dumb question,” I told him. “Which continent am I on?”“Europe,” he genially informed me. “Asia is that way,” he pointed across a body of water. He explained that the heart of Istanbul formed something of a Y shape divided by waterways, the Bosphorus and the Marmara Sea. One segment of the triad was Asia and the other two, including Mikla and my hostel, were Europe.The first courses came promptly as a couple rounds of amuse bouche. Bite sized fishy stuff. These were accompanied by a basket of bread with goat cheese butter, from a goat named Yagmur. I sat there at the table to take it all in: I was in Istanbul. At the best restaurant in the city. Eating exquisite food and savoring a view of the whole thing. I couldn't have been happier.Throughout my meal I watched Turkish playboys trickle in with their exquisitely dressed blondes in tow. Each of the women was dressed in white. Every single one of them. It might have even been the same white dress. They also appeared to have had the same plastic surgeon do their boob-job. Regardless, no one failed to show up in anything but their finest duds. Myself included.I looked up from my book from time to time to take stock of the other patrons. I noticed the woman next to me carefully dabbing tears from her perfectly made up eyes. Then she started smiling. I could never quite figure out why. Eaves dropping didn't help, as the conversation was not only subdued but in Turkish. Istanbul is a city of mysteries. A couple was seated next to me. They were the same age. They also sported the same just barely elevated casual that I did. The girl was Asian; the guy was difficult to tell. They were speaking English, neither natively. I fantasized that they were lovers who met in a distant land and could only continue their affair meeting in Istanbul for all-too-brief romantic encounters. The tasting menu seemed to be a bit exotic for their tastes, as they prodded at the fishy amuse bouche experimentally with a fork and a pair of quizzical looks.Eventually I decided he was German. He was talking about the country as if he was from there. I could tell she was Korean. But then again he was uncharacteristically tan for a Teutonic lad. Turkish German, maybe? Anyway, doesn’t matter. There were more excellent dishes to be had. I was out by 8:50, as promised, and fully sated.After dinner I was eager to stretch my legs in the streets of Istanbul. I called first at a bar that I'd identified as promising on the way up to dinner. It was adjoined to a hostel. I walked through the lobby and a spacious diner to open air patio in back. The walls were festooned with flags and books, as if someone loaded cultural artifacts into a canon and shot it all the wall. Every table was filled. There was a Volkswagen van parked in a corner of the room. Bob Marley and his musical offspring were featured heavily in the musical selection. The place had vibes for days. On the cocktail menu were a bunch of Turkishly named drinks without an ingredient list. I ordered the Fahrettin, for reasons of phonological pleasure. The bartender, a busy guy to be sure, dropped my drink while presenting it to me, spilling on me and my book. He said sorry then wandered off, which I thought was a rather neat trick of nonchalance. What remained of the cocktail was quite good—tequila-based, accompanied by a mysterious concoction in the traditional idiom of Istanbul. He comped me the drink, which seemed like a fair trade for having to wear part of it.Time to hit the streets again. I reemerged into the humid Turkish night and set my course down the steep hill. It was steep enough that if you took a tumble, you’d continue rolling until you spilled out onto the level street a half mile below. I was clearly in a hipster area. Every storefront had a shop, a cool one. There were lively bars, vegan kitchens, and The Pure Love Café. Groups sitting at tables spilled out from restaurants into the street. All the people were good looking and appeared dressed to attract mates. The street featured a modest strip of sidewalk, wide enough to comfortably fit my three leftmost fingers. Enabling a safe place for walking ranked relatively low among its priorities. Mostly it was dedicated to other things, like rubbish bins, cellar stairs, stray cats, their generously proportioned milk bowls, and scooters thrown onto the sidewalk as if abandoned by a fugitive who had escaped down a nearby alley. The texture of the street was a comely but treacherous cobblestone, so the entire thoroughfare was a sort of a mini obstacle course at ground level. The street lights were spaced just far enough apart that when your shadow died in front of you it resurrected behind. Scooters and cars whizzed by as if finding themselves fifteen minutes late for a meeting on the wrong continent. Being a pedestrian in the city requires a certain extra sensory perception for knowing when to be in the street and when to get off. Istanbul is a game of inches.The street dilapidated as I descended. It was no longer populated by hipsters, as it had been near the top, but mothers and aunties sitting outside while mending clothes and folding laundry. At length I found myself back on the main road, which I took in the direction of my hostel. I followed signs to an underground "tramvay" which proved to be a closed market, shuttered for the night. After a few subterranean turns and what seemed to be too far to just cross the street I began to fear I'd been trapped in another Moscow metro maze. Then I resurfaced right in the metro stop that I'd aimed for, where I promptly boarded the next tram. I had learned an important lesson from the Russians—always offer your seat to elders, women, and children. This was taking me far in Turkish etiquette points. I no longer needed to be waved off by elderly men on the subway, but actively offered my seat when they came aboard.When I got off at the stop by my hostel, I noticed a massive hole in the sidewalk where some men were working. It hadn't been there when I left. The men wore plaid shirts, jeans, and one was knocking back a beer (obviously, he was the supervisor). I'd like to think they weren't engaged in any officially sanctioned work but rather indulging in their Saturday evening hobby of amateur ditch digging.I went back to my hostel. In my room I met a young man my age, named Dylan, from San Francisco. He was clearly of a strain of human being known as West Coast Bro. I told him I was also from the West Coast, Seattle. West Coast people have a certain way of communicating with one another, as if everything the other person relates is a cause for minor celebration. The excitement just sort of leaks out. He told me he and his buddies had covered 16 miles the day before."Dude, nice!" I responded."The asian side is pretty chill," he told me "You should go.""Hell yeah, man."This is another thing about the West Coast. The most prized attribute of anything is chill. As in: man, that party last night was chill; I went on a date with a girl, and she was pretty chill, man; I failed that exam, but don’t worry, man, it’s chill. One of the primary reasons why I don’t fit in on the West Coast is that, at 98.8 degrees Fahrenheit, I don’t have an ounce of chill contained anywhere in my body. For example, I go on rants about how silly the notion of chill is. That’s decidedly unchill. But I put on a cool front with Dylan, not to alert him to my lack of chill. In this I achieved a level of success sufficient for him to invite me to hang out. “Hey man, Kevin and I are about to take some vodka shots in his room. Wanna come?”"Sweet!” I told him. “Maybe I’ll meet up later.” I didn’t plan to meet up later.I took leave of Dylan and went up for a drink at the rooftop bar. We had a view of Sultan Ahmet in the evening air. I met an Indian girl who worked as banker in London and a Slovenian professor of public health. We bullshitted for a while. I wasn't quite ready to retire for the evening, having spent much of it sitting at dinner. I went for a walk to take in the evening streets of old city Istanbul. It was not exactly bustling, but there were still people out, mostly in search of food and drink. Restaurants yearned for customers. Turkish men stood outside of their eateries and implored you to dine in their establishments. I'd like to think that if I were really undecided about where to enjoy my next meal that I might actually be swayed by their amicable inducements. I do love to be courted. I returned to the hostel bar, where my friends lingered. We bullshitted more, until late, like 1:30. The Slovenian girl took a look out the window and remarked, “That's an interesting view." Then I retired for the evening.The next morning I was eager to get going. I sprung up, showered, and went out in search of one of the handsome cafes I had passed the night before. I realized as soon as I left that I had no idea where anything was—the grand bazaar, which mosque was the Ayasophia, how to cross to Asia. About three blocks away from my hostel I equivocated for a moment, pacing back and forth as I changed my mind several times over. First I decided f**k it, just wander; then I noted how short of a time I had in the city and I should be prudent about how I use it; then I went back to the first mindset, how hard can it be to find the grand bazaar? It’s pretty big, right? Ultimately I about-faced and went back to the hostel. I pulled out my map and my food recommendations, noting the major landmarks and eating destinations. I had a cup of strong Turkish coffee while I deliberated, along with heavily seeded watermelon. I located the Grand Bazaar, figured out which mosque was the Ayasophia, developed a game plan for my transcontinental crossing, and picked out a breakfast destination. Time to hit the streets.Where Russia is fixed and inflexible, Istanbul is fluid and free flowing. The rules here are like the addresses, an approximation, meant only to get you in the neighborhood. I had begun to understand this the night before when I looked up the address for Mikla and found that it took me to the right block but didn't commit me to any building in particular. The same was now true for my breakfast spot. The Russians would, however, I think, be quite fond of the way the Turks lay out their streets. They couldn't possibly be more convoluted.At length I tracked down my destination in an enclosed market with several different food stalls. I called at the one serving Menemen. It was unclear where exactly the seating area ended and the kitchen began. I presented myself to a gentleman standing vaguely in the part of the restaurant dedicated to preparing food rather than eating it, and asked for some Menemen, please."Only one?"Yes."Please take a seat."That kind of protocol would never have flown in Russia. I still would have been waiting for attention from the waitress when, mere minutes later, I was delivered a bubbling cast-iron pan of egg, pepper, spices, sausage, and tomato, more spice red than yolk yellow. Turkish omelette. After setting it down, the guy took the lid off a Tupperware container, exposing about two whole loaves worth of bread. I eyed it, appreciating the generosity, but not sure what I was supposed to do with about ten times more bread than omelette, by volume. I also ordered a Turkish coffee. I soon realized that what I had at the hostel had not been strong Turkish coffee at all. That was a strong cup of American-style, brewed drip coffee. I had just forgot what strong drip coffee was like, since the Russians enjoy a rather lighter cup. This was the size of an espresso shot, served in an oriental ceramic set. It had the consistency of melted chocolate. The gradient of Turkish coffee starts as liquid and ends as solid. Instead of fork and knife, I used pieces of bread to scoop up the omelette. By the end of my meal I looked over and saw that the Tupperware container was mostly empty. I was immensely satisfied.Before I headed out from breakfast, I spread out my map onto the table. It was a physical copy I had obtained at the airport. I always pick up the free tourist map whenever I touch down in an unfamiliar city. I forgo Google Maps if I can help it. The problem with Google Maps, you see, is that you can never really be lost. It tells you where you are, so you never have to figure it out for yourself. Getting yourself unlost is the best way to quickly become familiar with the layout of a new city. And gaining familiarity with a city’s layout is one of the most efficient ways to gain a sense of intimacy with the place. This was a cityscape I wanted to get to know. I pocketed my phone, resolving not to appeal to its GPS-augmented maps.I set off in the direction of the Grand Bazaar on a circuitous route, for there was no other kind available. I quickly became nowhere in particular. I was not on any discernible path or route. Istanbul is laid out not as a grid but rather as the pattern glass takes when you throw a small rock at it. It’s as if the road-builders made only game-time decisions about where the road should lead as they were laying the foundations. If you set off down a particular thoroughfare you're just as likely to find yourself circling back to your present junction as going on straight ahead. There’s simply no way of knowing. The other thing about the streets of Istanbul is that you never know what you’ll find on them, but you can be pretty sure it will be some sort of informal commerce. If Paris is a moveable feast, then Istanbul is a permanent market. As I wandered—potentially in circles, I couldn’t tell—I wondered where all these textiles come from. There’s a seemingly limitless supply of cheap clothes, shoes, gadgets, bags, household supplies, and provisions of every nature. Whence the demand? Who, for instance, needs four hundred little girl’s wedding dresses? As my mind slowly returned from its absence I grew concerned with whether I would even know when I breached the Grand Bazaar. Everything I passed was a bazaar. All of it seemed pretty imposing. I wasn’t confident I’d be able to distinguish the minor ones from the Grand One. Eventually I discovered I had ambled in correct direction, and I strode in through an arch labeled GRAND BAZAAR, est. 1461.At once I was thrust into a sort of capitalist cathedral with high ceilings and densely packed rows commercial stalls rising toward the heavens like a downtown avenue of product-laden skyscrapers. The scale of it resembled the Sistine Chapel, had it originally been zoned for commercial purposes. Salesmen lingered at their stalls like doormen at a building. In the section I had entered they sold mostly familiar sartorial wares: knockoff Gucci, LV, jerseys from the major soccer clubs, that sort of stuff. They didn’t look to be much engaged in the act of selling. Mostly they stood there drinking tea. The tea was delivered by couriers carrying hanging trays that looked like one side of the scales of law. Many of the salesmen yelled to colleagues across the way, or shared quiet confidences with their business partners in the stall. Most of them were just sitting or standing idly, seeming to take it all in, or at least facing the right direction to do so.I perused a few different boroughs of the Grand Bazaar. There was one with lots of jewelry, shiny and brightly glaring. It was like walking through an intergalactic market hawking small star systems. There was another area, labeled the "Old Bazaar," that sold antiques, like lamps from which you could solicit the services of a genie. The comparatively modern bazaar offered an array of goods without any unifying theme: picture frames, chess boards carved from marble, ceramic plates, glass tea sets, and rakish canes that would seem apropos in the wobbly grip of an octogenarian pimp. Kitty-corner to the stall I looked at now was one with much the same wares—the same chess boards, the same tea sets, though here they were featured in conjunction with various spice jars and décors of an Islamic bent. It occurred to me that something seemed fucked up in the supply and demand system here. There's an awful lot of supply. Turkish economics must operate by different rules, I figured. On the other hand, I wanted all this s**t. It was beautiful and unreasonably cheap. It wasn’t like the flimsy, crappy knockoffs on offer in many such markets. But I didn’t purchase anything, mostly because I didn’t want to have to lug it around. Still, it made me think about the guy selling the stuff. That guy could stand in front of his stall every day for the rest of his life, make his pittance of Turkish Lyra per diem and sell only a handful of goods every so often. It didn’t seem right.As I continued my stroll I noticed a band of policemen: three guys in jeans and Nikes with Polis vests, one strapped imposingly with an AK-47 diagonally across his chest. This is not an entirely uncommon sight around the world, but it is still somewhat off-putting.It wasn’t until I chanced upon the borough of preserved food—with teas, dried fruit, and the like—that the dynamics of Bazaaro economics started to jibe. The supply and demand was amortized. The timescale was that of many years, not of now. It was the opposite of scalable and innovative, the prized economic considerations of the modern West. But it was sustainable, which though highly-touted in the West is a much more low priority distinction. I was struck with the realization that all this would continue to carry on after I left, as it had since 1461. The supply could sit there and the demand could wander in as it may. It wasn’t a simple function of this point in time. It left me with a deeply seated appreciation for object permanence, that things are there even when I’m not looking at them. The world continues to go on, whether or not I appreciate it. And I was sincerely grateful just to see it, even if momentarily.In sum I’ll give the Bazaar points for Grandness, as advertised. But truth be told I expected the Bazaar to be, well, more bizarre. Perhaps I felt it should be filled with turbaned snake charmers, or a well-suited James Bond escaping from a band of international criminals on motorbike, careening off a nearby roof to unsettle a table of civilians just about to sit down for a large family meal. I don't know exactly.It proved easy to exit. However, it was not easy to know where I had exited once back in the unruly constellation of satellite bazaars. I had no idea which direction I was now oriented. When I stopped to get my bearings I saw a huge mosque. Surely, I thought, this would give me a landmark by which to establish my position. Not the case. When I surveyed the area surrounding the Bazaar on my map, I identified no less than a dozen mosques which I could have been gazing at now. For all I knew, this one could've been too minor even to be included on the map.I soon discovered that all roads lead back to the Grand Bazaar. I needed to get the hell out of this area to have a hope at establishing my whereabouts. It took me mere seconds to become completely lost. I was suddenly out of range of the main market and ambling helplessly through a sepia-toned hedge maze of storefronts, delivery trucks, and product-strapped couriers. There were no landmarks and no visibility in any direction. There weren’t even any right angles. There were however half a dozen guys unloading a shipment of approximately seven tonnes of the same little boys underwear. At length I found what seemed a promisingly distinctive landmark: a stately building with a plaque labeled ISTANBUL LISIPI. After a bit of scanning I found it on my map. I appeared to be situated on a street that led directly to the main drag. Nope. I ranged up and down the street, trying both directions, but it refused to spit me out anywhere besides nowhere in particular. I was totally lost again. By now I had made the worthwhile discovery that only sixty percent of the streets were on my map, which was already packed with detail. Only about twenty percent of the included streets featured names. When finally I found the main drag I had been searching for I pieced together post hoc from street names that I had been looking at wrong Istanbul Lisipi. I had been at Lisipi Zirkek, not Lisipi Kiz as I had suspected. Of course.I headed back toward my hostel for a reliable toilet. I found a Starbucks along the way and contemplated a cold coffee. This is something that the rest of the world has yet to figure out—when it’s hot, it’s nice to have the option for an iced coffee or a cold brewed coffee or whatever. Starbucks is the only global institution which reliably abides this philosophy. Also, Starbucks, like me, is from Seattle, so there’s an ounce of hometown pride involved in the process. I have the authority to inform the barista, “I’m from Seattle, so I really know what I’m doing here.” I'll often congratulate the manager on everything being up to snuff. At any rate, the queue was too long, and I desperately required the services of that toilet.Once relieved and back on the street, I realized that I expected Istanbul to have more smells. Even the roasted corn purveyed on the sidewalk is mostly scentless unless you get a really big snootful. I sort of imagined there would be an ever-present light dusting of za’atar or ras el hanout, like Turkey was actually located inside an oven cooking something exotic and seriously delicious.Speaking of seriously delicious, I decided to get some ice cream—something to tide me over until I made my way to Asia for lunch. I fetched up at an ice cream stall, where the gentlemen was engaged in serving a family of a mother and four little ones. Whereas the service of ice cream in the US involves a dim-witted, pimply eighteen-year-old scooping from one of thirty-one barrels and inquiring as to whether you'd prefer a sugar or a waffle cone, Turkish ice cream is served with a demonstration, like a hibachi chef at Benihana. This guy had flair. A magnificent mustache, too. He stood at a cart with a refrigerated cavern housing four barrels. The cones were stacked in a leaning tower on the side of his cart like a human-sized scimitar. Above the ice cream man were bells that he’d swat at deftly and rhythmically with his rapier. In his other hand he held not merely a scoop, but an ice cream spade. He served each child individually. I watched him start the little girl off with a cone on which he dolloped a scoop of pink ice cream. Then he thrust his rapier toward the little girl, who would recoil and giggle. While she was distracted he stole back the scoop he had just moments before conveyed to her. This stirred in her brief consternation followed by more giggling. Thus continued a cycle of dolloping, swatting bells, giggling, stealing, thrusting, and more giggling, until the girl had a cone piled high with four colors of ice cream. She was immensely gratified. As the family left still giggling, the man asked me, “Do you want all four flavors?” His voice was about an octave higher than you’d expect for a man whose upper lip was part wildebeest. “Yes, please,” I told him. My presentation was less elaborate, as I was clearly of a more esteemed clientele than his previous patrons. Thankfully, he still smacked the bells a couple times with his rapier. Then, just as he handed me the cone he upended it, and pretended to drop the ice cream. He performed the act so convincingly and with such conviction that my heart dropped and hit the floor at approximately the same time as the cone would have if he had actually dropped it. I giggled like the little girl. Getting Turkish ice cream, I noted, was one of best decisions I’ve ever made.As I gummed down my ice cream—it was chewy, flavorful, and unrepentantly delightful—I walked past the Sultan Ahmet mosque situated next to my hostel. I reflected on its grandeur, a sort of fractal monolith. Buildings were much better when we built them for God.I descended the hill on the other side of Sultan Ahmet, headed vaguely in the direction of the famous Ayasophia. I watched as the Bosphorus river shimmered in the distance, like the eponymous cymbals. It was a stroke of brash, spangled sapphire in the otherwise dusty cityscape of Istanbul. I thought I was on a street that would take me directly to Ayasophia. I wasn’t. I intended to cut smartly across the residential hillside, but instead I ended up at the bottom of it on an arterial street that more or less circumscribed Istanbul where it meets the water. I walked along that street. Clearly I would make it to Ayasophia eventually if I just stayed on this street. I spent forty-five minutes walking along, at first admiring the shimmering Bosphorus but then realizing that it was about high time to ask where the f**k this mosque was. How the hell do I get there? I knew I was getting close because I had to pick my way through a kilometer long queue of idling tour buses, their drivers napping in their vans. I still couldn’t see anything of significance. Impatiently, I glanced at Google Maps. I didn’t feel as though I was on the verge of becoming unlost. When at length I found my way there, I became confused. That’s it? I thought to myself. There was no real sight, just a mosque. There are mosques every seven or eight steps in this city, so that’s not exactly a big deal. It wasn’t even large. I guess its esteem derives from the fact that it is exceptionally old. As I scrolled unromantically through Google Maps to see if I was indeed missing anything, I realized that I hadn’t even been looking at the famed and idyllic Bosphorus river, as I had thought. It was actually the Marmara Sea. I stormed off, incredulous that I had gone to such trouble just to ogle at something so underwhelming. I later discovered that I had not visited the Ayasophia but the "little" Ayasophia, whose diminutive I had failed to notice. Totally different site. At any rate, I was ready for a new destination. I was ready for my transcontinental crossing to Asia.I gambled that a bus could take me along the waterfront to the Eminönü ferry terminal. I didn’t know that it would. But it seemed a good bet, since I was on a main drag headed toward a central location. I walked along but there were no bus stops. Magically, as with Catbus bounding out of the darkness in My Neighbor Totoro, a bus appeared with the word Eminönü on top. I waved the bus over, it stopped, and triumphantly I stepped aboard. Not only did it drop me at the intended ferry terminal, but I realized quickly that I was about a manhattan block away from my pide recommendation. I knew this would give me the strength necessary for my transcontinental voyage. Pide is essentially Turkish pizza, but greasier and meatier and therefore better. It comes in an elliptical shape, with a folded galette shell. It’s like a pizza crust orbiting a galaxy of meaty, saucy goodness. I happily inhaled a full serving before setting off for Asia.I had no explicit destination in Asia. My plan was just to get on a ferry and see where I ended up. There were three ferry terminals, all with vastly different destinations, spanning multiple continents, though I couldn’t quite tell which one went where. I boarded the one I evaluated to have the highest probability of terminating in Asia. I hoped at the very least it would end up somewhere still in Turkey. I boarded the maritime vessel along with six hundred of my closest Turkish friends, and together we set sail for I knew not where. I was one of the last aboard, as I had more or less hopped on whichever ferry left soonest. There was precisely three quarters of a seat available when I got on, and I wedged myself in on the top deck next to some Turkish youths. We took a sharp right out of Eminönü, back along the waterfront where I had taken the bus from Ayasophia. I looked at the hill of Istanbul from the water. After about thirty minutes the boat docked. I went down to the gang plank to discern whether I was at a decent location to disembark. I stood there while the boat’s ramp met the dock. No one got off. Several hundred new passengers stood in wait to pile on. I had no idea where we were, or where this boat would go next. I asked a few people around me—"Excuse me, where are we?" Everyone’s reply was uniformly unhelpful, "Sorry, no English." I equivocated, then at the last second I jumped ship right as boat was kicking off. Good thing, too. I believe the boat was going on to Beşiktaş, back in Europe.I had made it to Asia. But before I got to exploring I needed to make arrangements to get back to Eminönü. I couldn’t afford to be stuck in Asia and miss my flight. Luckily, the ferry official standing in the vicinity of the terminal was able to direct me to the proper concourse where I found the schedule. There were ferries back to Eminönü every twenty minutes. Perfect.It was time for a quick jaunt around Asia, a sort of warm up lap before I headed there in earnest. In front of me was a grey and sprawling business district along the water. The action clearly was located on the hill behind it. I ascended. Immediately, I was struck by a feeling of recognition. I was in Hong Kong. It felt to me like an Asian San Francisco, built on a hillside, with brightly lit storefronts catering to an amalgam of eastern and western sensibilities. There was an idiosyncratic flow to people’s movement, also as in Hong Kong. They move with the same purpose they do in West but on the madhouse, strewn-about streets of Asia: Manhattanites in a maze. I wandered into a used bookstore, the delightful kind where the proprietor values books more than organization. He delivered me to the English language section, and over-explained to me how the system worked. I appreciated the earnestness, but I had ascertained everything I needed to know pretty early on: here are the books. At any rate, the Turks must be avid readers because they have a s**t-tonne of book stores. I called afterward at a hipster coffee shop. They had cold brewed coffee in a carafe lingering in a space of frigid clime. Amazing.I sat outside and listened the conversations of the other patrons. They were all conducted in Turkish. As I matched words to menu items, I realized that spoken Turkish words begin the way I expect, then terminate in something completely indecipherable. At length, I descended back to my port-of-call for a late afternoon trip from Kadıköy, which I learned was the name of the terminal, to Eminönü. I sat atop the ferry in the dusky light of Istanbul.Eventually I arrived back in Europe. Then I headed to the metro, almost embarked, but decided against it in favor of one more stroll through the streets up to the hostel. At a three way intersection I saw a pavilion with mini chairs and tables, oriental table clothes, and these tiny Turkish teas I’d been seeing all day. I wanted one. It was perfectly positioned to watch the people traffic, too. Strong black tea in a glass three inches tall. Slightly more than a generous shot glass. I repaired back to the hostel bar just in time to watch the evening's soccer match.It was five, or just after. I looked out over Sultan Ahmet. Then a noise. Let me just say, there is nothing more exotic than the five o’clock call to prayer over the loud speaker in a Muslim city. It is the most non-Western sound in the world. It sounds to naive (and potentially blasphemous) ears like a sitar player drunk on a far eastern spirit, crooning a love song you'll never know the story to. It continues for just about ever. The cadence is such that it dies down, and just when you forgot about it, begins blaring again at the highest register, making the descent all over again.There was one last stop on my Turkish agenda: Asmalı Cavit. It is an eating establishment located by Mikla—by now feeling like an old haunt of mine—and serving hot and cold meze. When I presented myself to the maitre d’ I inquired about procuring a seat in the restaurant. “Inside is complicated,” he told me, enigmatically. Then he brought me round to an adjacent corridor, which was filled with white-clothed tables. This area was less complicated. I could take a seat toward the back, if that was fine with me. Happily, I accepted. The corridor was terraced, so there were three levels of diners. Since I occupied the furthest back it was also the highest and most regal. I wouldn’t even have to leave my seat to make my usual rounds of inspecting what everyone else is eating. When the waiter approached me I confided in him that I wasn’t sure what to order but I wanted lots. He required no further information. “I’ll bring you a plate of cold starters.” I’ve never felt so understood. As he turned to submit my order I called out, “Wait!”“Yes?”“I’ll take an order of Raki, please.” Turkish absinthe.“With water?” he said, and raised an eye brow.“Sure,” I acquiesced. I wasn’t sure how one was supposed to take Turkish absinthe, so I went with the house recommendation. The Raki came out swiftly. It was served as a triptych. There was the shot-glass worth of absinthe, a tall glass filled with ice, and a small a pitcher of cold water. I set to work on my build-your-own Turkish cocktail, dumping the absinthe over the ice wholesale. I settled on a portion of water somewhere between my masculine inclination for neat spirits and the rather large volume the glass would contain. Of a sudden, the concoction turned ghostly white—chemistry meets conjuring. I took a sip. “Jesus Christ!!” This seemed the only handle by which my mind could grasp the experience. The drink felt like a swift kick to the nuts, but it happened where my face should have been instead of further south. I ventured another sip. Another audible “Jesus Christ!!” was the only response I could produce. There was something eminently realistic about imbibing this drink, like reality shone through with startling clarity after every intake. Two sips in, I could feel clinically interesting effects come on. I tried to recall whether I had passed any banks on the way up here, and I flirted with the idea of sticking them up. Just as I remembered I forgot to bring my pistol, my cold starters came, a plate of delicious mysteries. I was filled with a child’s wonder as I surveyed a landscape of variously colored and textured entities I knew nothing about. I stuck them in my mouth to learn more. The servings resembled what you’d find in the prepared section of your local deli, but it was as if they were assembled by a martian who was given a slate of fresh earthly ingredients and a keen incisiveness for eliciting delightful gustatory experiences. This alien had none of our usual prejudices about how food should look or be combined. There were spicy little green beans (actually seaweed), fava beans, spiced tomato paste, all with a vibrancy and color palate that felt at once exotic and lucid. I took another cool hit of Raki-inspired reality. “Jésus Cristo!!” It came out in Spanish this time.I took a break from the plate and surveyed my surroundings. I cast my gaze skyward. There was no sky, it was simply the interior façade of an apartment complex. I was seated almost in the inner courtyard. I dispatched with my food much as a dog chows down on her bowl, though with the addition of much happy and rewarding experimentation—“what if I dipped the seaweed in the tomato? Exquisite!” When I was finished and ready for another go-around my waiter was nowhere in the vicinity. I searched around for him, but all I could see were the goblins hanging from the AC units of apartments above and the other patrons in the restaurant wearing grass skirts and dancing the hula in unison. I made visual contact with the waiter from across the room. I gestured that I was ready for the next round. He made a circular motion with his hands and mouthed the word next. I nodded. He gave me the thumbs up and left, never to be heard from again. The goblins must’ve got him. I sat patiently for about twenty minutes before getting up, collapsing like a felled tree, dusting myself off, and inquiring with the only remaining familiar face—the Maitre D’, he who spake of complicated matters—about whether I had an order forthcoming. “No,” he told me politely. I told him I'd like to fix that. I ordered the lamb chop, which I had been eyeing. Then I added, “I’ll have another plate of starters, too.” What I had meant to convey was that I’d like a different plate of starters—a martian landscape as mysterious as the first, perhaps sweltering this time. I thought since my terse order had been so deftly intuited the first time around, I’d be just as lucky the second. I wasn’t. I got the exact same plate of cold starters, which I still wolfed it down, scattering bits of kibble across the white-tiled kitchen floor. I paid the reckoning, then at the moment I reached for my last dose of absinthe I was sucked into it, like a flushing toilet, and all at once found myself back at the hostel. It had been a Portkey.Intrigued by this newfound form of transportation but otherwise undaunted, I collected my bags from Cheers and bid farewell to my friends, Ahmed and Sinan. “Later, man!” they called as I scooted out along the cobbled streets of Istanbul to grab a train back to the airport.I took a seat on the train—old men, women, and children be damned. I pulled out my phone, connected the train’s Wifi (yes, Americans, even economically imperiled developing countries offer this service now), and began to watch the second half of a World Cup game, Portugal versus someone. As I streamed the match, I saw the white-mustached Turkish gentleman next to me eyeing my screen, surreptitiously, as one eyes a dirty magazine tucked away in the far corner of the rack. I inclined the screen toward him, a gesture of international goodwill. He nodded in appreciation, and together we gazed at the figures jaunting around on the otherwise verdant illuminations of my phone. Moments into our shared and intimate viewing experience, the Turkish man leaned in to share a confidence.“Beşiktaş is number one team in Turkey.” He gave me a wide smile. “Beşiktaş is my team,” he clarified, pressing a thumb to his chest and then an index finger distantly toward, presumably, the glorious municipality of Beşiktaş.“Oh?” I said, impressed.Then he pointed at the screen, “Pepe plays for Beşiktaş.”Pepe is a Portuguese defensive stalwart. He is one of Portugal’s most internationally prominent players, after Cristiano Ronaldo. Not only that, the man relayed as further intelligence: the Beşiktaş outfit also boasts among its numbers Ricardo Quaresma, who is a less distinguished footballer, but notable as one of the few Portuguese players who doesn’t identify under a mononym.“Oh, wow,” I intoned, convincingly, as if playing an Owen Wilson character.This Turkish-American connection via the Portuguese pleased us both and we sat there in happy silence for a few minutes. Then he retrieved his phone from his shirt pocket. He scrolled through and offered me a picture of him and his daughter at a game, indicating that this was Beşiktaş. “This is very nice,” I said. In return I offered a picture of Haily and me at our Portugal game in Russia and explained how I had actually been at World Cup before coming to Turkey. The man was keen on this information, as of course he was, because Beşiktaş is technically in Europe.When his stop came we parted as friends, as two men who had just before been strangers and in the intervening moments shared with one another intimate experiences held closely to our hearts and connected on a deeply-felt, fundamentally human level, which only an event like the World Cup brings out. Soon the train pulled up at the airport terminal. And as I hopped off the train I reached into my jacket pocket where I felt the smooth surface of a foreign object. I looked down and pulled out a manila envelope. It was stuffed with reams of neatly wrapped, bank-marked two-hundred Lira notes. “Now where do you suppose these came from?” I said to myself, depositing them furtively back into my pocket and making my way through the automatic doors of Istanbul’s Ataturk airport.I got to the airport at 11:30 PM for my 1:30 AM flight. The muslim girl at the Turkish Airlines check-in counter greeted me cheerfully. I handed her my passport. She banged away on the keyboard as airline clerks do—about a thousand clicks for what you imagine can only be about a dozen bits of information. Then she pulled a phone up to her ear and made a call. It wasn’t a short call, either. Not a good sign. She was speaking in Turkish, but I could make out the word “standby.” My stomach dropped. This had happened to me once before, in Mumbai. I had booked an intercontinental flight (on Air f*****g France, for the record), which was slated to depart in the wee hours for Paris en route back to America. There had been a tinsy miscalculation, and the doggedly optimistic algorithms at Air France had, unfortunately, unexpectedly, inexplicably, overbooked the flight. I was one of a handful of ticketed passengers denied entry. As you can imagine, I wasn’t happy. But as you also might be able to imagine, there were people who got more heated than I. One guy started yelling at the poor Indian girl behind the desk, “You can’t DO this to me! Do you know who I AM? I have somewhere to BE!” She did her best to assuage him. At first I understood his rage, empathized even, at least in the sense of mirroring his emotion. I thought he was a douchebag for yelling at her, sure, but I understood where he was coming from. He continued in this vein for tens of minutes. “Where I have to be is IMPORTANT! And I am getting on that PLANE!” Eventually I couldn’t watch anymore, because he was taking his anger out on this girl who couldn’t do anything about it. “Do you know who I AM?” He yelled at the clerk. “Yes, fuckhole we all know who you are,” I chimed in. “You’re a pompous, self-important, poorly-adjusted jerk. So just sit down and shut up like the rest of us.” I didn’t actually say that to him. But I did intervene and attempt to soothe him, which worked and the girl shot me a look of sincere gratitude.Anyway, the muslim girl on the phone had still not addressed me directly. She went over to her colleague for a brief conference. Then she returned and told me to follow. We went over to another counter. She consulted again with her colleagues in Turkish. After they reached a verdict, her colleague printed me a boarding pass. The girl handed it to me, smiling, and said, “Your gate is not open yet, but you can go through customs.” I looked down at my ticket.“Is there a problem?” I asked. Where my boarding pass should’ve had a seat number it just said “JMP.”“The flight’s overbooked,” she told me. “Just wait at the gate until everyone else is boarded. Then see if you get on.”While I’d been waiting I had noticed a sign that said you should request a compensation brochure in the event that you’re bumped from a flight due to overbooking. I requested one.“I don’t understand,” she said, suddenly not an adept English speaker.“Brochure,” I said, pointing at the sign.“No brochure,” she countered. “You’ll be fine.”I gave her a blank look for three silent seconds, then dismissively rolled my eyes at her and huffed off. As I walked away I thought about how that wasn’t a very nice thing of me to do and, reminded of my time in Mumbai, turned back and yelled, “Do you know who I AM?”I was in the throws of uncertainty concerning one’s destiny that only a waylaid transcontinental flight can bring on. I threw down my bags at the gate I was slated to fly out of and took a brief leave of consciousness, which was the most productive thing I could bring myself to do. When I awoke I was still marinating in qualms about the stochastic nature of my flight assignment—would I be able to get on another flight? Would I have to go back into the city? Would Sinan and Ahmed take me back? Of course they would, I assured myself. But it didn’t help.As the seating area around the gate filled up, I started to see them—white Africans. They were headed to Johannesburg, like me. They were speaking Afrikaans. I would’ve found this very exciting if I weren’t so nervous. One by one I watched each of them be graciously accepted onto the plane. Once the great throng of people had boarded the plane, I presented myself at the counter to be installed into any unclaimed seat. They said they were still waiting for a few passengers to trickle in. I took a half step away from their desk and tried to put on a patient face as I waited. Joining me in hoping that the stragglers had succumb to some unfortunate scenario were a couple of backpackers and an asian girl, with tattoos, in her thirties. We shared brief commiserations. A pang of kinship shot between us while resting in the clammy and masculine hands of Lady Fortuna.“Hope we get on,” the Asian girl offered to me.“Yeah, me too,” I replied.A family with two small children came running through the terminal, waving their tickets, and petitioning the agents not to close the door just yet.Then as the doors were closing, in dramatic slow motion, the clerks went bang-bang on their keyboards and out popped a fistful of boarding passes. They presented them to me and the two backpackers. They told the Asian girl there was no room for her. The three of us gave our comrade a doleful look as we were ushered down the runway. I wished her luck. Then I promptly forgot about her. For me, this was a happy occasion. I was on my way to Africa.Next Episode:Thanks for checking out Season 1 of Notes from the Field. If you’ve enjoyed it, please consider becoming a premium subscriber. I’m trying to do more of this kind of travel writing in the future. But as you can imagine, it’s hard to have these kinds of experiences while also holding down a job. Your subscription goes a long way toward helping me to do that. Use the link below, and you’ll get 50% off an annual subscription. Thanks! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit codykommers.substack.com/subscribe

Special Guest: Amado DehoyosYou don't have to be a rocket scientist to travel the world, but sometimes it helps. Having spent 8 years building a career testing rockets with SpaceX, Amado DeHoyos decided to leave it early in 2015 and spent the last 5 years circling the globe on a seemingly never-ending quest - the desire to see the world. A friend made the fateful decision early in that trip to gift Amado a book called "100 Wonders" and he would sweep the globe, attempting to visit as many of those as he possible could (currently at 97, those last 3 are going to be tricky…). The checklist of 100 Wonders would expand to the checklist of UNESCO world heritage sites and would then expand to just being and living in the moment among the cultures of the world. Show Notes:1:04 Amado discusses the book that changed the course of his life. Dehoyos has traveled to a 117 countries (including Antarctica), alongside 430 UNESCO sites.  5:33 A former engineer for SpaceX, Amado discusses the transition to following his dreams to explore the world. He discusses his travels to Rome and Machu Picchu. Amado discusses the history, culture, nature, and people of Iguazu Falls, Manaus, Ataturk dam and the Amazon river 97 of the 100 wonders and what's left 12:40 Amado shares his secrets to get to Antarctica. Wildlife in Antartica and the Polar Bear Plunge Discusses his love for New Zealand and some tips and tricks 21.15 Find out how to cover the trail while en-route to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Discover what it feels like to be connected. Interesting stuff to carry during travel. The desire to travel to Iran and visit the man-made and god-made beauty out there. 

On October 18, 2015, former BBC journalist, Jacky Sutton was found hanged in a bathroom stall in Ataturk airport located in Istanbul. Her untimely death was ruled as an apparent suicide. Despite the conclusion of her death, it's the circumstances leading to this event that have people scratching their heads. Her supposed suicide went against not only her character, but her current occupation at the time. Furthermore, the reasoning for her suicide according to airport officials and the police, didn't make sense. The answer given was due to the lack of funds for her flight. Jacky's death is considered a suicide, but still remains highly suspicious. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices