The people of Trabzon were used to seeing a concoction of different races, cultures, and faiths pouring into the city. A new face burnt by the blazing Turkish sun would catch your eye for a fraction of a second, and then pass on, never to be seen again. But lately, through the fragrant steam of the tea stalls and the tinkling hangings of the antique shop, the locals had observed a new enigma. The same face, seen again and again.

There was nothing peculiar about the man’s appearance. He was neither young nor old, not even particularly good-looking. He had a head of brown curls, a clean-shaven chin, and usually wore a plain T-shirt with a backpack. His fair complexion marked him as a foreigner.

No, the real enigma was his face. His eyes, whispered observers, seemed wistful as if searching for something, but not knowing where it was.

He haunted the streets, with no destination in mind, never stopping to chat. When a passerby seeing him for the fifth time asked who he was, he simply answered the curious faces around him ‘a believer’ and went on, searching.

For this man truly was searching for something. Not love, as the ladies gossiped, but something far more important to him. A cloud had shadowed his countenance, his hands fidgeted at the hint of any religious relic, monument, or text, of any doctrine. A temple, a synagogue, a madrassa, a monastery, the believer’s feet shuffled, aching to stand in the holy place, heart yearning to have his question answered. He was a believer-but of what? What was the true belief in this world of divisions and arguments? Would the heart of Asia Minor feed his insatiable hunger for the gospel truth?

He had roamed through lavishly decorated mosques, spent hours observing cramped churches. Conversed with ulamas and priests alike, pored over copies of the Quran and the Bible to see which spoke to him, but the restless creature inside remained deaf and blind. And now, in Trabzon, his quest had ended up on the gleaming steps of one of the biggest debates in religious history, a reflection of the changes of truth and the narrative of Turkey’s past, the Hagia Sophia.

A church - a mosque - a hospital for all - a museum - a mosque again. The sight of this holy building had been everything, seen everything, a confluence of faiths.

‘Surely there would be some truth in these walls won't there?’ the man convinced himself.

Before one could dwell on its history, the breathtaking tranquility of the area consumed a person. A sweeping lush garden dotted with swaying palms, overlooking the massive, weathered, Byzantine dome. From around, the Muslim Azaan echoed, the sonorous recitation mingling with the rhythmic crashes of the Black Sea, and birdsong from the looming trees. The believer could see the peace here.

He wove his way through the scattered tourists, devoted Arabs, some students on a trip, and a few stray reporters with Nikons and notebooks. The entrance hall of the Hagia Sophia was not as magnificent as the one in Istanbul but had its own charm. The ceiling was adorned with graffiti of the 13th century and illuminated by sunbeams from windows lining every wall. Bronzed pillars had been erected on the patterned floor, and each of these bore geometrical motifs, likely a Muslim architectural feature. In the middle of the room lay a Quran on a podium. An usher was translating the Arabic in a hushed, reverent voice to some tourists, explaining how it praised the Muslim’s God, their Prophet, taught mercy and forgiveness…

Waving away an approaching guide, the man silently contemplated his surroundings. He looped around the pillars, appearing at a side entrance. This one was mostly overlooked by tourists- seeking more spiritual displays.  The entrance was as humble as the rest of the building, hardly looked as if it housed anything of spiritual significance.

It was a simple arch made of weathered rock, overlooking the garden, and the believer stepped through it. The area was empty, a peaceful empty. The stone floor was aesthetically lit up by the sunlight seeping through the vivid mosaics on the wall.

From research, the man knew the mosaics were a part of the Christian contribution, like most of this sector of the mosque. Muslims had whitewashed the art in an attempt to convert the church, but some of this had been recovered. Though this one-sixth was chipped, and faded, the many-variegated renders still deserved a position in some of the most engaging religious works of the Common Era.

The believer stood in the center of the chamber and arched his back so that his face looked on the ceiling, His eyes devoured every inch of the stunning fresco up there, a hue of reds, blues, greens, and yellows. Zigzags meeting at the focal point to form four sets of wings, ‘the Four Evangelists’ of Christian belief. Till now, the colors were brilliantly preserved and he spent several minutes marveling at the detail, before straightening back up.

He now walked the length of the corridor next to him, the walls of which were embellished with other events of Christian history. He almost laughed at the irony of it. A Muslim mosque decorated with Christian faces. No wonder the truth was so hard to find.

The first painting on the wall he came across- was the ‘Baptism of the Christ’, a breakthrough in Christianity. Though half of the work had eroded, one could still see the ocher paint streaming on a browned face, a call from the heavens. Drawing faces of the prophets was strictly against Muslim belief, yet here they were, in the heart of such a holy mosque.

The next couple of mosaics were the same, pictures of Jesus and his life in faded colors. A small show of the Last Supper, not as phenomenal as Da Vinci’s, rather modest and minuscule, but for the time it was made, the detail was extravagant. Christ teaching in Church, a single man with a page in his hand, plain robed, one of the most typical displays of Jesus. The believer was getting frustrated, the creature in him beating even more restlessly. None of this spoke to him showed him anything. He turned on his heel, accepting defeat when the blinded creature froze inside him. It had seen something. The man turned around.

At first glance, it was nothing too special. Just a regular-sized, eroded depiction of a woman in dark robe. But the creature steered the believer’s eyes towards the plaque nailed on the work. ‘Hazrat Maryam/ The Virgin Mary’ it read in an unpretentious font. The believer’s insides exploded. He knew the truth.

All this time, he had searched for one true faith. For the one truth, and one thing he believed in. The divided world of contrasting ideas had led him to believe that only one could be right. But the Hagia Sophia had shown him the light, set his world aflame.

A Byzantine dome sheltering Muslim faith, built together to form one of the most beautiful structures he had ever come across. A copy of the Quran, prostrating people of the Ummah, and just some feet away, in the same building, mosaics of Christian beliefs, preaching another faith altogether. Or was it another faith? Hundreds of people of all beliefs or none, standing in awe of this one building in unison, every single day. And this plaque. This label of Hazrat Maryam, of the Virgin Mary, they were the same! The same personality, with nearly the same story but just different names in different places. All the faiths were intertwined, all looking to a divine force, all worshipping. Different names, different practices but the same motive, the same purpose.

The truth was that there was no ‘one’. There were no debates, no clashes, not wholly. Each faith preached goodness, mercy, hope, sacrifice, even human nature to an extent without the religious direction. They all co-existed to give one message, to give hope to the world. The debates were the followers’ doing, not the religions’ fault. Most scriptures agreed on certain historical events, certain people. The Bible had foretold of Islam and Muhammad, The Quran had told of all the Prophets of the fore-religions, of Judaism and Christianity. They complied, without much dissent, so why didn’t the people? Was it politics or pride? But the believer knew, he complied too, he knew the partitions were useless.

The creature in him bursting, singing for joy at finally seeing the world, the believer looked towards the old Byzantine bell tower from the Hagia Sophia. He saw the great grey structure with his newly illuminated eyes and heard the booming Asr Azaan from the bowels of the monument. The believer knew now he believed in all versions of the truth, in all faiths, for they would always be more harmony than discord, despite what the world and its people had to say.
 

Bibliography:

·         Manar Al Athar photo bank for Trabzon: Hagia Sophia: manar-al-athar.ox.ac.uk/dams/pages/search.php?search=%21collection5644

·         Wikipedia; Hagia Sophia, Trabzon: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hagia_Sophia,_Trabzon

·         The Guardian; Turkey’s other Hagia Sophia, in Trabzon: theguardian.com/travel/2017/oct/25/turkey-other-hagia-sophia-trabzon-church-mosque

·         Google Images; Hagia Sophia Trabzon: google.com/search?q=hagia+sophia+trabzon&rlz=1C1CHBD_enPK929PK929&sxsrf=ALeKk005vy5zXMdZLqLGu_gFJzJ4uGQm5w:1621833588522&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiut7b3yOHwAhXhpHEKHT8pCXAQ_AUoAXoECAEQAw&biw=1745&bih=852

·         Imtilak Real Estate; Hagia Sophia Mosque Monument: imtilak.net/en/articles/hagia-sophia-trabzon