Daily Life In The Ottoman Empire (28 page)

The inside of mausoleum was covered with embroidered shawls
and handkerchiefs, and the turban worn by the Sufi teacher in life “was affixed
to the head of the coffin.” The relics of the deceased
şeyhs
were “suspended
against the walls—their walking sticks, their rosaries and beads, and portions
of their garments,” and pilgrims kissed and touched these with devotion and
reverence. Many Sufi shrines were built on sites that already served as places
of pilgrimage and worship before the arrival of the Turks and Islam. While some
of the sites were important during the Christian era, the sacredness of others
dated back further to pre-Christian times, when pagan cults, centered on the
worship of a sun god or another natural deity, prevailed.

STORYTELLING

The overwhelming majority of the population in the Ottoman
Empire could not read or write. Formal knowledge was the monopoly of a few who
had received their education and training either at the palace or at the
mekteps
and
medreses,
which prepared their students for a career in the
religious establishment. The same situation prevailed among the Christian and
Jewish communities of the empire. Until the arrival of modern education and
schooling in the 19th century, the majority of Christians and Jews who could
read and write received their education at religious schools, at times attached
to a church or a synagogue.

In this environment, storytelling was not merely a form of
popular entertainment but also one of the most popular forms of transmitting
historical knowledge and popular culture among the masses. Ordinary people from
diverse social backgrounds gathered in coffeehouses to listen to storytellers
read fables, recite poetry, and use a variety of provocative methods to create
and sustain suspense. In these public performances, skilled storytellers
inserted pauses, switched from normal speech to chanting, moved arms and head
in sweeping gestures, whispered, shouted, clapped hands, and pounded feet, as
they impersonated a variety of characters and, in this way, “imparted to the
audience the whole gamut of feelings and passions experienced by them.” Instead
of relying exclusively on describing characters, the storyteller “would give an
impersonation, sometimes changing headdress to suit, and using two props—a
cudgel and a kerchief wrapped around his neck—to produce appropriate audible
and visible effects.” Sometimes
dervişes
acted as “oral narrators (
meddah)
and drew on their knowledge of written culture in their stories.” Because of
this highly specialized knowledge and their unique ability to perform in a
dramatic fashion, these
derviş
storytellers were greatly esteemed
among the members of the ruling elite. Storytellers were divided into several
categories according to their style and repertoire. Some specialized in popular
romances, others in national legends, pseudo-historical romances, epic tales,
individual exploits, or religious narrations.

The numerous anecdotes, jokes, and stories attributed to
Nassre-din Hoca (Wise or Learned Nassredin), and told daily by storytellers in
coffeehouses, or in gatherings with family and friends, reflected the witty and
subversive nature of a culture that viewed the claims and actions of those in
power with humor and skepticism. In tale after tale, Nassredin appears as a man
of small means, living with his wife, or as a travelling wise man, without a
regular job, wandering from one town or village to the next. He has a biting
tongue and a fearless character, and cannot be easily impressed or intimidated
by men of power, wealth, and influence. On one occasion he arrives in a town
without a penny in his pocket and desperate to make a quick gain before he can
continue his journey. Using his turban and robe to impress the people with his
knowledge and education, he agrees to deliver a lecture in return for a
handsome honorarium, although he does not know what he will be talking about.
When he appears in front of a large crowd that is waiting enthusiastically for
his presentation, he asks the audience if they know what he will be talking
about. The answer from the crowd is a resounding “No,” to which Nassredin
responds, “Since you are so ignorant that you do not know anything about what I
will talk about, I refuse to speak to you,” and he walks out. He cannot, however,
receive his pay unless he returns and delivers a lecture. Thus, he appears for
a second time and since he still does not have anything to say, he merely
repeats the same question he had asked the audience the day before: “Do you
know what I will be talking to you about today?” To ensure that he does not use
their negative response as an excuse to walk out again, the audience answer
with a resounding, “Yes, we do,” to which Nassredin responds, “Since you all
know what I will be talking about there will be no need for me to waste your
time,” and he walks out again. Frustrated and suspicious, the townspeople
decide to preempt Nassredin’s shenanigans by discussing a possible strategy
that would prevent him from leaving without delivering a lecture. The decision
is made that if he asks the same question, “Do you know what I will be talking
to you about today?” half of the people present will say, “Yes” and the other
half will say, “No.” Thus, when Nassredin appears for the third time and asks
the question, the crowd is ready with one group shouting, “Yes,” and the second
crying out, “No,” to which the Hoca responds, “There is no need for me to waste
your time with a lecture since those of you who know what I will talk about can
tell those of you who don’t.”

On another occasion, Nassredin is awakened in the middle of
a cold and snowy night by the sound of commotion and loud argument outside his
house. He tries to ignore the fight outside his window and goes back to sleep,
but his wife, who has also been awakened by the noise, insists that he should
get up and investigate the cause of the fight. Despite his best efforts to
convince his wife that he should not become involved in the fight, Nassredin is
finally forced to wrap himself in his quilt and go out of the house. Shivering
from the freezing cold, he steps out of his house and asks the two groups
arguing and fighting in front of his house what is causing the big commotion.
His question ends the argument among the men who were fighting until then. They
look at Nassredin for a moment, then suddenly jump on him and tear the quilt he
is using to cover his body. After ripping the quilt into two halves, they run
away and disappear into the darkness of the night. Having lost his quilt,
Nassredin returns to his bedroom. His wife looks at the baffled, perplexed, and
shivering Nassredin and asks him the reason for the loud argument on the
street. Nassredin responds: “the fight was over my quilt.”

The popular Ottoman shadow theater Karagöz and Hacivat was
another means through which the society “created its world of laughter,”
allowing the ordinary subjects of the sultan to criticize the government and
the clerical establishment “before rapturous audiences” who crowded the cafés. There
are many different legends and claims about the origins of shadow theater in
the Ottoman Empire. Regardless of how it arrived in Istanbul, Karagöz quickly
emerged as the epitome of Ottoman wit and humor and a central cultural
personage in the daily life of ordinary Ottomans. He was a “roughly colored
diminutive figure cut out of camel’s hide,” who played “its merry part behind a
sheet” so that “its comic outline and gorgeous coloring” would stand out
against the white background. Members of all social classes in the Ottoman
Empire watched Karagöz, some of which “originated in the palace” and found its “way
to the street,” while others “conceived in local coffeehouses, were performed
in the sultan’s harem, transmitting the norms and wishes of the populace and
poking fun at the state and its servants.” Removed from reality, “once through
the stage, then through the puppets, and finally through their projection on a
flat screen,” the shadow play served “as a safety valve for venting popular
dissatisfaction,” ridiculing the hypocrisies of power and morality and voicing “a
truth about society that hides within fiction.” The plays portrayed a reality
that “stood in marked opposition” to the rites and rituals of the palace and the
Islamic religious hierarchy, and they represented a world opposed to the one
suggested by the ruling class.

Not surprisingly, the sultans and their officials did not
view shadow-theater as “harmless entertainment.” The uneasiness of the ruling
elite was intensified by the fact that the majority of shadow plays were
performed in coffeehouses, which served as the meeting place for the members of
the lower classes. It is true that shadow plays were also performed “at family
celebrations like circumcisions, births and marriages,” but their “greatest
success came during Ramadan, when on the evening before breaking their fast,
people would crowd into the coffeehouses to watch a show and shorten the time
before the next meal.” When the performance was held after breaking the fast, “tiny
cups of aromatic coffee were constantly handed round” by young men “wearing the
good old costume: baggy trousers and little coils of colored linen” with “turbans
heaped up on their shaven heads.” Once the play had ended, the spectators
applauded and “bestowed doles of small coin on the two lads who came round with
a platter to collect their offerings.” Then, “the light behind the screen
disappeared as suddenly as it had shone out,” and the musicians played a final
crescendo as the crowd had a parting coffee before it poured out into the
street.

Aside from the sultan and his officials, the members of the
religious class viewed the shadow play with suspicion and disgust because they
dealt openly with “immoral subjects” and portrayed “female characters whose
behavior left a great deal to be desired.” To make matters worse, Islamic law
forbade the depiction of all living beings. However, “with just one or two
holes in the brightly painted leather puppets, it was possible to kill two
birds with one stone: the actors could fit the sticks into them in order to
move them, but because of the hole (which was generally in the region of the
heart), the characters could not be deemed capable of life, and so they could
not be considered to depict living beings.”

In the shadow play, the principal characters were Karagöz (literally
the Black Eye), the kind, honest, straightforward, illiterate man on the street
who cannot find permanent employment, and his friend and opposite, Hacivat, an
intelligent, refined, and cultured man, who displayed his knowledge and
education by speaking Ottoman Turkish and using traditional poetry. Karagöz was
usually “eight inches high” and was “always shown in profile” with “a
parrot-like nose, and a beady, glittering eye, screened by a thick projecting
eyebrow.” He wore a huge turban, “which on the slightest provocation” was “removed
by a wire, to display his cocoa-nut of a head, an exhibition always greeted
with shouts of laughter.” Dressed in “a colored waistcoat, a short jacket, and
a pair of baggy trousers, with striped stockings,” his “legs and arms” were “flexible”
and “moved by skillfully concealed wires,” while his gestures were “clumsy but
vigorous.” In sharp contrast, his friend and confidant, Hacivat, was “more alert
in his movements.”

Karagöz and Hacivat were joined by a large cast of
characters who caricatured “a variety of races, professions and religions.” Besides
moving the puppets from the back by rods that he held between his fingers, the
puppeteer “spoke all their parts in various voices, sang songs, made a variety
of sound-effects, and into the old, familiar and well-loved plots he introduced
a number of improvised comic scenes, sometimes of current or legal interest,
which included a great deal of ribaldry and a number of coarse jokes.” Usually
as the play unfolded, keen to make mischief, Karagöz grew “bolder with impunity
and approbation,” becoming increasingly more daring, outspoken, and intrepid “in
his impropriety.” Special and “sedater performances” were often organized for
women and children “in rich private homes.” Occasionally Karagöz paid a visit
to the imperial palace, where he was extremely careful “not to say or do
anything” that would offend the Shadow of God. But Karagöz was not the only
theatrical performance popular among the urban population. There was another
form of theater called
orta oyunu,
“which involved improvising without a
stage or set text” and “depended almost entirely on the skill of the main comic.”

9 – COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE

One
of the basic teachings of Islam was the promotion of marriage and condemnation
of celibacy. Only those who suffered from severe economic hardship could
legitimately remain unmarried. Every Muslim was expected to marry, and celibacy
was regarded as unnatural, unhealthy, and therefore, unacceptable. To abstain
from marriage when one had attained a sufficient age and had no physical and
emotional impediments was viewed as improper and even disreputable. Girls
married at an early age, and at times, soon after they had reached puberty.

The general belief among the urban and rural population was
that if the young remained unmarried, their sexual instincts and desires would
find an outlet outside marriage and this could cause social chaos and moral
evils. According to the Muslim tradition, “when an unmarried man and woman”
were together, Satan was “also present.” There could, therefore, be “no
allowance for innocence in the unsanctioned mixing of the sexes.” Families were
often apprehensive about the sexual desires of their daughters and always
concerned about their sexual purity. Islamic law and tradition viewed women’s
sexuality as a potent force, which had to be controlled first by the father and
then by a husband.

The great Muslim theologian, jurist, and philosopher
Ghazali (1058–1111), whose works were studied at religious schools and seminaries
throughout the Ottoman Empire, had warned against “the calamity of social
disorder” that followed “from the failure to control women.” If left
uncontrolled, women’s “irresistible and assertive sexual nature” could destroy “social—particularly
male— equanimity” resulting in chaos and anarchy. Girls were the guardians of
their family’s honor. They were to remain virgins until they married and their “clothing
and physical mobility” had to be regulated. The Ottoman religious establishment
took Ghazali’s position “on women’s physicality” one step further and argued
that “women’s entire body” was “effectively pudendal,” and must therefore be
completely covered, including the face and hands. Exception could only be made
within the circle of permitted relatives or out of absolute necessity, such as
for medical reasons. Violation of this honor code could result in the woman’s
expulsion from the household and even worse, death at the hands of her own
father or brothers.