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I removed my shoes, and entered the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, known as the Blue Mosque, the national mosque of Turkey. Built in Istanbul between 1609 and 1616, the majestic structure contains a tomb of its founder, Ahmed I, a madrasah, and a hospice. Outside, six magnificent minarets and a series of cascading domes dominate the skyline, while inside, twenty thousand blue tiles shimmer above, and countless crimson carpets spread below, casting a sheen of obligatory sanctity, if not ecumenical obeisance, that imbues the worldly surroundings with an embrace of soft spiritual indulgence. But it was a particular woman's pose, like a rebellious ruby rising from a pomegranate, that caught my attention.
Cautiously, I looked over my shoulder, moved past a balustrade, and removed my lens cover. No one seemed to notice my infidel presence. It was fairly quiet under the dominating dome; pilgrims prayed in various areas; tourist gazed at the constellation ceiling above. On the walls, great tablets honored the names of the caliphs and verses from the Quran. Five times a day, by Muslim faith, the muezzin or prayer-caller announced from the minarets the call to prayer.
This was my first time in a mosque, but I knew women were required to be modest and discrete, certainly not coy, capricious, or cajoling; especially not accentuating one's shape in a captivating pose. This woman did not fit the totally-covered dress code; her red scarf seemed to be purposely swept aside, and I could see distinct curves, a definite taboo, by any Mohammedan measure. Posing provocatively, she seemed to be engaged in some sort of dance, her arms thrusting outward, and her breast forward. By the concavity of the huge dome above, I knew that Allah was familiar with curves, but this woman was pushing the ecumenical envelope, perhaps exulting in pure womanhood. I began to focus my 135 mm lens.
A mosque can be an intimidating place, especially if one's particular belief (or lack thereof) is shunned, and one's final destiny condemned by local interpretation to a nether world of fire and hell. I have had stones thrown at me outside the Immam Reza shrine, a mosque in Mashhad, Iran (literally the place of martyrdom), the second largest holy city, next to Mecca, in the world. Stones are not conducive to conversion. Visitors may develop a Constantinople complex. Minarets may appear bristling threats, while Turkish men in jackets seem to follow your every move. Reality distorts...until you consider the woman.
The rosy flush of rug paradise is palpable. Surely the caliphs must have appreciated that most sensual of colors; sultans must have found succor in omnipresent patterns, and thus adorned their rosy-tinged palaces, and capillary-fused houses of worship, with a royal hue, hidden from view, except to the faithful. Even ayatollahs, attempting to cover flushed cheeks, succumb to the indulgence of bountiful beards, knowing that one woman is capable of transforming herself into a holy thing, a translucent being, and the very room into a womb-like vestibule. One woman, no matter how banished by the banality of a belief, or barricaded with glass ceilings or separate doors, through the creative power of her being, can eclipse the brutality of any sterile god, and conquer divinity. That is the whole crux, fissure, and fear of the crumbling Judeo/Christian/Moslem divide. Mostly, women need not apply. I snapped the photo, and quickly moved on.
Photo from Sacred Destinations.com
Inside, the mosque is mesmerizing. Prayer is a highly regulated regimen. The faithful bow toward Mecca, birthplace of the Prophet, who according to the Koran, practiced austerity, but was no stranger to women.
Outside, the building rises like a barbed Bastille, jabbing at the heavens.
A provocative poser in a house of worship? Why do Allah's furies not fall upon her? Perhaps mosques, despite the fierceness of their soaring phallic minarets, are secretly sympathetic, even decidedly feminine, due to the overwhelming dominance of their domes and the internal secrets of their ornate inner linings. Perhaps, by the power of this woman's presence, like a beauty on a blot of red blood, even the Blue Mosque, the long-standing stellar stalagmite of almost 500 years of rigid Ottoman Empire rule, is not immune to the feminine touch of humanity. Maybe a folk dance or two has the power.
Official White House Photo by Pete Souza
Faith has the power to bring kings to their knees, but dance can raise men to their feet. President Obama removes shoes before entering the Blue Mosque. April 7, 2009.
