All language subtitles for 6 - Bosphore.ENG

ASPECTS OF TURKEY,
PAST AND PRESENT

BOSPORUS

"Beyond this point, there is nothing,

"apart from the cold and the enemy,"

sighed the gentle,
passionate poet, Ovid,

exiled by the wrath of Caesar
to this sad shore.

The name "Euxeinos Pontos"
died out with the ancient atlases,

but for Turks today,

like the Romans 2,000 years ago,

beyond these stormy seas
there is still nothing.

Nothing but the enemy and the cold.

The Black Sea's north wind blows.
The gulls go wild over the straits.

The fishermen return to the harbour
and suddenly the seasons are reversed.

Poyraz and Lodos,
the north wind and the south wind.

Their unpredictable alternation
determines the colour of the sky

and the pleasure
of living on these dunes

where every step awakens a memory.

A captain from Megara settled here
twenty-six centuries ago,

in command of his sailors.

He was called Byzas,

and the outer limits of Europe
were named after him.

Byzantium became Constantinople,
then Istanbul,

never ceasing to be a caretaker
for the straits under arms.

Entwined by the seawater river
which gives it its diversity,

this threefold town is inseparable
from the Bosporus.

It has carried three names in time,

and keeps three names in space:

Istanbul is Galata, and also Scutari.

Two continents border the water,
each a reminder of something else.

There's almost nothing left
to evoke the Greek empire

apart from the wild grasses, the ashes
of the dead and the crumbling ramparts.

Beyond these walls lies Asia
with its tawny, ochre Anatolia,

barely known and virtually unchanged.

A sound sometimes wafts
through the ancient Ottoman capital,

the holy voice of Islam.

It is the voice of an almost
familiar world, almost modern.

Soot and smoke mingle
with sweet scents.

Oil flows into the calm waters.

Industry has erected chimneys

that pious children of the Republic
call "Ataturk's minarets".

The fishing boats double up as barges.

A melancholy stroller
would have shuddered to discover coal

on these shores that once
so enchanted the Romantics.

But for a soul partial to harmony,

there are still Istanbul's 425 mosques,
the preserved heritage of the Khalifa.

Time has stood still in this sanctuary,

dedicated to the memory
of Mehmed II, el-Fatih,

who took the defences
of this second Rome by force.

A spell casts torpor
over this pure shelter,

shut off to the babble
of one of the 11,000 fountains,

once donated to the community.

Only prayer punctuates the breeze,

that and the ablutions imposed
on the faithful by ritual.

This timeless Turkey extends to here.

Writers of old called it Asia Minor
in accounts of their travels.

Some doubtless live on, but the best
of them have been returned to the soil,

in these cemeteries
dedicated to every belief,

islands of peace, where white stones
drown in the greenery,

surrendering to nature
without those formal wire fences

which elsewhere insulate the dead
from life's exuberance.

Images from another century
present themselves here, too,

in this city which appears to be
the capital of the unchanging.

The gestures of these men, constantly
worrying their beads with their fingers,

are guided only by tradition

as they remember
the agony of the Ottoman Empire.

The Turk is no longer
the sick man of Europe.

He has conquered misfortune
to find new meaning for the future

without abandoning his customs.

By turns Istanbul is
a metropolis of dreams

or a castle in the mist,

its colours
more or less refined or blurred.

The sky suddenly clouds over.

Mist and dust suddenly sweep
along the quays of the Bosporus,

softening the domes, surrounding
these ferry boats like ghost ships

in whose daily comings and goings

you can feel the heart
of two continents beating.

Slate, and mud-coloured grey,

the whole town drifts off in them,
disappearing in the murky waters.

But the wind changes everything,

and in a suddenly limpid light

residents of the occidental region
of the city savour the pleasure

of being part of Europe,
and also of the Orient.

A familiar Orient.

Even if the suburbs maintain a deceptive
aura of nomadic encampment,

they remain open
to a motley population of foreigners.

A tradition for commerce is
the Republic's European calling.

Amidst the scent of watermelons
and oranges, resin and dyes,

Levantine malice mingles
with Anatolian crudeness in the markets,

the Mongolian heritage or Balkan
ancestry of a robust and silent people

who are very lively, if not lovers of life,

frugally nourished, soberly watered
by yoghurt and clear water,

lemonade and cherry cordial.

On the clearest days,

when the grey clouds part
to reveal its golden reflections,

Istanbul is unique in the world

that fascinates those who might
previously have been put off it.

In the sanctuary dedicated to him,

the shadow of Suleiman the Magnificent
reigns over the conquered town.

The memory of the Genoans and
Venetians clings to the slopes of Pera.

Imagination has worked its magic
on lyrical foreigners

who have christened
a still-water channel the "Golden Horn".

Carrying these conflicting currents,

calm seas and saltwater rivers,

the Bosporus is a charmer,
intertwining seven ancient hills.

With what flash of pride did Justinian
greet the completion of this building

dedicated to the saint of wisdom?

107 columns show off a fabulous dome
54 metres off the ground,

as a homage to the god of Byzantium
and his image on earth, Basilus.

For fourteen centuries,

this sublime temple has defied
earthquakes and the ravages of time.

Many buildings will not be
lucky enough to survive

in a city where, up until the last century,
stone was reserved for public edifices.

The rich built themselves
wooden palaces,

the residences
of the patricians of old families

whose quaint charm we admire.

Behind these yazllks,
face to the wind,

a whole town suns itself
under the domes.

It rises up with its gothic arches
and ornamental bandstands

on the edge of this liquid avenue
that Leander would cross each night

to embrace his beloved.

Istanbul always has the last word.

It triumphs as soon as
we distance ourselves from it.

A town we thought neglected
regains its elegance.

We dismiss the details
to see it as a whole.

On departure, the sun restores a light
to old Constantinople.

What once seemed disappointing
becomes unforgettable.

Travellers cannot fail to fall in love
when, in a dusk heavy with nostalgia,

they bid farewell to the fishing boats
bobbing about on the eastern bank

in front of the little harbours of old.