sümela

Clinging improbably to the side of Melá mountain in Trabzon province at a height of 1200 metres, is the stoic face of Sümela Monastery, a Greek Orthodox monastery dating back to the Byzantine era. Founded in 386 CE, Sümela was abandoned during the 1923 population exchange between Turkey and Greece, and converted into a museum. I have long been mystified by images of Sümela— it seemed mythical; this long, stone structure embracing a menacing cliff above a dark, storybook forest, so out of place.

I don't know how long the hike up through the forest was. I remember its steepness, the dampness, the smell of earth and impending rain, and the flashes of blue from a spying jay. We stopped part way up to sketch, sitting cross-legged on the ground, occasionally graced by the curious stares of passersby.

The depth of the valley from the monastery was intoxicating— the rushing river below reduced to a pale trickle— the pines, dark spots in a field of many greens. Ravens slipping in and out of view like shadows, lifting into the graying sky, then plunging into the green. I did not expect that behind the impressiveness of Sümela's straight face stood several humbler structures— little stone kitchens, chapels, as well as rooms for monks and visitors, huddled around a central church, which was carved into a cave in the rock— every surface painted with biblical stories.

abandoned

In 1923 the Turkish and Greek governments agreed to a mutual population exchange— Christian Turks of Greek origin living in Turkey were forced to relocate to Greece, and Muslim Greeks of Turkish descent were expelled to Turkey. Families and communities were divided as people were driven out of their homes by their governments to countries they had no ties or connections to, other than ancestry and a common religion. Languages had to be learned, and lives dismantled, had to be reconstructed.

Kayaköy, a village about eight kilometres south of Fethiye, crumbles into the soil; the ruins of a Greek community forced to abandon their homes for a foreign land. Hundreds of stone houses and two churches haunt the hillside, remnants of a massive trauma. Most of the houses remained uninhabited once their owners left— Muslim Turkish neighbours would not move into the empty homes, and an earthquake in 1957 damaged many of the structures.



I am deeply touched by the evidence of human hands, the evidence of lives lived and uprooted. The blue paint on so many interiors, the smooth stones arranged in patterns, the blackened wall from where a stove once provided warmth. It aches to imagine their suffering.