Istanbul and Constantinople

What's in a name?

Sculpture in the teachers' Lounge at the Zapeion High School. 

On the 2nd of August, I found myself in excellent company, in a place I had held in my heart and mind since I was a young boy. It fills me with sadness to think that the change in stewardship of Constantinople, which became Istanbul, signaled the end of an era and the beginning of another. A loss for one 'nation' and triumph for another. My childhood was filled with the melancholic feeling that something had been lost and would be restored to 'us' someday. In truth, I had no idea what had been lost. The City, the Polis, the whole Christian construct that used God as a vehicle to create a state and a way of life, had been subsumed into an advancing culture that would influence the Balkans and shape the region for the next 500 years. (More on this change in name another time).

I’ve often written about my family's history, a subject that seems to captivate only me. My siblings usually raise an eyebrow when I share some rediscovered paper, a scrap of information, or an old photograph that binds us to a place we never knew. To be honest, it was rarely spoken about. When my father mentioned Istanbul—although he never called it that; it was always Constantinople—it was as if a curtain opened onto a world we couldn’t quite picture, a place filled with sadness and longing. My father, God rest his soul, was a kind man, at least in the way I remember him. I was born when he was in his fifties and lost him just as I crossed the threshold from teenager to young man. His accounts of Constantinople were always pleasant; he described the people warmly—the Turks, Greeks, Iranians, Armenians, and Italians who crowded the bustling streets.

What a life he must have had... I wrote an entire book about it, imagining it, almost living it vicariously—first as a young man and now, in my old age, when the days seem shorter and friendships less thrilling as I watch my friends grow older. I hate to admit it, but it’s true—I am preparing myself for the inevitable pain and loss as loved ones depart from this life.

And so, on August 2nd, there I was, in the Polis. I could hardly contain my feelings. I was so excited that I talked incessantly, which must have been exhausting for those guiding me through the city as part of a funded project to develop and expand my art practice. I arrived on a cloud, nervous yet confident—seemingly well-informed but, in truth, utterly unaware. The worst of it was that there was so much I needed to absorb, but my well-meaning chatter drowned it out. There was such painful beauty in the richly decorated, painstakingly restored churches, the Holy Springs, the remnants of an old empire, and the history of a new one—all vying not just for attention, but, more deeply, for respect.

On that August day, walking through the hallowed halls of Zappeion High School felt like tracing footsteps across a bridge of eras, each worn floorboard a reminder of the generations educated there. Established in 1875, the Zappeion School for Girls once represented a pinnacle of education for Greek girls in Istanbul. The building itself, with its blend of neoclassical architecture and subtle Hellenic influences, still possesses an air of sophistication, a "palace of learning," as it was once called. This school was an anchor for the Greek community, a cultural and intellectual centre in Constantinople.

Touring the classrooms, now empty but resonant with the echoes of students past, I marveled at the beauty that remained, even amid signs of age and areas needing repair. Richly decorated interiors—a blend of Greek and Ottoman artistry—lend the space a transcendent, almost sacred, atmosphere. The school’s high ceilings, detailed moldings, and intricately designed windows reflect the glory days when it was an epicenter of Greek education. I paused in one room, taking in the beams of sunlight filtering through arched windows and casting intricate shadows on faded walls. It felt like stepping into a memory, as though each detail whispered stories of its students, of knowledge shared, of dreams fostered within these walls.

How I wish I could have my time in Istanbul back from the start. I would change nothing at all apart from the fact I would talk less and listen more. I would look at things with greater humility and realise as I do now, that I knew almost nothing of its history and the lives of the people who live with that history every day of their lives. 

The entrance to the school.

In the entrance of Zappeion High School, you're greeted by a sense of grandeur. As you walk through the doors, the central entrance is marked by its stately architecture. The floor is made of polished marble, inscribed with the year of the building's construction.

A statue of Constantine Zappas stands prominently, symbolizing the school's rich heritage and its benefactor's vision. The foyer is spacious, with high ceilings and elegant decor, giving an immediate impression of the school's undeniable historical significance.