There’s a hidden world behind Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar that hasn’t changed in centuries

By Sebnem Arsu, CNN

Istanbul (CNN) — “This has been sitting in the safe for such a long time,” says 78-year-old Umit Berksoy, leaning over the table with his magnifying glass in hand, gently running his fingers over the stone gleaming inside the creased white cloth. “You can no longer find rubies of this size — a perfect fit for a ring.”

With that touch, Berksoy, a veteran jeweler of Istanbul’s legendary Grand Bazaar, is ready to embark on yet another creative journey through one of the world’s oldest and most beautiful covered markets, navigating halls drenched in history that house a unique culture of production.

It’s a world that, for centuries, has woven any material into art, where masters from Turkey’s different religious minorities — Armenians, Greeks, Jews, Syriacs — worked side by side, forging enduring partnerships, and helping to keep the bazaar alive.

The foundation for this shared commercial world under one sprawling roof was laid by the 21-year-old Ottoman Sultan, Mehmed II, soon after his conquest of Constantinople from the Byzantines in 1453.

“True skill lies in building a city, and in winning the hearts of its people,” Mehmed the Conqueror declared. He needed a trading center to finance his foundations and serve a highly diverse community.

Expanding over hundreds of years and surviving major earthquakes, the Grand Bazaar grew to become the heart of Turkey’s traditional commerce and a vast training ground for generations of craftsmen.

Over time, criss-crossing alleys, which Ottoman art historian Mustafa Cezar notes were “as orderly as military barracks,” organically divided among traditional crafts and were named after the trades they exhibited.

Shops, however, changed faces, keeping up with new trends and the changing tastes of foreign tourists. Behind them, the thick masonry walls safeguarded the spirit of the bazaar, Berksoy says.

Weaving his way through tourist groups and street vendors, he points towards the alleys, each dedicated to jewelry, silverware, leather goods, traditional souvenirs and handmade carpets, sketching an invisible map of the bazaar in the air.

This vibrant and brightly lit world, with up to 400,000 daily visitors, is only the surface, he adds, as he walks confidently through the Nuruosmaniye Gate, one of 11 main entrances to a maze of 65 streets, 14 inns and some 3,600 shops.

“Below all this glamour and wealth, in tiny workshops, lie its true value and beauty,” he whispers.

The heart of the bazaar

Crossing beneath six-meter-high vaulted ceilings, the jeweler stops by an inn, marked by a Byzantine-era relief of a fearsome eagle with its wings spread wide. Bright sunlight illuminates the arch through a tiny airshaft.

“This is pretty much the nucleus of the Grand Bazaar,” he says, pointing at Cevahir Bedesteni, a 15-domed structure, around which today’s market grew.

“Profit is a wild bird that flies through the air,” the inscription reads, according to economics professor Kenan Mortan, who wrote about the Grand Bazaar in 2010. “If only you can hunt it with grace, you may prosper in this inn.”

It was with such grace that Berksoy and his peers have traded in the bazaar for half a century, resolving their disagreements, building enduring partnerships and friendships and passing their experiences on to newer generations.

Tourists gaze through the windows, stop to take snapshots or engage in heated bargaining, while the veteran jeweler exchanges greetings with regulars at every corner before exiting the main building.

First stop is the tiny wood-framed shop, Apraham, named after its Armenian founder, selling raw gold and other precious metals since 1882. A dangling copper bell hangs next to its door and below one of the bazaar’s more than 128 surveillance cameras, keeping watch over its streets and roofs around the clock.

Next he calls in at Epoque, an antique store, where time seems to have stood still since 1865. Getvart Teminyan, 76, was in his teens when he was hired as an assistant.

Now, with his once-apprentice, Ibrahim Halil Iyisarac, 63, he is the sole caretaker of the business. “More people come to liquidate their fine pieces these days because of the economic situation,” Teminyan says. “But every fall will have a way back up and we will be here for that, too.”

James Bond view

Nearby, inside İkizler Han, a warren of jewelry workshops and wholesalers dating back to the late 1940s, Berksoy’s 12-carat ruby is about to change hands and claim its gold frame.

Many of his stones have already been transformed here before making their way to displays at Barneys New York before it shut down and, over the years, adorning numerous celebrities.

Sevan Harunyan, 54, the founder of one of the bazaar’s most established “Sadekâr” workshops, has spent decades translating designs into precious metal, bringing countless Berksoy creations to life.

His humble goldsmith workshop has borne witness to the 46 years Sevan had spent mastering the craft.

The centerpiece in the room is a massive aged wooden table, crowded with scattered objects and a labyrinth of cables. Sevan grabs one of the tiny tools neatly lined up against the wall, in contrast to the chaos, and gently presses it into the gold frame in his hand.

Through the only window in the room, one can easily picture Daniel Craig as James Bond racing his motorcycle across the tiled rooftops in the opening scene of the 2012 movie “Skyfall.”

“You never grow tired of this view,” Sevan says, looking out with a big smile. It was the same room where his sons, Arda, 22, and Aras, 25, had their first taste of the profession at around the age of 10.

“We would come very early in the morning during school holidays and I would sleep here,” Aras says, smiling as he shows his workstation, now across from his father’s.

“Then, we would only watch, or at best, try to mold simple sketches my father would hand to us.”

A graduate of Istanbul’s Mimar Sinan University statistics department, Aras has introduced computerized design into the family business, adding his own touch to the production.

Arda was the more hands-on one. “I still have a lot more to learn, so I just pick up the extras for now,” he says. “My father does the delicate heavy work.”

Born into Istanbul’s Armenian community, following the craft was a common career path for the brothers. Armenians, now a minority in Turkey but with roots across Anatolia dating back long before Ottoman rule, held a centuries-old reputation for being the top artisans in craftsmanship.

Armenian craftsmen also dominated the jewelry scene in, around and beyond the Grand Bazaar, Berksoy says, recalling masters in the US.

The ruby is in safe hands. After collaborating for over 40 years, the two knew exactly how Berksoy’s pencil-drawn sketch would take shape. Only a few words are exchanged, along with mutual nods.

“We have to hold on to this profession and the master-apprentice tradition that comes with it because it has value when passed on,” Sevan says. “I feel responsible, working in the heart of the production.”

“After all,” he adds, “this is the way in the bazaar no matter how many shopping malls pop up around.”

Setting the ruby

Jewelry remains the Grand Bazaar’s single largest trade and 57 masters cater to its 532 jewelers, gold dealers and jewelry shops inside its walls, according to research conducted in 2017.

Hrant Zorbas, 66, one of these masters, specializing in “mihlama”, or stone-setting, is put to work setting the ruby into Sevan’s ring frame, following Berksoy’s design.

Zorbas neatly covers his lap with a thick leather cloth attached to the table in two foldable wings to catch any valuable residue. Placing a rectangular magnifying glass over his prescription glasses, he starts to inspect the polished frame with one hand while rubbing the ruby with the other.

“Shant,” he says, referring to his 42-year-old son sitting across from him, “likes doing this with his new-age jeweler’s microscope but I need to see the cracks, faults and setting marks with my own eyes.”

Precision in such a time-consuming job certainly helps, and Zorbas is not complaining. He feels blessed that he has a son willing to work with him, taking up a profession that the modern age threatened in ways that went beyond the arrival of the jeweler’s microscope.

“People’s lifestyles, and therefore their use of jewelry, the way they think about luxury have changed dramatically over the years,” Shant says. “Although elaborate tie pins or women’s jacket pins are no longer in fashion, there are still people who appreciate the value of handmade jewelry.”

Zorbas holds the ring in his hand, admiring its final look. The ruby fits perfectly into the frame, supported by thin rows of baguette diamonds on both sides.

“Which factory-made ring can possibly match this beauty?” Berksoy says in admiration. “This is the soul of the bazaar, right here.”

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