Through its very design, Istanbul is a gateway. A city divided between Europe and Asia, its neighbourhoods straddle the banks of the two separate continents across the Bosphorus Strait. It is the first place many head to in a country whose borders remain more accessible than others, the first place that many head when home is no longer somewhere they can stay.
Perhaps the single place where this sense of crossroads can be felt most keenly is onboard one of the public ferries that circle six major harbours in the city centre each day. The political turmoil that sends people fleeing abroad can be felt everyday in the stories of these passengers.
A picture of Mahsa Amini is held aloftduring a protest against the Iranian regime
Sunday 2 October. After a sweltering weekend, ferries heading towards Kadıköy, a bustling restaurant district on Istanbul’s Asian side, are laden with friends and families. But as passengers step off the deck, there is uproar.
Crowds protesting against the Iranian regime have gathered outside the terminal, making use of its central location. Women clutch poles adorned with hair, a display of solidarity with protesters who have cut their own in response to the death of Mahsa Amini. A veil is set alight before police quickly extinguish it.
On the ferry platform, a pregnant woman with the words “Women, life, freedom” written on her stomach stands with her husband.
The woman is Mahssa Mousavi, a 20-year-old school teacher who fled Iran in the wake of Mahsa Amini’s death. Mousavi and her husband had long talked about leaving Iran for good in search of a life with more freedom. At work, Mousavi says she faced weekly interrogations from her boss about her appearance and teaching etiquette. “Why do you dress like that? Why does your hair show? Do you want this job?” he would ask. “Why do you talk to students about having dreams, trying to learn languages or finding a way out of Iran? You should just teach what we tell you to teach and dress how we tell you to dress,” says Mousavi.
Mahssa Mousavi, who left Iran after Mahsa Amini’s death
Mousavi refused to comply and, eventually, was fired. Two months later when news broke of Mahsa Amini’s death she left the country with her husband within 48 hours. As an Iranian citizen, Turkey is one of the few countries Mousavi can travel to without a visa; she and her husband are permitted to stay for 90 days.
“It was hard for me to leave my family. They had tried to prevent me from going,” says Mousavi. “But after Mahsa Amini’s murder, their opposition disappeared.”
“From childhood, children in Iran are taught to love the Islamic state and see the rest of the world as enemies. Even though I have no home or job in Turkey, no money, and don’t know the language, I would rather my baby be poor here than be turned into a propaganda soldier for the Islamic Republic,” she says.
Mousavi and her husband are at a loss as to what to do once their 90 days are up. When that time comes, Mousavi will be a month away from giving birth.
“If my options are to return to Iran or stay illegally in another country, I have to choose the illegal way,” she says.
Maryam pictured after a demonstration against the Iranian regime. The word ‘freedom’ is written on her forehead. Above: a woman holds a burning hijab at a protest against the Iranian regime
The demonstration winds down and people begin their journeys home. Maryam, a 27-year-old Kurdish Iranian woman who has lived in Istanbul since 2018, boards a ferry to Karaköy. Maryam is one of the many Iranian women who reside in Istanbul on a work visa as a means of escaping her country. She left Iran after being attacked on Tehran’s metro for not wearing her hijab correctly.
“We Iranians love our country, but we were forced to emigrate because of a series of things that are forbidden for us,” says Maryam, who did not give her second name. “In Turkey, I can go to work and earn a fair salary, but not in Iran. In Turkey, I can drink and dance at a party, but not in Iran. In Turkey, I can have a tattoo and walk at night, but not in Iran.”
Since Iran’s uprising began, Maryam has joined protests in Istanbul while concealing her face out of fear of repercussions for her family back home. “Iran has become a country that has fallen into the hands of the mullahs. People are being tortured,” says Maryam. “But the people of Iran were waiting for a spark.”
Fishermen gathered outside a ferry terminal in Karaköy
Kharez Zhuhai is a 23-year-old business student from Iraqi Kurdistan’s capital city, Erbil. Across the region, local NGOs have reported a rise in “honour”-based killings over the past year. In Erbil, Kharez was a beauty queen competitor and landed second place in Miss Iraq 2018. But she quit the competitions. “Men hate women without any reason. When I’d see them they’d say, ‘Oh, you are so beautiful. Let me take a picture with you.’ But behind my back, they would comment about my lips. They would say I look like a dog,” she says.
“It’s getting worse. If I was to wear this in Erbil, people would say I’m a whore, or a bitch” she says, gesturing at her pink halterneck dress that she has put on for an evening out with her husband.
IT student Gözde Melis Günel lights a cigarette on the back of the ferry
“It’s not just me – it’s all women. They get killed by men. To them, women are very weak. For example, if a man asks a woman to marry him and she says no, they kill her.”
Oksana, a 37-year-old economist from Ekaterinburg, Russia, fled after laws punishing the spread of “false information” about Russia’s military were brought in, with fines of up to 1.5m roubles and prison sentences of up to 15 years.
“When they introduced prison terms for “discrediting” the Russian army, I was afraid because I was commenting a lot on social media about the war and what’s really happening,” says Oksana, who declined to give her second name.
“I tried to tell people the truth, that it’s Putin’s war to restore the USSR,” she says. “But I don’t feel like I was successful.”
A group of Russian sightseers onboard a ferry headed to Üsküdar
Oksana changed tactics. “There is a public group called Wagner on Telegram for Russian military men,” she says. “I would talk to members who would say ‘Oh, I killed 100 Ukrainian men.’ I’d say, ‘OK’, take a screenshot of their profile – normally they don’t even hide their picture – and send the information to a Ukrainian website for war criminals.”
“I get really mad and so upset at what my fellow citizens do,” says Oksana. “I feel disgusted.”
Every day, a demonstration for Ukraine takes place outside Istanbul’s Pera museum that Oksana frequently attends. The money she would otherwise lose in fines for attending protests in Russia she donates to the Ukrainian army.
Protesters at a demonstration held daily for Ukraine outside the Pera museum
“A lot of people blame Russians. But unfortunately, we are also victims of Putin’s regime,” she says.
But while Turkey plays host to exiles scattered by war and uprising, its own citizens remain in the throes of an economic struggle, as the price of everyday life soars.
At the start of October, inflation hit 83%, a 24-year high. Turks have been forced out of retirement and basic goods such as cheese and pastries have become distant luxuries for many.
“I study art in Yalova University and it’s my second year. My friends and I couldn’t afford the art supplies required for class and, because of that, our studies are delayed,” 20-year-old Berrak Işik from Istanbul says, speaking en route to a gig in Kadiköy.
“We are trying to survive here, but people are becoming homeless. We were once like other countries – at least, we were similar economically – but now we are facing more corruption each day,” she says. When I asked Işik what she does for fun that is still affordable, she says: “Sitting on the street. Or just having a walk, I guess.”
Left, Berrak Işik, an art student; right, Efe Pirildar, an architecture student
Ferry prices too have gone up by 35% over the past two years, though they will remain an essential part of life in a city whose centre is divided by a giant waterway.
“This journey has taken an hour out of each day for the past five years and I’m so glad it did,” says 20-year-old architecture student Efe Pirildar as he sits at the rear of the bottom deck, watching Istanbul’s Asian side grow more distant. “These ferries were the last place me and my friends could have a cigarette before school,” he says. “Here is the unofficial smoking area, so this spot has always been kind of a relief for us.”
Halfway across the water, when the silhouettes of Istanbul’s key monuments are visible, Efe posts a picture of himself on Instagram. In it, he’s holding a coffee cup from the onboard cafe with a cigarette pressed between his lips. “Long time,” reads the caption. Instantly, his friends who have left the city are commenting. “Wish I could be there,” writes one.
The harbour grows nearer and Efe gathers his belongings. “Istanbul has its problems,” he said. “But this city is unique in every way.”
Passengers photograph the view of Yeni Cami (left) and Rüstem Pasha (right) mosques
• This article was amended on 27 October 2022. A previous version misspelled the Istanbul district Kadıköy as “Kadkıöy”.
