Istanbul´s gears

The people who keep the city moving

Istanbul flows. Sometimes fast and frenetic, sometimes slow and dense. Sixteen million people live among its seven hills and two continents: they move, work, eat, socialize, consume, discard, do, undo, walk, rest. Sixteen million. A concentration of human life larger than the population of more than 130 countries and accounting for almost a fifth of the entire population of Turkey. Incredibly, this urban giant is functional. Somehow, the city sustains itself and provides for everyone who comes to it. But... how?

This report focuses on those people who, from anonymity and everyday life, function as small—but vital—cogs in the machinery that keeps it running. Those people whose jobs we take for granted and to whom we don't give much thought, but without whom a city of this caliber would not flow. 

Bread to the beat of the street

Deep blue has taken over the skies of Istanbul. The call to prayer, Isha, dominates the city’s soundscape. On the shores of the Bosphorus, the smell of warm bread as you leave the Kabataş pier puts the final touch on an atmosphere typical of the great Turkish city. Curious noses quickly find the street cart of Kandatash, a simit vendor for more than 15 years.

Simit is a dark brown, ring-shaped bread; crispy on the outside, soft on the inside; covered with sesame seeds on its surface. It can be eaten plain or filled with different ingredients—cheese, ham, tomato, lettuce, olives, Nutella, jam, among others. It is usually accompanied by tea or ayran. It is a centuries-old food: the first clear references to simit appear in Ottoman documents from the 16th century. It was not palace food, but the bread of the urban people—cheap, nutritious, and easy to carry. Its strength lies in its simplicity: bread, sesame, and the street.

Kandatash is 47 years old. She comes from Beykoz, a district on the northern edge of Istanbul’s Anatolian side. She sells simit with her husband, Indatash, who is 49. They split the day between them: he works in the morning, she takes over in the afternoon. Every day begins long before the city fully wakes up. At five in the morning, Indatash goes to a large bakery to pick up the simits they will try to sell that day. An hour later, at six, he is already standing by the cart. “This way, the simits are fresh”, Kandatash explains. “They taste better, their texture is better”. They buy each simit for 15 Turkish liras and if they don't add any toppings, they sell it for 20. Five liras of profit per piece. The true business comes when they put on some extra ingredients, then, a simit could cost from 50 liras (only Nutella), to 125 (cheese, jam and vegetables). On a really good day, they can sell up to 500 simits. On most days, around 200.

Kandatash´s corner

Her husband sells from six in the morning until noon. Then he goes back home, and Kandatash takes his place. She stays by the cart from twelve in the afternoon until ten at night, before heading back to Beykoz. “Without traffic, it would take us about an hour to get home from here”, she says. “With traffic, it can be much more”. Over time, she has learned some selling patterns: “The best selling hours are from ten in the morning and two in the afternoon”. Another factor that greatly influences simit sales is the season. The difference between summer and winter is huge: “On average days in summer, we sell around seventy-five percent more than on average days in winter”.

After more than fifteen years in the same place, customers are no longer strangers. “We have a lot of regular clients”, she says. “People who come every day and buy from us. I know them. I care about them”.

Not every simit is sold. When the day ends and there are still some left, they do not take them back home. “If we have any simits left after the whole day, we give them to people in need”, she says. Years of noble and helpful work have paid off. Kandatash describes herself as a happy person. She owns her own home, which she shares with her husband and daughter. “At least until she moves to Korea to study the language,” she says proudly of her daughter.

The smile never leaves her face as she serves one customer after another. The people of Istanbul, always trying to get somewhere, pause in their tireless journeys to enjoy a break with the aroma of warm bread. 

Between chaos and movement

Thousands come and go. From here to there. From there to here.

They come.

They go.

It is peak hour in Sişli Mecidiyeköy, one of the busiest public transportation hubs in the European side of Istanbul. It has two subway lines (M2 and M7), in addition to the Metrobus. Even in that chaos, there seems to be a certain logic. The ones that go, go; the ones that come, come. The security forces of the megacity's subway draw the thin line between functional chaos and problematic disaster.

Miray (fake name), a member of the police force responsible for the safety and proper functioning of the subway, controls the huge flow of passengers. The work she does at such a large and important station is complicated and demands her full attention. At the entrance to line M7, she makes sure that no one enters without paying, gives instructions to disoriented passengers, asks a group of children playing to be quiet, and helps disabled travelers get into the elevators.

She is kind and patient with everyone who asks for her help, even though they are often rude to her. “They ask questions they already know the answer to. Often, the answer is right there on the sign in front of them. If they read the sign, they would have their answer.” She finds her job quite tiring sometimes, as it involves preventing people from doing what they shouldn't do—something that, in principle, adults should already know how to do on their own. “There's always someone trying to take advantage and get in without paying. It's often difficult because these are poor people who clearly couldn't afford to pay even if they wanted to, but work is work,” she says firmly.

Peak hour in Sişli Mecidiyeköy

She prefers not to talk about her working hours or conditions, as this could cost her her job. “I had a colleague who gave an interview like this and a few days later she was fired.”

Sweeping while the city rushes past

Slate-colored clouds hide the sky over the city. A light rain desolates the landscape. People in Taksim Square walk relentlessly. Meanwhile, Ozcan, calm and solemn, picks up trash that passersby leave in the area. His daily shift starts at 15:00 and ends at 20:00. He's 59 years old and has been cleaning the streets of Istanbul for over 25 years now. He explains that he lost his father at a very young age. This brought him many financial difficulties that prevented him from continuing his studies. “I had to work, only work,” he says.

The quiet support of Taksim Square

“Over the years, I've seen it all: sanitary towels, condoms, snot, saliva, all kinds of dirt, vomit... everything you can imagine. All that and more.” This is not an easy job, either emotionally or physically. Ozcan explains that his colleagues constantly suffer from physical ailments such as cervical or lumbar disc herniation. Their working conditions are poor. In Istanbul, the weather is constantly changing, with sudden heatwaves, cold spells, and relentless rain.

Street workers are often unprepared: poorly equipped and with nowhere to shelter during their long working hours. This applies to warm days, cold days and rainy days all the same. In this regard, the government's indifference is total. In the words of the street sweeper: “Our politicians are so indifferent that they don't even treat us like human beings. It doesn't matter if one leaves and another arrives. They only see us as numbers with the potential to clean more and more.” As for the people in the streets, Ozcan comments that it varies: “For most, we are invisible. Are you there? Are you not there? They don't care. But when there's trash somewhere, they remember you. There are also very good people,” he reflects.

“I remember once I met an Englishman who had been living in Istanbul for 10 years, and he taught me how wonderful my job is. Do you know how he taught me? He said, «For me, you are superior to doctors. You prevent me from getting sick. The doctor treats me so that I get sick. My body suffers, I am in pain, but you prevent that. You are more valuable to me than doctors.» I felt happy after this conversation; I realized how wonderful my work was.” He explains that he has more stories like this, which encourage him to keep going, along with Allah, who has a very important place in his life.

The rain continues in Taksim Square, and Ozcan quickly disappears into an urban landscape that is only possible because of his work.

Drawing lines across the Bosphorus

The ferry that crosses the Bosphorus is a space that allows you to be in the city without being absorbed by it: to see it from a distance while crossing its vital axis. A space-time that lets you feel Istanbul like no other. It is also a primary mode of public transport for countless people.

This is not a normal city. Here, people cross from one continent to another to go from home to work, to visit a friend, to buy something, or simply to have a walk. It is estimated that close to a million people cross daily between Asia and Europe through bridges, tunnels, ferries, and the undersea railway—an ordinary routine in a city of around sixteen million inhabitants.

Today the afternoon is capricious. Unlike those beautiful clear scenes that let the sun paint the Bosphorus orange, today the afternoon is gray. The wind stirs the Bosphorus, its multiform waves. Hasan, ferry captain since 2008, begins the usual maneuver required to turn the three-deck ferry, which is arriving from Kadıköy to Kabataş. He begins his eighteenth transcontinental journey of the day. 

Hasan´s cabin

“Our job comes with an enormous responsibility. On each trip, we transport at least 100 people. Normally, we carry 200 or 300.” Ensuring the well-being of so many people is no easy task. Every day, before starting the service, they inspect the ferry inside and out: the hull, the engine, the fuel—small details that carry hundreds of lives.

“Passengers often don't realize the logistical complications of using ferries as public transportation. We always have to be aware of this, of their safety.”

According to Hasan, sailing the Bosphorus is usually safe. Only strong winds and rising sea levels create currents that make navigation difficult. In such cases, ferry trips are suspended for a few hours until conditions become favorable again. 

The 50-year-old captain enjoys his job and says that although he feels a lot of pressure and responsibility, he has never had a bad experience. In that sense, he thinks that the most difficult part of the journey is arriving at the port: “The most difficult moment is arriving at the port,” he says. “The maneuvers are not easy and must be performed with pinpoint accuracy.” In these cases, it is common for the ferry's engine to shut down. This can cause delays in other trips and can become a tense moment.

For Hasan, the ferry is the best means of transportation that Istanbul has to offer: “And this is not only for its beauty and how enjoyable it is, but for its practicality. No other transport can take you from Beşiktaş to Üsküdar in 5 minutes.” 

As he speaks, the captain never once takes his eyes off the helm. The crossing continues. Hundreds move from one continent to another as casually as someone changing from one avenue to the next. Istanbul flows to the rhythm of the Bosphorus.