Rosse Buurt

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advertisement, amsterdam, bridges, buildings, canals, character, charm, ephesus, gables, history, illegitimate, improper, inhibition, jacques brel, legitimate, non-fiction, proper, prostitution, protest, Rosse Buurt, sex-workers, taboo, True Story

I remember my first time in Amsterdam, a magical city with dainty bridges over canals, and quaint buildings along it, whose tops symbolize various forms of architecture. Different gables, bell, neck-shaped and laddered, according to the fashion.

Our hotel was far from Rosse Buurt, so we walked and had dinner in an area close to the district. I never forget that name because it is a vivid memory of how things worked in that part of town. The restaurant had a good view of the Red Light District, comprising of houses whose windows displayed young women in their underwear. Once the curtains were drawn and the light faded, it meant they were busy. Other windows lit up and faded into darkness throughout the dinner. What a life, I thought, open, uninhibited.

Prostitution is the oldest profession in history. I remember seeing a sign in Ephesus, probably the oldest bit of advertising, stating, “If you go right, you’ll find your heart’s key,” pointing to a house of joy.

https://www.tripadvisor.com.tr/ShowUserReviews-g293976-d294598-r398106669-Brothel-Selcuk_Izmir_Province_Turkish_Aegean_Coast.html#photos;aggregationId=101&albumid=101&filter=7&ff=205766670

Men marry proper women who bear proper children, but some can’t stay away from the women of joy, can they, and perhaps have some illegitimate children. What’s the secret? The proper versus the improper? Perhaps they prefer the less inhibited? There are many answers to this question. I think it has to do with the alter ego and the rebellion against what’s proper.

Recently, I read that Rosse Buurt will be moved out of Amsterdam. Amsterdam will not be Amsterdam without Rosse Buurt. It will never be the same. With this on my mind, I listen to Jacques Brel.

non-fiction

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The Secret Gate

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city life, countryside, despair, distraction, endurance, excursion, Flash Fiction, genetic memory, history, hobby, hope, human condition, instinct, nature, photography, remains, secret gate, structures, survival, time, toxic atmosphere

 

I switched off the morning news. While the TV screen darkened, I yearned to escape the gloom and the toxic atmosphere of the city. A photographic excursion into the countryside would do me good.

Picking up my camera bag, I left the flat and made my way to the garage. After a couple of stops at charming spots, I drove past a sleepy old town and slowed down when a detached sandstone house came into view. Through its open gates, a tilted For Sale sign caught my eye. Thinking this could be an interesting subject, I parked the car and entered the grounds.

The weathered signboard hinted it had been there for a while. The house looked decrepit and forlorn, its windows boarded and the paint on the front door chipped and cracked. Unkempt and overgrown, the garden conjured a strange melancholy. Taking a few shots, I walked around the building. Broken branches and decaying leaves from tall trees echoed the same neglect. Ready to leave, something behind the shrubs, along the back wall caught my attention. A pair of pale green doors which at first glance resembled a trompe l’oeil.

Something about the stately gate told me a story. It stood intact and supported by tall tapered pillars. The half-moon pebble mosaic steps that led to it boasted of history. Its ornate, solid iron body whispered tales from the past. Yet, the walls on its either side had partially crumbled, and peeking through the gaps, I saw nothing, but an expanse of wilderness beyond.

At the bottom of the steps, a pond had formed, housing an array of horsetail reed, water lilies, and sweet flag. Natural or landscaped, I couldn’t tell. It looked authentic and picturesque, in sheer contrast to the condition of the rest of the estate. Maybe the heavy rains of the last few weeks had brought it back to life.

At some point, the door that led to nowhere must have stood proud to protect a house and the people beyond it, allowing only friends and family inside. If so, what had happened to it, or its connection to the stone cottage remained a mystery. Confrontation, natural disasters, and family sagas came to mind. Nature had built a façade over the remains, if there were any, and camouflaged it to look like an extension of the massive open fields.

I tried to pull the door open. It didn’t budge. Most likely its hinges had been bonded by the threads of time. So I climbed over the wall and stepped into the meadow woven with a carpet of spring flowers. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I set out to find remains of life on the soft knolls. I picked up an old pipe, a metal button, a penny, and the broken arm of a wooden doll. They looked old. Would they be considered as clues to who had once lived here? Not really, I told myself. Such items could be found anywhere. The sun about to  set, I became weary of wandering in the fields.

Slowly, I walked back, pondering on the remains that had endured time. Like the iron gates, intact and still present. Similar to my genetic memory, the will to live and hope, despite the dystopia the entire world is going through.

I debated whether to return to the sleepy town to inquire about the house and the gate. I dismissed the idea. Instinct had already told me the story about the property and myself. Why I endure, how I distract myself with photography, why the structures remain standing, like sentinels, steadfast in their duty, despite the odds.

 

Photo credit: Google images

Floods of Hope

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change, controversy, darkness, dictator, floods, history, hope, justice, lies, miracle, oppressed, oppression, turmoil, tyrant, us and them, values

 

At the top of the hill, I pause for a rest and contemplate the scene around me, disheartened and perplexed. I cringe. Weary of the battles lost in the name of integrity, I yearn for some breathing room from the oppression we, The Others, are being subjected to.

 

Ever since the day he came into our lives, I knew he would not leave. All the beliefs and values I was brought up with would crumble and wither under his merciless feet. He moved ever so discreetly, building his strength. Fooling the foolish followers, he cast his web. Insidiously, undetected by the naked eye. Over time, the tyrant’s network grew, while the rich became richer with his encouragement. He bought them, sold them, rewarded his loyal subjects with treasures that belonged to the land.

 

One morning we woke up to find all that we had was gone. He became ruthless, greedy and revelled in his power. No one could disagree with him. If they did, they rotted in jail with sentences from the courts of justice that became his domain. A one man show, one man’s law, against The Others that dared to fight for their rights. Lies, controversy, megalomania in the disguise of religion ruled the land. The Others wept and protested, hissing at the imperial powers who created this monster for their sinister purposes.

 

Darkness fell on the country with nightmares in real time. Human rights and ideals crushed under the corruption. This was no purgatory, but hell itself. The Others, buried beneath the rubble before their deaths, floods of tears and blood poured into the rivers that ran to the seas surrounding the country. As the waters rose, the lands sank, drowning the oppressors together with the oppressed.

 

 

A lonely flag sways in the wind atop a green hill, still resisting the mayhem. Will this ever end? Only time will tell. The Others are weak and have run out of weapons and ammunition. Can this silenced opposition be pregnant with a hope of change? This is not a tale from a distant past. History repeats itself. How long do dictators last?

 

Maybe when the waters subside, there will be a different land. Cleansed and purified from the hostile residues of hypocrisy and fraud. I pray for a miracle, a miracle of justice. They’re hard to come by these days, but I have to believe in something to survive this turmoil.

 

 

NB. I wrote this story about a year ago. The floods in Istanbul today reminded me of it.