You may have heard that the Islamic Day ends at Maghrib (sunset) time. Imagine a society which actually lived this rather than it being an interesting fact.
The Ottoman Turks commence their reckoning of time from sunset. This is with them the twelfth hour, an hour later it is one o’clock, and so on till the twelfth hour in the morning (6 a. m.), when they begin again. This is called alatourqa (Turkish), to distinguish it from European time, which is called alafranqa (French, European).
ref:
Ottoman-Turkish Conversation-grammar: A Practical Method of Learning the Ottoman-Turkish Language
By V. H. Hagopian
Published by Groos, 1907
Speaking about Ottoman Time, below is an excerpt of an interesting article about Ottoman timepieces:
One, by the Arab scientist al-Jazari, called the “Book of Knowledge of Mechanical Contrivances,” also known as the “Treatise on Automata,” furnished detailed drawings of over 50 mechanical devices, including clocks. The other, by the astronomer Taqi al-Din Muhammad ibn Ma’ruf, published in Istanbul, described the mechanics of astrolabes and observational telescopes as well as weight-driven clocks. These indicated hours and minutes and could determine the time of prayer “without having to observe the heavenly bodies,” that is, when indoors or on overcast days.
The detail provided by al-Jazari and Taqi al-Din amounted to a “how-to-do-it” manual for the Ottoman clockmakers, who seem to have been the first among Muslims to actually go ahead and construct an elaborate mechanical timepiece.
As in medieval Europe, where the first geared clocks are believed to have appeared in monasteries to help regulate the daily prayer services, so in Istanbul the first Turkish clocks were made in the tekkes, or monasteries, of the so-called “Turkish monks,” the Mevlevi Dervishes, better known to Westerners as the “Whirling Dervishes.” The Mevlevis were considered the most intellectual of the Dervish orders and were well known for their interest in music and the arts. They acquired an interest in making mechanical clocks, their elders now suggest, to help initiates of the order observe fixed prayer times during long periods of meditation. More reliable than sundials and not requiring as much attention as a waterclock, the clocks also provided a focus for the communal life of the monastery.
As artisans, the Mevlevis prided themselves on producing flutes, embossed swords and other objets d’art. Clock-making required a combination of talents. The purely mechanical aspect drew upon the genius of scholars like Taqi al-Din, who had studied Arabic and Persian scientific writings, while making the outer encasement required the coordinated skills of metalworkers, cabinet makers and jewelers. Available manuscripts say very little about the actual method of manufacture, but it is apparent that the Mevlevis spent several years on each timepiece, with only the most basic of hand tools. Occasionally, the same artist would make the entire apparatus, from the inner gearwork to the intricately embellished case.
The outer design frequently took the shape of the Mevlevi headdress. This consisted of a felt hat like a tall, overturned plant pot, encircled at the base with a turban; it served as a symbol of the order and usually appeared as a sign on top of the tekke or on the Dervishes’ gravestones.
An extraordinary example of encrusted jewel work and embellishment is the round wall clock signed by Shahiz, made about 1650. Covered with filigree work with inlaid rubies, emeralds and diamonds, the face is in the form of a wreath in blue enamel with white numbers, and the back—which, of course, was rarely seen—is also richly engraved with leaves and fleurons. A pocket watch, made by Meshur Sheyh Dede in 1702, shows, as well as hours and minutes, Gregorian and Arabic calendars and the signs of the Zodiac.
A clock made by Mehmet Sükrü in 1853, thought to be the only one of its kind, has a double escapement mechanism which permits it to operate unaffected by extremes in temperature. Another, made by Ahmed Dede about 1865, has a combination escapement and pendulum mechanism which is also insensitive to variations in temperature and is accurate to less than one second per 24 hours.
Many of these timepieces, now on display at the Topkapı Palace, were presented to the Sultan by the Mevlevis as a sign of their loyalty. A 16th-century illuminated manuscript shows a procession of different artisans before Sultan Murad III, and an account of their visit in a royal diary mentions among those who presented themselves to the Sultan the “magic” Mevlevi clockmakers. As the assembled audience watched in amazement, the diary tells us, they entered the hall with an oversize model of a clock gearwork mounted on a wagon. A hammer automatically struck the gearwheel, turning a second wheel which, the chronicler observes, “could perform the work of a dozen persons.” The Sultan and his audience burst into applause and cheered the clockmakers as they pulled their display away.
….
The small number of Turkish clocks in the Topkapı Palace collection doesn’t indicate, as might be assumed, that European competition eventually forced the Turkish clockmakers out of business. In fact the Turkish clocks were, from the beginning, a labor of love by scholar-craftsmen motivated by religion, their interest in art and devotion to the Sultan. They were never concerned with profits or large-scale production. In fact, before the Republican regime banned all Dervish orders in 1923, the Mevlevis probably actually made few more than the some 30 timepieces known to have survived in the Sultan’s palaces and in the houses of their order, a uniquely Turkish contribution to Muslim craftsmanship.
ref: “Saudi Aramco World: Topkapi’s Turkish Timepieces – James Horgen
The historian Sadeddin Efendi recounts that Sultan Selim I did not sleep most nights, in his book Taj al Tawarikh [The Crown of Annals]. The ruler would read and discuss scholarly subjects with his courtier Hasan Can, Sadeddin Efendi’s father. One morning, after a night when Can had been unable to stay awake and attend the sultan, Selim asked him: “What did you dream?” Hasan Can was confused at first, but he eventually realized that the dream had been seen by another Hasan – Hasan Aga, the doorkeeper. In the dream, a group of Arabs with glowing faces arrived at the palace door. Four resplendent figures stood closest to the door, each armed and with a flag in his hands. The one holding the sultan’s white flag knocked on the door, and when Hasan Aga opened it, the standard-bearer said: “These are the companions of the Messenger. He sends his greetings and says, ‘Tell him to rise and come. The care of the Haramayn [ the holy cities of Makka and MAdina ] has been bestowed upon him.’ This is Abu Bakr al-Siddiq, this is Umar al-Faruq, and this is Uthman Zinnurayn. I am Ali ibn Abu Talib. Give my greetings to Selim Khan.”
When the sultan heard these words, his face reddened and he began to weep. Turning to Hasan Can, he said: “Didn’t I tell you that I would not act without an order. My ancestors were blessed with saintly wisdom – yet, I do not resemble them.”
Following this event, Selim launched a campaign against the Mamluk sultanate. Egypt and the Hijaz soon came under Ottoman control, and Selim’s authority over the new territory was officially proclaimed on February 20, 1517.
The former ruler has passed away. The event was first announced in the newspapers. The Bosphorus smiled under the sun’s glow. Sultan Abdulhamid II, who had occupied the Ottoman throne for thirty-four years, would be buried a few hours later under the soil of beautiful Istanbul. Sultan Abdulhamid’s body would be brought from Beylerbeyi Palace to Topkapi Palace. There, he would be ritually washed and then buried at nine o’clock next to Sultan Mahmud in Chemberlitas. A single guard wearing a helmet and holding a rifle stood at the Middle Gate. The guards in front of the Gaye of Felicity politely received guests. The Council Hall, which was abandoned and ruined and filled with memories of glorious eras, seemed to smile bitterly at the events of centuries past. Sunbeams streamed over the cypress trees and fell on the grass. One or two custodians with rakes in their hands were gathering the yellowed leaves from the green grass under the morning sun.
I passed in front of the Library of Sultan Ahmed VI. A custodian dressed in black ran quickly from the side of the Tulip Garden; the funeral procession was approaching. I went toward Sarayburnu. A small procession was slowly coming up the sandy incline. A large steamboat neared the dock. Smoke rose from its yellow smokestack. The scene was very sad. The Marmara Sea, the coasts, and the hills were basking in the sun. In the distance Hamidiye Mosque’s slender white form, Yildiz Palace’s tree-lined boulevard, and the palace’s continuous roofs among the naked trees appeared silent and bewildered. A white sheet, a dark shawl, and a bier headed the procession in which everyone was dressed in black. Sultan Abdulhamid lay lifeless on the bedding atop the wooden bier. A thick yellow striped sheet hung down from the edges. His body was covered with a precious dark orange and green embroidered shawl. A guard from Beylerbeyi Palace walked in front of the body, and two rows of soldiers were at its side. Officials form the Inner Court and other members of the palace walked slowly beside the bier, which was being carried by hand. Prince Selim Efendi and some pashas followed them, grieving and deeply touched. Silence reigned. One of the custodians carried a fez covered with a white handkerchief. It was the fez of Sultan Abdulhamid II. From a distance, a gardener holding a hoe looked on sadly. Nothing could be heard but the footsteps of the pallbearers on the sand. The sea was calm and flat. An eternal gift from the Byzantines, the high columns in front of the palace gleamed in the sun.
The funeral procession passed the Tulip Garden. The body was brought to the green and gilded door of the Apartments of the Holy Mantle, and the bier was carried through the entryway. The prince and sons-in-law stayed in Mecidiye Kasri, while the others in the procession remained outside. The door closed, and no one but the officials of the Apartments of the Holy Mantle entered.
What a luminous, sublime, and magnificent chamber it was. Here was the most wonderful, elegant, and radiant place of worship constructed by the Ottoman dynasty in the name of the Caliphate. The walls were adorned with blue and green and gilded panels. Sultan Selim I’s successors comforted their souls in this sacred area, prayed for the army’s victory, and wept in front of the Holy Mantle. The bright tiles and precious inscriptions on the walls were striking.
The shade in front of one of the windows had been partially raised. Wide frosted glass obstructed the view of the Golden Horn. A small six-handled cypress casket resting on two green trellies and a small washing bench could be seen in the courtyard where the shades had been raised. Sultan Abdulhamid was laid on the washing bench. Grief-stricken, I stood in front of the gilded bars of the window. As the coffin advanced, the Inner Court officials respectfully folded their hands, waiting to perform their duty. Across the way, a closed door that hid centuries of legends and the blue tiled walls seemed to want to forgo this page of history. Four imams – two wearing green turbans, the other wearing white – piously washed the body with sponges and musk soap. A fresh white winding sheet covered Sultan Abdulhamid’s corpse. The areas above his chest and below his knees were not visible. There was no evidence of long illness on the body. The corpse did not display the appalling yellow color of death. It looked like an inanimate object made of ivory.
On the whole, he was attractive. Become more beautiful as it was washed, the white body was stretched out naturally in the hands of the washers on the bench. Holding silver incense burning, palace officials stood across from the corpse. Everyone was deeply reverent. Trust in God was visible in their faces. The Apartments of the Holy Mantle were witnessing a historic day. The last page of the sultanate would close on that day. Everyone’s gaze was fixed on Sultan Abdulhamid’s closed eyes. As warm water was poured over the body, white steam rose and mixed with the scent of aloe and amber from the incense burner. There was an apprehensive silence. Nothing could be heard but the footsteps of those coming and going to perform services. With their hands folded, eyes on the body, and tears of grief, two of the sultan’s son-in-law stood by his feet.
Nature’s beauty could be felt in all its glory outside the palace. The waters of the Golden Horn shimmered in the unexpected February sun. The boxwood trees were bare and open to the bounty of spring. The washing of the body was still not finished. Sultan Abdulhamid’s closed eyes, gray hair, naked body, and lifelessness awoke a melancholy in the hearts of the onlookers. At times, when his head suddenly slipped and his hands fell to his sides, he resembled an innocent, hopeless person. His neck was bent strangely with his white, disordered beard.
Finally, the washing of the corpse was completed. It was dried with yellow silk-embroidered towels. The coffin was lifted, and the washing bench was brought next to it. A winding sheet was spread inside. Sultan Abdulhamid’s body was respectfully laid in the coffin.
Sultan Abdulhamid had not lost consciousness until the last moment of his life. He requested that a testament prayer be put on his chest and a handkerchief rubbed against the Holy Mantle, as well as a piece of the black Kaba cover, be used cover his face. His request was carried out to the letter. It was truly heartrending sight: Sultan Abdulhamid lying inside the coffin with winding sheets, the testament prayer on his naked chest, the black Ka’ba cover on his face, his white bear, with his eyes forever closed… Sultan Abdulhamid was humbly going to god, leaving his sins behind.
The shroud was tied and the coffin closed. The heavy ticking of a mother-of-pearl clock, which had witnessed centuries, echoed in the grandeur of the Apartments of the Holy Mantle. Arrangement of the coffin began. First a bed sheet and then a silver-embroidered red cover were placed on the coffin. The bottom was wrapped with a navy blue flowered cloth. Ka’ba covers and belts decorated with precious stones were placed on top. Shawls were wrapped around the head and arms of the body. A red fez was put on the green satin wrapped around the head. While the body was being washed, the plain coffin and wooden washing bench had contrasted sharply with the brilliant colors and gilding in the Apartments of the Holy Mantle. Now Sultan Abdulhamid’s coffin adorned with silk, shawls and silver thread and precious stones fit with the Apartments magnificence and splendor.
Everyone departed. Only the coffin, with its head turned towards the harem chamber, could be seen among the decorated columns, colored walls, and polished panels. To the left, in the Apartments’ window the gold and silver-embroidered green curtains, heavy silver tassels, gold grating, priceless wall panels, and the Qur’an were visible as well. Footsteps sounded in front of the Audience Hall. One of the distinguished sons-in-law advanced rapidly and stopped mournfully in the corner in the wall. With his eyes on the coffin, he opened his hands, made a short prayer, and let out a sincere sob. It echoed among the ornamented domes.
It was nine o’clock. Ambassadors and officers dressed in silver-trimmed uniforms and fur headgear and and hats waited in front of the door of the Apartments. Foreigners stared in awe at this magnificent place. Scholars, dressed in green and purple robes with broad sleeves and silver embroidery, were being greeted respectfully. The crowd grew. The Crown Prince and other princes were in full uniform. Medals, silver decorations, and uniforms glittered in the February sun.
Suddenly, the door to the Apartments of the Holy Mantle opened. All eyes turned to the door. IT was crowded on both sides. Hearts throbbing, everyone sought a view of the coffin. Carried by hand and adorned with a diamond belt, silver embroidered Ka’ba covers, red satin, and a red fez, it finally appeared, stately and majestic. Prominent officials and officers stood near the coffin, which was put on a high place in front of the door. The head preacher of the Hamidiye Mosque, dressed in a green, silver embroidered robe with an imperial monogram on his chest, stepped forward and stood on the stone. He looked around and asked:
“How did you know the deceased to be?”
A sad cry echoed among the cypress trees:
“We knew him to be good”.
A short recitation of Surat al-Fatiha ended the ceremony. The coffin was lifted and carried slowly past the Library of Sultan Ahmed VI and the Audience hall to the front of the Door of Felicity. According to custom, the funeral prayer was performed here, and the procession was then organized. Princes, notables, commanders, and palace officials all gathered. Occasionally the procession officials in silver-embroidered dress with white papers in their hands were heard to call out to the procession. Finally it was ready. The soldiers put their guns on their shoulders, and marched in perfect silence. Dedes and Shazeli dervishes walked in front of the coffin. Officers of the imperial Inner Court and other palace officials served as pallbearers.
The cortege moved slowly among the cypress trees from the Gate of Felicity to the Middle Gate. Majestically passing through the Middle Gate, this moving profession of God’s unity made a sweet echo that exuded an aura of pious reverence and consolation to the spirit. It resounded between the Middle Gate’s stone walls and the gate. This echo reflected Sultan Selim III’s sensitive, noble spirit. Was it possible not to remember his pure and blessed spirit with every sound from the imperial Inner Court? The Inner Court officials were reciting prayers. The sound, which echoed from the ruined walls of the Council Hall, was the touching cry of the Ottoman spirit. Everyone walked respectfully behind the coffin. This gate had seen the passage of many sultans’ funerals and the shedding of many tears. In front, the intermittent, sad chants of the dervish elders could be heard. With a moving Arabic melody rising like a slow refrain, the sheikhs of the Shazeli dervish hall chanted the proclamation of God’s unity, the affirmation of His greatness, and eulogies to Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him. The area between the Middle Gate and thee Imperial Gate was filled with the automobiles of German officers and various cars. Two elegant women stood up in their coach, watching the procession behind thin veils. A little farther way in front of the Hagia Irine Church of Byzantine-period and the military museum, the members of the military band with huge quilted turbans, baggy red trousers, silver vests, and yellow and red flags had stopped. Living history saluted the coffin with derference and respect.
The funeral procession left the Imperial Gate. The streets were empty. Two rows of soldiers lined the way from Ayasofya Mosque to Sultan Mahmud’s Tomb. The trees, houses, windows, and roofs were filled with women and children. The coffin advanced amidst poignant prayers and proclamations of God’s greatness and unity. Those watching the funeral procession were moved. One woman leaned her head on a wall and sobbed. Some looked on indifferently, but sensitive hearts wept at the sad spectacle, the mournful cries, and religious magnificence. The final ceremony of the Ottoman sultan who had held the Caliphate for thirty-four years was being performed with reverence.
The coffin entered the tomb, the procession chanting the name of God. Sultan Abdulhamid was placed in the grave with deference and respect. A thirty-four-year page of Ottoman history was concluded in sorrow
(Vakit by Ahmet Refik, February 18, 1918)
ref: Aydin, Hilmi (2005). The Sacred Trusts (pg 43). New Jersey: The Light Publishing
Ahmet Refik was born in 1880 in Istanbul. Graduating from Military School, he was enrolled in the army.
Refik taught Geography and French in military schools, and later wrote columns for various papers. After World War I he taught at university as well. Ahmet Refik died in 1937 in Istanbul
Timas Publishing has translated Ahmet Refik’s works into Modern Turkish, as they are deeply resonant studies of Ottoman culture, from its victories to its military officials, from its scholars to its artists
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