MEMENTO

“Memento” Latin Istanbul Carved in Marble Remembering is the most resilient form of existence. To remember what we have lost is not merely to commemorate the past; it is to make the invisible visible again, to turn silence into voice. The silence I trace in my photographs belongs to a memory kept out of sight—forced to hide behind high walls in the heart of Istanbul: the Feriköy Latin Catholic Cemetery. This cemetery bears the traces of Latin Catholic minorities who were an integral part of these lands for centuries. Levantines, Syriacs, Chaldeans, and other Catholic communities lived in this geography; they were our neighbors, friends, companions—contributors to the multicultural identity of Anatolia and Istanbul. Yet for political, religious, and social reasons they have gradually faded away and were compelled to leave the lands they lived on. Today their numbers are counted only in the hundreds. This loss is not only the loss of a community; it is a deep wound in our shared collective memory. The Latin, Ottoman Turkish, French, and Italian inscriptions on the gravestones whisper the fragile traces of this multilingual memory. In close-up details, you may see a family history, the faint imprint of a language, or a loss; in wide-angle frames, the cemetery’s topography, its spatial memory, and its bond with history come to the fore. Within these stones lie the marks of migration, war, modernization, and the search for belonging. Today, the Feriköy Latin Catholic Cemetery offers us a space of confrontation. It recalls not only the dead, but also languages, cultures, memories, and lives that have vanished. In the passage from the Ottoman Empire to the Republic, it is possible to read—among these silent stones—how minorities existed in this city and how they were erased. The aim is to see this cemetery not only as a place for the dead, but as a site of coexistence, polyphony, losses, and remembrance. To look again at the Feriköy Latin Catholic Cemetery makes it possible to hear questions about this city’s multicultural heritage from between the silent stones. Because forgetting accelerates disappearance; remembering carries existence into the future. That is precisely what I invite you to do through these photographs: “Remember what you have lost!” Let us confront the past, remember what we have lost, and bear witness to this silent memory.

CHAPTER 1

DIES MEI TRANSIERUNT, ET IN NIHILUM REDACTI SUNT OMNES ARTUS MEI.

“My days have passed; all my limbs have been reduced to nothingness.”

Feriköy Latin Catholic Cemetery is a silent island hidden in the heart of Istanbul, behind high walls and amid the city’s crowds. Its deep-rooted history, reaching back to 1853, reveals this place not merely as a burial ground, but as a topography of memory—bearing witness to this wise city’s layered, multicultural past from the Ottoman era to the Republic.

CHAPTER 2

NON PERDITA, SED ABSCONDITA.

“Not lost, but hidden.”

CHAPTER 3

RELIQUIAE HOMINEM NARRANT.

“Remains speak of the human.”

CHAPTER 4

QUOD PERDIDIMUS, MEMINISSE COGIMUR.

“We are compelled to remember what we have lost.”

In general, minorities—and in particular Latin Catholics—were, for centuries, one of the essential pillars of these lands and of Istanbul’s multicultural fabric. They made profound contributions to the city’s identity in every sphere. The traces they left in commerce, art, architecture, and social life enriched Istanbul’s collective memory.

Yet for political, religious, and social reasons, they were torn away from these lands and forced to leave. This departure was not limited to people alone; it meant the loss of a way of life, a culture, a shared memory, and the will to live together.

They were our neighbors, our colleagues, our friends.

And today, it is not difficult to see what has filled that void, how a rich shared culture has been reshaped, and what the consequences have been.

CHAPTER 5

TEMPUS TERIT, MEMORIA SERVAT.

“Time erodes; memory endures.”

CHAPTER 6

IN LAPIDIBUS VULNERA MEMORIAE.

“In the stones are the wounds of memory.”

Minorities declared “the other” were not only forced into exile from these lands; at various times, their sacred symbols also fell victim to violence and vandalism.

In this cemetery, the attacked statues and icons are not merely blows struck against stone; they are traces of violence directed at memory, culture, and the possibility of living together. Ironic, indeed.

CHAPTER 7

MINOR NUMERO, MAIOR MEMORIA.

“Small in number—vast in memory.”

The burials show that the Latin Catholic community—diminishing with each passing day—still preserves its presence nonetheless, and remains standing with resilience.

Each burial is more than a body laid to rest in the earth; it is the voice of memory, identity, and the declaration: We are still here.

CHAPTER 8

EXILIUM EST VULNUS.

“Exile is an open wound.”

“Who are we, and why are we here?”
This question, carried by forced displacement, is the echo of lost belonging and the search for identity. For those compelled to leave their lands and roots behind, identity is henceforth shaped through this absence. Exile is not merely migration; it is an unhealed wound in memory and in identity.

Migration. Exile. Asylum. Belonging. Identity. Death.

CHAPTER 9

PAX VITAE SALUS.

“Peace is the salvation of life.”

During the Crimean War (1853–1856), Istanbul served as a key base for the allied forces of the Ottoman Empire. Many French and Italian soldiers stayed here before being deployed to the front; however, large numbers lost their lives to epidemic diseases.

Catholic soldiers were buried in the Feriköy Latin Catholic Cemetery, and monuments were erected in their memory. These stones silently remind us of the losses of war—and of the value of peace.

CHAPTER 10

TRADITIO NON MORTUA.

“Tradition is not dead.”

A monumental tomb tradition that had been forgotten for more than a century finds life here once again. This mausoleum commissioned by Orlando Carlo Calumeno for himself and his family is a symbol of reconnecting with the past, renewing memory, and declaring, despite everything: we are still here.

A tradition that seems buried never truly died; it was only waiting to be remembered again.

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