Hattusha City of a Thousand Gods

The name, Hittite, effortlessly evokes exotic ancient people, transporting modern ears to far away times and lands. Still, without knowing anything about them their name sounds strangely familiar, perhaps because of its appearance in the pages of the Bible. Although as I have recently discovered the group of people mentioned in the Bible is not the people whose civilization modern archaeologists are excavating. Unlike the small tribe mentioned in the Bible, the Hittites that the archaeologists are unearthing are the more ancient people whose peace treaty with Egypt hangs in the United Nations building in New York as the first known such document between rival empires, they are the people who ruled the first kingdom in the ancient world with dominion over a vast territory winning superpower status along the other major power of the day, Egypt, and they are the people who were builders of a capital city, Hattusha, that was one of the largest and greatest cities of the time.


But perhaps their most remarkable and attractive characteristic was the relatively humane conduct of their affairs which seemingly shares a resemblance to modern western values. Unlike their contemporaries, the Assyrians and Egyptians: The Hittites expected compassion of their rulers, deeming heirs to the throne unfit for lack of compassion; their art depicts only religious ceremonies completely lacking in scenes that glorifying war fare or human brutality, their kings were subject to the rule of law and the scrutiny of the community of nobles, their laws rarely called for corporal punishment even in the case of murder, their kings ruled merely as aristocrats unlike their eastern neighbors they were not gods incarnate; kings were deified but only after death never ruling as a theocrat.

When I discovered that the ruins of the capital city, Hattusha, are an accessible UNESCO World Heritage Site situated in Turkey I was immediately overcome with the longing to possess firsthand sight of this treasure: a land so distant in time and space – my holy grail of travel. Never dreaming that a civilization of such great antiquity and obscurity was accessible to a mere traveler; it was as if I had been told that Oz is not only real, but that you can visit the Emerald City. I believe it was at that moment that I mentally began to pack.

While it was certainly the humane aspects of the Hittites that confirmed my initial uninformed attraction to them; it was really their shoes that captured me. Perhaps not just their shoes, but their art which is not nearly as monumental as their contemporaries either in quality or size; rather it is more human in an everyday humble even cuddly hobbit–like way; especially their shoes. Once you have seen a Hittite relief and noticed their shoes you will ever after be able to look at their work and immediately identify it as Hittite – their shoes had curled up toes.

While their art was of a human scale they nevertheless built an empire and a grand city from which to rule it. My first view of Hattusha, was actually a bit disappointing not because the ruins are rarely above waist height and require active imagination to see them as having been temples and palaces, I was aware of their condition; but because the archaeologists have built a recreation of the city walls. Which initially in its pristine unblemished condition felt artificial and Disneylandish; but if I was willing to give myself over to imagining life among the ruins why not on the parapets of the recreated wall as well. So, as I returned to the city the next day, I allowed myself to see them as an approaching enemy seeking entry. What I saw before me was a formidable barricade made of sundried mud brick walls interspersed with tall massive block towers inset with long rectangular windows and typical Hittite triangular crenellation sitting atop the whole structure. Standing there before them, I remembered these walls were the models for the walls of Troy perhaps this was the vision that Homer had seen when he spoke of the strength and beauty of the walls of Troy.

These particular walls protect the lower city behind which lies the cities grandest temple used at the height of their power in the 13th and 14th century BCE. On entering the city, the temple complex beckons even in its much diminished state. Without signs marking the way to the entrance of the temple complex, I was naturally led to its gates and passed through the portal of a typical Hittite gate flanked by guard rooms. Pausing in the passageway to absorb the moment; I was entering a place that was sacred to people some 3500 years ago, certainly the most ancient temple I have had the good fortune of setting foot inside. Then with only one breath separating me from entering the Hittite world, I stepped onto the paved street of stones smoothed and rounded by the stream of human footsteps both ancient and modern. Immediately taking the fork in the road that headed up a slight incline, I was now unable to rein in my excitement- I was finally standing in the Great Temple Complex of the Hittites after so many days spent studying books, maps and websites - I rushed past the small rectangular storerooms, found in most temple complexes in ancient Anatolia, in search of the temple proper.

Once again although nothing was marked, I naturally came to the courtyard gate whose stone blocks are abraded by the heavy wooden doors swinging open and closed and pierced with the dowel holes on which the doors pivoted. Like petrified plants frozen in time these humble acts and seemingly insignificant objects have left an enduring imprint of their passing on earth; fulfilling the dream of most artists and thinkers. The space of the court yard while lacking in the grandeur of its past has a purposeful presence amid the cluttered maze of the store rooms; it is restful and feels deliberately designed to invite pause. From the Hittite’s text we know that most celebrations that took place here were presided over by members of the court and attended by brightly dressed spectators with colorful banners, music and incense floating in the air. In the hard gabbro stone, reserved for sacred buildings rather than the limestone used for secular construction, stands in a corner of the court what is believed to be an altar.

Still driven to enter the heart of the temple, the cult chamber, my impatience would not allow me to linger in the court yard with the summit so close; I rushed on to the opposite side of the court yard. At first frustrated that I was unable to identify the open stoa that was supposed to be on the back wall of the courtyard and the front of the cult chamber; I quickly abandoned the pursuit, knowing that my ultimate goal was right before my eyes - I need only pick it out of the confusion of stones. After twisting my way through a number of doors in what had become a jigsaw puzzle of stones, the pieces suddenly fit and the puzzle fell into place: At last, I stood in the Holy of Holies breaching a threshold that 3500 years ago only the King and Queen and a few select priests could cross. Here stood, as described in my various guide books, the pedestal of the cult statue against the outer wall surrounded by two long and slim rectangular windows whose sills are still clearly visible as they are cut into the foundation stones (socles) and almost touch the ground. I had indeed reached the summit of Hittite religion.

But Hattusha is a large city dwarfing all other late Bronze Age Cities and I was only in the lower city so I still had real heights to reach.

Siren Song of Travel

Once again the temptation or out right untamed lust to travel is calling me. Is it a siren song leading me to physical or financial disaster; or is it the gong of a bell calling me to wake up to my true nature, or as Joseph Campbell says "to follow my bliss"? In either case it is irresistible and once again the longing to be on the road has me checking flights, all the while protesting to myself that I've not recovered from the three month long journey of last fall. Without the befit, hindrance or restrictions of a tour guide my pilgrimage from Prague to Istanbul and Athens became both a self trial and a tale that I composed.
Some are ridiculous tales such as obsessively lugging a roll of toilet paper from the Czech Republic to Turkey, falling flat on my ass as I emerged from a bus saddled with far too much luggage, at least one bag stuffed with toilet paper. And some are unpleasant ones, such as being awaken at 3 in the morning in Istanbul to the sound of dripping water to discover the water was not rain but a leak in the ceiling, right over my bed. Which the management assured me was not their fault, but would nevertheless be cleaned up in about an hour. Since they had no other place for me to sleep, I passed the time standing in the hall with my luggage in a pile about me, cursing myself for being so cheap.
Pleasant tales also abounded, usually in the form of chance encounters with people and places. Such as finding myself bicycling through the Transylvanian country side with a Dutchman from Amsterdam to a Gypsy village, which the local Romanians warned us was completely unsafe. Discovering the unearthly beautiful Cappadocia, a place where I could fulfilling my childhood fantasy of living like a hobbit in a terraced town craved into pinnacles of rock with caves for dwellings and where a room at the inn was in fact a cave room. A fortunate encounter with a very proper English man, an Oxford man to be sure, who was living and teaching in Cyprus and who invited me to join him on his journey to a village in Turkey where Aristotle had lived from 348 to 345 BCE. The truly extraordinarily good luck to meet and travel with an Orthodox Christian Nun from Moscow whose companionship granted me entrance into the mystical world of Byzantium and Orthodox Greek monasteries, where we spent nights in remote monasteries nestled into the side of cliffs accessible by trails still plied by donkeys, a daily form of transportation for the monks and nuns. She then became my guide to the wild west of Greece, the Mani, a dry rocky barren finger of the Peloponnese, where isolated by the rugged mountains dwell a fiercely independent people who crave a living out of the bare rocks, a people who claim direct descent from the ancient Spartans.
Traveling alone as a free spirit or loose cannon, as the case may be, has been my addiction since the beginning of this millennium. But the song I hear this time is a variation on this familiar theme; it seems to call me to take someone with me. So I would like to invite anyone who logs onto my blog, to come along. This will be a Journey to ancient lands and unexpected excursions with people I have not yet met. Primarily a visit to the 2nd millennium BCE of Turkey and Greece during the time of Troy, Mycenae, the Minoans and the Hittites. This is a period of time that Homer wrote about even though he lived some 500 years later and that I would like to write about even though I live some 3500 years later. Stories of this time and these peoples are also recorded in the Bible, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Assyrian cuneiform inscriptions, as well as Hittite cuneiform and hieroglyphics. While I'm not an historian I have been reading extensively about these civilizations in particular their art, languages, and religion and now I'm going in search of their remains. But before I leave I will post the usual pre-journey angst and remembrances of past journeys in order to warm up. I hope you will join me in September for real time multimedia blog travel.