Sometimes our childhood memories haunt us or linger even after we become adults. When I was in the fourth grade, for example, a theater near my house was showing a movie entitled “Istanbul.” As a child, I did not know where Istanbul was, but its exotic name sounded so romantic that it was like a summons to my bohemian soul. Unfortunately, however, my allowance at the time was too meager and the ticket too pricey. My inability to see the movie left me with a throbbing pang. I have had nostalgia for Istanbul ever since, even though I had never been there.

At school, I learned that Istanbul was originally called Byzantium by the Greek colonists in B.C. 657 and then Constantinople in A.D. 330, when it was inaugurated as the capital city of the Roman Empire. The city was conquered by the Ottoman Empire in 1453 and subsequently renamed Istanbul. I also learned that the great poet W.B. Yeats wrote a poem, “Sailing to Byzantium,” in which he perceived Byzantium as a utopia of immortal arts where old men are not neglected by the young, who are “caught in that sensual music.” To Yeats, Byzantium was the city where aged men could be reinvigorated by a soul-searching journey “into the artifice of eternity” and Grecian arts.

Also, Istanbul was the city where Erich Auerbach wrote his monumental book, “Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature,” while in exile from Nazi Germany. In Istanbul, Auerbach was a disoriented Jewish European who had lost access to traditions, books and libraries. Nevertheless, he confessed that it was precisely this distance from his home and culture that made it possible for him to write his masterpiece.

A few weeks ago, I had a chance to visit Istanbul at last. Before actually landing in Istanbul, my impressions of the city mainly came from movies I had watched. While movies such as “Istanbul” and “From Russia with Love” portrayed the city favorably, other films like “Midnight Express” and “Taken 2” depicted Istanbul as a hostile, dangerous place. When my plane touched down, I was pleased because now I could see the historic city with my own eyes.

Istanbul was an enchanting city in every sense. Roaming through the city, I saw numerous magnificent mosques and cathedrals, and the roaring Bosporus strait that connects the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara, which eventually drains into the Mediterranean Sea. I also saw the long Bosporus Bridge, which connects Asia to Europe. I also heard that the world’s first coffee shop had opened in Istanbul in the 16th century. At the same time, Istanbul is a place where you can also taste authentic chai tea. Istanbul is indeed a city where Asia and Europe, the East and the West, and Islam and Christianity meet and peacefully coexist.

Due to fanatic Islamic terrorists, we tend to think of Muslims as fundamentalists and extremists. Come to Istanbul, and you will find that this is far from the truth. According to my Turkish friend, professor Goksel Turkozu, Islam as quite a flexible religion in Istanbul. “Here in Istanbul, you can divorce, drink and do other mundane stuff, if you like,” he said. “People picture Muslims as extremists due to the misconstrued phrase, ‘The Koran in one hand and the sword in the other.’ But that is not true in Istanbul.”

In Istanbul, I could find neither the extreme bipolarity nor the spiteful antagonism that is so rampant in South Korea today. Instead, I found the Turkish capacity of tolerating and embracing differences. In Istanbul, therefore, I, too, could be flexible; I am a Christian, but I entered a mosque and paid respect to Allah, who is the same as the Christian God, Yahweh, hoping that Muslims would do the same thing in a church or a cathedral. Why do Christians and Muslims hate each other so much, while worshipping the same God, different only in name?

Boarding a Korean Air flight bound for Seoul, I thought of South Korea, where people are sharply divided into two different ideological groups and detest each other as if they were archenemies. In South Korea, the brawl between the ruling party and the opposition party over the special Sewol bill still drags on, transforming the tragic incident into a source of militant political struggle. Unlike Istanbul, Seoul seems to lack magnanimity and flexibility. Seoul is the home to which I constantly return after visits abroad. But what is home? Home is a place where you are happy, comfortable and relaxed. If that is not the case, then it cannot be called a home.

So there I was once again, midway between Istanbul and Seoul, brooding about whether I really have a serene, happy home to which I am anxious to return. Suddenly, I understood why Auerbach was fond of what Hugo of St. Victor said: “The man who finds his homeland sweet is still a tender beginner; he to whom every soil is as his native one is already strong; but he is perfect to whom the entire world is as a foreign land.”

By Kim Seong-kon

Kim Seong-kon is a professor emeritus of English at Seoul National University and president of the Literature Translation Institute. ― Ed.