© Margaret Foley

Shadows in the Seraglio
Dawn Demmon

I stood in the courtyard of the Turkish seraglio gazing at the cold marble building. I thought I heard the whispered voices of women. I looked around quickly, but I was alone. My walking tour had moved on to another part of the palace.

Something had urged me to stay behind, but I don't know what. I didn't want to stare at the old harem, but I was mesmerized. I abhorred the creation of these places, and yet I was fascinated.

I knew from my readings that young women and girls were brought to the harems often against their will, there to live out their lives behind the closed doors and shuttered windows of buildings such as this. There was only one way to leave a seraglio, and that was by death.

I thought about the women who might have lived and died here. As I stared at the screened doors and windows, I imagined I could see their dark shadows moving. I closed my eyes and felt a longing, a yearning, but I did not recognize it as mine. It was almost tangible, and it made my heart ache. I wondered if the women of the harem had dreamed of freedom. Perhaps at the beginning of their stay some might have wanted to escape, but years behind these walls would have buried those ideas and desires.

I heard the voices again, low and soft. I thought I could hear a woman crying. I didn't know if someone was inside the building. The tour operator told us the harem was sealed, no one went in or out. It had not been in use since the 1920s when the Ottoman Empire fell.

I went to the door and touched it. I don't know what I was planning to do. The wood was warm from the sun. I was surprised. I thought the wood would be cold like the marble. I looked around to see if anyone was about, and then I pushed on the door, but it did not open. I began to caress the warm wood. I wanted to comfort the woman I could hear crying inside. I wasn't sure she was there, but I wanted to touch her.

I wanted her to know that I heard her and that I cared about her. It was important for her to know that she mattered to me, that she was not just a shadow.

But all I could do was run my hands up and down the door. I sat down on the steps and kept her company until the tour came back through on their way to the bus. I hated to leave her, but I had to go.

I took a picture before I left. Sometimes, when I look at it closely, I think I can see her shadow.


Dawn Demmon is a writer from here, there and everywhere, presently resting at a desert oasis in Boise, Idaho.

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