The Ottomans

“What are those fabulous hats they’re wearing?” I asked myself as I watched a preview on Netflix for a show about the Ottoman empire. The Netflix algorithm, and in fact almost all other streaming platforms these days, seems to know exactly what I will like. And what I like most of all is history.

A show about the Ottomans did not initially appeal to me, but those bulbous and swaddled shapes balanced atop some of the heads did. “I’ll watch until I know what those are all about and then I’ll try The Diplomat,” I promised myself.

I didn’t know much about the Ottoman empire but thanks to Netflix that is rapidly changing. The Ottomans were one of the most powerful and expansive Islamic empires ever, if not the most powerful. After Mehmed II conquered Constantinople in 1453 the Ottoman empire rapidly expanded and at the height of their glory they controlled vast swaths of territory, from the Balkans to the gates of Vienna (who knew?) as well as huge regions of the Middle East and northern Africa.

They also, as I could see from the preview, were not at all afraid to perch themselves out on a quite audacious fashion limb. They had the best hat game I have ever seen in my life.

The episodes I’ve watched are very informative and well done, with incredible costumes. (Give someone an award for wardrobe, please!) But they never explain those intriguing head toppers. Nor do they give the viewer any information about the amazing capes, cloaks, breast pieces, jewelry, skirts, vests and shawls that the Ottoman top brass were wearing. What they do lay out, in great detail, is Mehmed ll’s conquest of Constantinople.

Per usual, to gather more information and perhaps some future styling tips of my own, to the internet I went. The Ottomans, it seemed, were inordinately fond of les chapeaux. The fez, börk, kabuki, arakiyye, kufi and kalawta are but a few. But it was that massive, garlic-shaped thing towering above them all that intrigued me. After a few futile searches I found what I was looking for.

The enormous turban that had hooked me into watching the show in the first place is called a Kavuk. This is a large, padded, cylindrical hat wrapped in cloth. This hat was only worn by sultans, high ranking officials and judges. As I read further I came to learn that it was not just a bold sartorial statement these men were making. It was, in fact, a sign of humility. Those massive turbans are wrapped in the wearer’s eventual burial shroud, or Kafan. I suppose the American equivilant would be to walk around town with your future coffin balanced atop your noggin. Wearing, on a daily basis, one’s final ensemble is meant to serve as a stark reminder to the sultan or other important Ottoman muckity-muck that death is always near and that therefore he should act wisely and with good and compassionate judgment.

It was then that I realized that although these powerful Ottomans were Muslim, they were ascribing to the same idea and following the same practice as many other religions.

The Buddhists practice Maranasati (death awareness) - a daily contemplation on death to help the practitioner move beyond fear, reduce attachment (to the body and other worldly things) and to prioritize spiritual goals.

The Christians have Memento Mori (remember death) which helps them keep an awareness of their eventual passing. It also helps to remind them that this life is a sacred and very temporary gift.

In the Jewish faith there is Yom Kippur, when practitioners effectively embody death through fasting and prayer to encourage repentance. They embrace that day as though it could very well be their last day on earth.

Some Kabbalistic texts focus on the brevity of life and the preparation for the “world of truth” (the afterlife). Studying these texts is meant to help guide our moral behavior while we are stuck here in our mortal coil (or our “skin bag” as a friend of mine jokingly calls his body).

The Hindi sages have some tantric and yogic practices employing meditations that involve sitting near corpses or even living in the Varanasi (cremation grounds). This is done in an effort to conquer the fear of death and to remind them - once again - of the fragility and absolute transience of the human body.

As I got lost in a rabbit hole of other practices throughout the world which are meant to keep death front and center in our minds, I was reminded of the biography of Jim Morrison, No One Here Gets Out Alive. How true that is.

Apparently, death is coming for all of us and we should, whether we believe in a judgement day or not, act accordingly.

I have a rather dramatic skull bracelet that I used to wear every day. Not because it would remind me of death and would help me act like a better person, but because the artist who created it told me that he had made only one other piece like it, and that had been for Keith Richards. “There are only two of these,” he told me upon delivery. “Yours and Keith’s.” It made me feel bad-ass adjacent...rock & roll-ish. Heavy though it is I’ve pulled it out and have started to wear it again. If I had the cojones I might wear one of those giant Ottoman turbans to remind myself (and anyone else within a half-mile radius) that the end is nigh. For now, the bracelet will have to suffice.

Then, if I happen to glance down at it when I’m in a temper or feeling decidedly flat, it helps to knock me out of a mood. The tiny diamond eyes embedded in the bracelet’s six skulls seem to wink up as if to say “if today were your last day on earth would you really snap at a co-worker? Allow yourself to sink into a silent sulky slump? Not take the time to give some love to your ancient dog or senior cat? Forget to be flooded with gratitude for this human life and the fact that you can still swim in a wild tempestuous sea?”

It is then that I take a minute to pause, thank the skulls wrapped around my wrist for the reminder, and say to myself “most definitely not.”