Power Plant

Although the tulip has been closely associated with the Netherlands, its legacy is rooted in Turkey. Once a wildflower that grew in the foothills of the Pamir and Tian Shan mountains in Central Asia, the tulip migrated with the Turkic people across Anatolia. The first efforts to cultivate the tulip were made in the early 16th century by order of Sultan Suleiman, a poet, aspiring gardener and all-powerful leader. It was propagated and hybridised, potted and planted in more than 30 royal gardens of Istanbul. The prettiest of all bloomed in the sultan’s quarters in Topkapi Palace. And it was quickly claimed as a marker of power and wealth. Breeding one’s own tulip evolved into a favourite pastime of the Ottoman gentry. Horticulture schools specialising in tulips were opened. Gardeners rose to the highest ranks in court.

A century before tulips became popular in Europe, tulip iconography governed the designs of Ottoman soldiers’ helmets, the armour of generals’ horses, prayer rugs, sultan’s kaftans, Iznik tiles, miniatures, poems, manuscripts and more. Its popularity was intertwined with religious meaning; its qualities were believed to mimic traits attributed to Allah.

One of those impressed by the Ottoman preoccupation with the tulip was Oğier Busbecq, Austria’s ambassador to the Ottoman Empire; through him, the tulip journeyed west. In Vienna in 1562, Busbecq handed over tulip bulbs to his botanist friend Carolus Clusius, who took them to the Dutch court where he was employed as the director of the botanical garden at Leiden University. The tulip was an overnight sensation. Holland succumbed to “tulipomania” – a phase of incoherent obsession that peaked (circa 1636) when a single tulip was sold for the equivalent price of an Amsterdam townhouse. The 18th century saw tulipomania return east during the rule of Sultan Ahmed III, the tulip king. This era was regarded as the highest point of intellectual growth for the Ottomans but it was also when the tulip’s spiritual meaning waned. It became a symbol of the growing gap between the palace and its people, an emblem of extravagance. It’s no coincidence that the Sultan’s tulip gardens were destroyed in the rebellion that unseated him.

So, if in Europe tulipomania is a byword for the perils of the overheated market, in Turkey, it is a reminder of how a divine flower can morph into a symbol of division. But for me, the flower’s charm lies in its elegance and its entropic bloom that still endures as a metaphor for the mortal world.

Over the centuries, as Europe’s biggest megalopolis, Istanbul, has witnessed many changes, its tulips remain a constant. They put their best petal forward in Istanbul’s Goztepe Park, which is my go-to spot every April. Last winter, I planted tulip bulbs in my garden on the island of Buyukada and am waiting, with joy, for them to rise from their beds as spring calls.