I hopped from shadow to shadow, avoiding the menacing rays of the July sun as it glared at the pavement. Behind me, the rest of my family followed. My father, with his decade-old University of Chicago cap and 90’s Ray Ban sunglasses slowly passed in and out of the shade, resistant to the sweltering heat. My mother created her own shade with a Zagat guide, scanning the sizzling streets for refuge from the extreme heat. My ten-year old brother, tired and thirsty, yet excited about the family trip in Istanbul, tried to match my pace.

A cross slowly revealed itself behind a veil of shops, houses, and office buildings, followed by the solid white dome that held the symbol high. With each step forward, I saw more and more parts emerge. Slightly open arched windows, windowless minarets, and ancient domes blossomed into view, completing the image of the mosque. Each detail seemed to contain a secret, something yet to be revealed.

We arrived at the gate and entered into the courtyard, a large square area surrounded by white pathways leading to the inner section of the Islamic temple. I trailed behind the bustling billow of tourists inhaled by the stone archway. People brushed shoulders as they walked side by side, while others quickly moved forward in an attempt to slip past a gap in the crowd, only to bump into those who had had the same idea. My paces became skips, and my skips became dashes. The crowd, now a set of shifting colours, invited me forward. The clamor of bag shuffling and chatter died away, reduced to a muffled hum. The colourful cloud was consumed by a bright white archway that became more defined as I approached it.

I slipped into the next room, welcomed by violent swirls of tiles frozen into static eddies across the walls. The ceiling, so far up as if to form a second sky, contained us, providing security and shelter from the fierce sun. The mosque’s domes made this sky appear off kilter, waxing and waning in different corners. The room was musky and only slightly lit, yet its vast area and rich colour forced my eyes to widen. Warm beams of light seeped in through the arched windows and descended upon the grey stone floor. Pockets of shade outnumbered the light, which appeared no longer appeared intimidating, but rather inviting. The areas beneath the sunlight paradoxically remained cool under the powerful rays of the sun. The building was a permanent and lasting figure, able to defend itself from changes caused by the forces of nature.
Underneath, people scrutinized different parts of this wondrous space. One man stared at the height of the ceiling, enthralled by the distance between himself and the top of the dome. A child followed the flow of tiles across the room. Next to a pillar, a woman ran her hand along its surface, as if to verify its existence. In the remaining space, tour guides hummed out information. Hagia Sophia, Santa Sofiya d'Istambul, Basilica di Santa Sofia. An international collection under a man-made sky.

I stood next to a pillar that ignored my presence. Four mosaic angels were printed in the corners of the dome. A cocoon of feathers surrounded the body of the first angel. Its thoughts were indecipherable, since a blotch of plaster had been smeared across its face. I turned to the second and third angels, only to realize that their faces had been obscured as well. Hiding, as if waiting to reveal their countenances to a worthy presence. They too were surrounded by dusty golden feathers over a layer of white wings. An extra pair of wings extended to their sides.

The final angel, however, had already shown its face. I felt disappointed. There was no colour or brightness in its face, only a worn-out white circle with plain dot-eyes. Its expression, grainy and rough from the individual pieces that created the mosaic, did not radiate joy. Above the blank eyes, both eyebrows locked in a furrow, a smooth line from a distance but rough and uneven upon scrutiny. I squinted to find what I was missing, to locate the majestic image that seemed fitting for a holy messenger. My gaze flicked from feature to feature, from its plain eyes to its stiff lips, as if to follow the erratic movements of a fly. As I shifted my vision along the outline of its rectangular face, its eyes drew my attention. At first, I saw nothing. But my eyes locked onto those of the angel. A slow paralysis seized my body, enveloping the muscles of my legs. It climbed along my sides and closed tightly around my arms.

Something powerful. Something pure. Something purely powerful. A connection formed between a holy figure beyond reach, and I, a humble human. The angel seemed awed by me as well, though I could not tell if it was a positive or negative reaction. The angel responded to my search for evidence of its holiness by drawing its own eyes across my features.

Our exchange was no longer mutual. My gaze faltered under the angel’s unwavering glare. I felt exposed, unable to avoid its scrutiny as long as I remained within the building. Sweat trickled along my sideburns. My heart sent powerful, punctuating pulses through my blood. My limbs, unable to shake under the paralytic spell, simply trembled. I was trapped. At that moment, I did not know whether I had been forbidden from moving or if I had trapped myself. Either way, I could not move, caught in that moment for what felt like an eternity.

The angel’s scrutiny returned to its original blank gaze. Its eyes were still locked on me, and the brows remained in a furrow, but the electrifying moment had passed. A flat collection of dusty tiles, unable to move, think, or talk, replaced the feather-covered figure in the sky. I could no longer perceive the angel’s powerful survey. Dazed, I blinked. The sensation was already fleeting from my memories, and the nerves in my body returned to normal.

The angel’s claustrophobic grip on my attention dissolved into the sounds of shrieking children and tour guides and the dizzying sight of the kaleidoscopic tourists. I tried to have the angel clutch my mind and body. But as I forcefully stared at the angel’s face, a shoulder bumped into me, propelling me backward. The stone slab I had stood on was nowhere to be seen, disguised by identical pieces covering the mosque’s floor. I tried to recreate each detail, so that the angel could squeeze the same intense focus from me, but more importantly, release my existence in a burst of liberation. The refreshing taste of freedom after a period of entrapment. This was the nature of the angel, the majestic power that I had believed was missing. My final goal was to confirm its existence, making sure that this power was in fact real.

But the surrounding discord of indifferent visitors severed the bridge that might lead me to the angel. The true angel was trapped into the past, and centuries-old tiles were all that remained on the celestial ceiling.