In Sheikh Mohalla, Maharaj Gunj in downtown Srinagar, mornings did not begin with birdsong. They always began with the sounds of hammering copper.
My maternal uncle, Syed Mohammad Amin Andrabi, lived in Sheikh Mohalla, and holidays spent in his house meant waking up every morning to this metallic symphony. Before the sun had properly entered the narrow lanes of old Srinagar, and before the first samovar of noon chai had completed its rounds, the sound would already be there.
A hammer striking copper. Then another. Then a whole chorus of craftsmen shaping sheets of metal into trays, plates, vessels, samovars, and engraved household treasures.
For a visitor arriving from elsewhere, the sound initially felt overwhelming because it seemed to come from every direction at once. Yet for those who lived there, it was simply part of life. My cousins barely noticed it. Their ears had long adapted to the endless cadence of hammer on copper. At that age, we did not think of it as heritage or cultural preservation. We simply knew that this was the voice of the mohalla.
Decades later, and thousands of kilometres away, I heard that same voice again recently.
While walking through the old city of Gaziantep in southeastern Türkiye, I suddenly found myself surrounded by a familiar rhythm. It emerged from narrow stone alleys lined with workshops and shops displaying gleaming copper coffee pots, engraved trays, decorative bowls, pitchers, and ornate household objects.
Craftsmen sat bent over sheets of metal, repeating movements that generations before them had performed with the same patience and precision. The sound rising from their workshops instantly transported me back to Srinagar.
Gaziantep is often introduced to visitors through its extraordinary cuisine. The city’s baklava, pistachios, and kebabs have earned international recognition, and rightly so. Yet to walk through its historic quarters is to discover that Gaziantep is much more than a gastronomic destination. It is also a city of artisans, craftsmen, and living traditions that continue to survive in the very streets where they were born.
Once known simply as Antep, the city received the title “Gazi” after its heroic resistance during the Turkish War of Independence. The word signifies a victorious veteran or warrior, and the addition transformed Antep into Gaziantep.
Meeting Point
Gaziantep Governor Kemal Çeber told visiting journalists that the city has stood along ancient trade routes connecting different civilisations and has long been a meeting point of merchants, travellers, and craftsmen. Its old quarters still retain that atmosphere, where commerce and culture exist side by side. Srinagar was also once a connection link between Central and South Asia.
As I wandered through the historic district, the photographs almost seemed to compose themselves. Shelves overflowed with polished copper coffee pots arranged in perfect rows.
Engraved trays reflected sunlight streaming into the bazaar. Small decorative vessels sat beside elaborately hammered bowls. In one workshop, a craftsman patiently engraved patterns onto a copper plate, each strike of his tool adding another detail to an increasingly intricate design.
Elsewhere, restored stone houses, cobbled streets, sculptures fashioned from metal and carefully preserved courtyards created a setting where history felt alive rather than merely remembered.
The comparison with Srinagar became impossible to resist.
Maharaj Gunj, Sheikh Mohalla, and Gojwara possess their own copper geography. Their narrow gallis and interconnected lanes have for generations been associated with the making of copperware. There, too, craftsmen sit patiently shaping metal by hand. There too, designs emerge gradually through countless careful blows. There too, copper becomes something larger than a commodity, acquiring cultural and emotional significance.
Yet there is also an important difference that deserves acknowledgment.
The alleys of old Gaziantep appear cleaner, more organised, and more carefully maintained than many of their counterparts in Srinagar. The cobbled streets are preserved with remarkable attention. Historic structures have been restored without stripping them of their character. Public spaces are thoughtfully managed, and even modern additions appear to respect the historical identity of the neighbourhood. The old city feels lived in yet protected.
Srinagar’s old quarters possess no less history and perhaps even greater emotional depth. Their wooden architecture, shrines, bridges, markets, and workshops contain layers of memory accumulated over centuries. However, decades of neglect, congestion, haphazard development, and inadequate conservation have left many historic neighbourhoods struggling to retain their former grandeur. The copper still sings there, but the stage upon which it performs often appears neglected.
What struck me most in Gaziantep was the way the sound itself seemed to blend into the city’s restored environment. The hammers beating copper did not jar the ear. Instead, they rose and fell in rhythm, almost like a carefully rehearsed musical composition. One workshop answered another. One craftsman’s hammer picked up where another left off. Walking through the bazaar, one felt less like a visitor in a marketplace and more like an audience member listening to an ancient orchestra.
That was precisely what carried me back to Maharajgunj.
Comforting Sounds
I remembered those childhood mornings when I wondered how anyone could live with such relentless noise. Then I remembered how quickly the sound ceased to be intrusive and instead became comforting. Perhaps every historic city possesses sounds that outsiders call noise, but residents recognise as life itself. In both Srinagar and Gaziantep, the sound of copper belongs to the city as naturally as the stones beneath one’s feet.
Gaziantep also tells another story that resonated deeply with me.
Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder of modern Türkiye, was born in Selanik, known today as Thessaloniki in Greece. When wars and shifting borders transformed the map of the region, his birthplace found itself outside the boundaries of the republic he would later create. Gaziantep embraced him symbolically as one of its own. The city offered him honorary citizenship and a residence, and Atatürk later represented Gaziantep in the Turkish parliament. Walking through the old city today, one still encounters plaques and displays commemorating this unique relationship between the city and the republic’s founder.
For a city to adopt a leader whose birthplace had effectively passed into another country is a remarkable gesture of civic generosity. It reflects a confidence and magnanimity that transcends geography and politics.
Srinagar, too, has demonstrated such generosity at different moments in its history. Over centuries, it has accommodated scholars, saints, traders, administrators, refugees, and political figures from elsewhere, often granting them not merely shelter but a sense of belonging and identity. Like Gaziantep, Srinagar has frequently acted as a host city, absorbing newcomers into its social and cultural fabric.
Perhaps that is why the two cities began speaking to one another in my mind.
Gaziantep’s copper bazaar is not identical to Srinagar’s copper lanes. The Turkish craft tradition has evolved around its own motifs, coffee culture, Ottoman influences, and local tastes. Kashmir’s copperware carries another vocabulary altogether, expressed through samovars, traem, tasht-naer, engraved plates, and ceremonial vessels associated with wazwan, weddings, and hospitality.
Yet both traditions emerge from the same human instinct: the desire to transform utility into beauty.
A copper plate can merely hold food, but in the hands of an artisan, it becomes a work of art. A coffee pot can simply boil water, yet in Gaziantep, it acquires elegance and identity. A samovar can serve tea, yet in Kashmir it often becomes an heirloom carrying generations of family memory.
The challenge facing such traditions is also shared. Handmade crafts across the world struggle against cheaper machine-made alternatives. Younger generations frequently seek different careers. Visitors admire the finished product without always understanding the years of apprenticeship and discipline required to produce it. Every engraved tray and every polished vessel embodies countless hours of labour, concentration, and inherited skill.
As I left the old alleys of Gaziantep, I paused one final time before a shop displaying rows of copper vessels glowing in the afternoon sunlight. Nearby, a craftsman remained absorbed in his work, seemingly indifferent to tourists and cameras. The hammer rose and fell with patient regularity, just as it must have done for generations.
For most visitors, it was simply the charming sound of a traditional bazaar.
For me, it was Sheikh Mohallan in Maharajgunj calling from another country, and reflected in a Turkish mirror.
It was Gojwara, Klashpora echoing through the stone alleys of Antep.
And in that moment, the music of copper seemed larger than geography itself. It belonged equally to the winding lanes of Srinagar and the narrow streets of Gaziantep, carrying across continents the enduring sound of hands refusing to forget.
Have you liked the news article?