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Passport to panic

 




The first thing I learned in Istanbul was that the Turkish alphabet has more accents than I have common sense.

The second thing I learned was that getting a residence permit requires visiting a police station that apparently moves every time I try to find it.

My company had arranged a neat little apartment for me, but the real test of survival began when I stepped into a crowded city bus—armed with nothing but Google Translate, misplaced confidence, and a pronunciation that could legally be classified as a threat.

“Emniyet Müdürlüğü?” I asked the driver.

He stared at me like I’d asked for directions to the moon. The bus jerked forward, sealing my fate.

I rode until I saw a stop that looked vaguely official. Buildings. People. A dog. All promising signs.

I got off, squinted at the foreign letters, and realized every word looked like a Wi-Fi password.

That’s when a man approached me.

Tall. Unsmiling. Wearing a jacket that had far too many pockets.

“Police? Permit?” I asked, pointing helplessly at my documents.

He nodded once—too serious—and motioned me to follow.

And like an idiot in every horror movie ever made, I followed.


We started walking down the main street. Then he took a left turn. Then a right. Then a sharp right. Then down a sloping alley that looked like the trailer of every crime film I was not emotionally ready for.


He didn’t speak.

He didn’t smile.

He kept exactly two steps ahead of me, like he wanted plausible deniability when I disappeared.

My mind began writing its own obituary.

“Software Engineer Found Missing in Istanbul: Last Seen Asking Directions With Terrible Turkish.”

When we reached a narrow staircase leading down to a dark underpass, he gestured me forward.

And that’s when I ran.

Not away—from him.

But down the stairs, two steps at a time, because if this was where he planned to kill me, I wanted to get it over with quickly. Dying slowly on stairs was not on my bucket list.

He watched me sprint, sighed deeply, and continued walking normally.


More alleys. More silence. More fear.

At one point, I swear he got a phone call and said something like “tamam”—which of course my brain translated to:“Yes brother, I’m bringing him. Keep the sack ready.”

I mentally said goodbye to my parents, my dog, my Netflix watchlist.

Just when I prepared myself for the worst, he stopped suddenly.

He pointed right.

And there it was.

A big board.

Clear letters.

The police station.

The same police station I had been trying to find for an hour.

He had walked me all the way there—through shortcuts only locals knew—cutting time from whatever job he was supposed to be doing.

I turned to thank him.

But he was already leaving, fast, waving me off with a look that said, “Please never follow strangers again.”

As I entered the station, sweaty, panting, and spiritually aged by twenty years, one thing became painfully clear:


Sometimes kindness arrives wearing a suspicious jacket,

walks like a gangster,

and uses shortcuts that look like crime scenes…

…but still gets you exactly where you need to go.


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