I am not what you might call a superstitious person. I have a black cat the size of four black cats, I walk under ladders and my inbox is where chain letters land to die. When it comes to the power of the evil eye, however, all logic takes leave.
You see, I have worn an evil eye pendant since the day I was born, the last one - a teardrop-shaped white gold pendant on a white gold necklace draped around my neck - from the late 90s until earlier this year when I reached up to discover my neck suddenly bare. The grief associated with my loss is one I’m still grappling with, yet the non-superstitious me can’t make sense of any of this ‘nonsense’.
For those unfamiliar with the curse of the evil eye (and thus, the protective qualities of wearing an amulet to ward off mystic malevolent forces), the belief - popular in the Middle East and the Mediterranean in particular and dating as far back as the 6th century B.C. - is that a ‘look’ or a feeling of envy (or according to some, genuine dislike) can bring disaster to the person at whom said evil eye was directed and undo all their good fortune.
The solution? A nazar amulet worn on the persons and hung around the home, designed to repel and protect from these evil spirits. Commonly blue and occasionally green, they are often worn in the form of jewellery, dangled as a keychain or wall hanging, or, if you’re anything like my Turkish parents, you’ll also have a collection of evil eye tea towels, trivets and ashtrays. My Greek friends say I’m lucky; her own parents spit on her to ward off those same pesky spirits. Swings and roundabouts.
If you’re anything like my Turkish parents, you’ll also have a collection of evil eye tea towels, trivets and ashtrays. My Greek friends say I’m lucky; her own parents spit on her to ward off those same pesky spirits
Despite the recent global popularity of evil eye jewellery (many blame the Meghan Markle effect), I can see how the idea of a piece of blue glass protecting you would seem like the stuff of unicorns and pixie dust. In my defence, I will say this: I was born into the kind of family where an eye is pinned on you the moment you exit the womb and everyone has to follow any kind of compliment with a ‘Mashallah’, lest the spirits hear.
My mum went one better and took to just calling me ‘Çirkin’ (ugly) like a nickname in order to ‘trick’ the evil spirits (or so she says). Growing up, I could see the positives in wearing one (namely: other Turks would identify you as one of their own and either give you a heavy discount on kebabs or ensure you skip the queue altogether), but outside of that, I didn’t give it much thought until I stepped into a jewellery store in Istanbul and found The Necklace.
In almost every photo I have of myself between 1999 and 2021, the necklace is clearly visible. I was wearing it the day I met my husband and it can be seen in the photos where I’m cradling our newborns. The necklace peeks out of shockingly cheap (and short) dresses during my clubbing days and it’s in all of my travel photos. Does 20+ years never having taken it off mean I’ve been shielded from misfortune during this time? Not at all; I’ve endured some truly difficult times, but for some reason, having that necklace around my check - the same pendant my ancestors placed such faith in - provided comfort whenever I needed it.
I was taken aback by the grief which engulfed me when I lost my evil eye. I felt like I had lost a limb, my fingers constantly reaching for the emptiness around my neck as I retraced my steps and met with the police. I felt vulnerable, like a much older spouse with an accidental overlap of multiple life insurance policies. “Don’t try searching for it,” the Turks advised me. “If your necklace broke, that means the evil eye was on you and it did its job protecting you.” Like any good horror movie, this means the evil is now trapped in the pendant, ready to wreak havoc on the unfortunate soul who finds it (screenwriters, take note). “You’ll have to get a new one.”
I was wearing it the day I met my husband and it can be seen in the photos where I’m cradling our newborns.
Still, I mourned for my pendant which had a shape and style unique to anything I’d seen before. My cousin, the caretaker of all things ethnic (as I call her) believed she had a solution. “I know a guy who can make an exact replica. Just send me a photo.” A photo? Easily done when you have over 20,000 of them. In the end, we visited her jeweller in Sydney’s Auburn, which not only gifted us a uniquely Turkish shopping experience (endless cups of tea, blinding displays of gold), but sent my specs to Istanbul to have my pendant recreated and shipped back.
Today I wear the necklace around my neck, a feeling of calm inexplicably restored. It doesn’t quite have the history of my old one, but it will. I don’t ever plan to take it off.
