There are moments when you are walking through Istanbul and suddenly realize that the building in front of you is much older—and much more important—than you imagined.
This happened to me on Heybeliada.
I was looking at the imposing naval-school buildings beside the sea when I discovered something that made me stop.
1773.
1773!
That means that the story behind this naval institution began more than 250 years ago.
I looked again at the buildings and suddenly they seemed completely different.
I was no longer simply looking at an old military complex.
I was imagining the young naval cadets who once crossed these grounds, preparing themselves for life at sea.
The origins of the institution go back to the Ottoman Empire of the 18th century.
Following the Ottoman naval disaster at Cesme in 1770, the need for better-trained naval officers became increasingly clear. In 1773, during the reign of Sultan Mustafa III, a naval engineering school was established at the Imperial Shipyard in Kasimpasa.
It was known as Tersane Hendesehanesi, and it later developed into the Muhendishane-i Bahrî-i Humayun, the Imperial Naval Engineering School.
The idea was remarkably modern for its time.
Future naval officers needed much more than courage.
They needed mathematics.
Navigation.
Cartography.
Shipbuilding.
Engineering.
And an understanding of the increasingly sophisticated technology of European naval warfare.
The school therefore became part of the Ottoman effort to introduce more European-style military and technical education. Historical research describes military schools such as this as some of the earliest institutions through which Western-style education entered the Ottoman educational system.
The school did not always stand where we see it today.
After various changes and relocation, the naval school eventually moved permanently to Heybeliada around 1851–1852.
And this is where the story becomes particularly fascinating.
Imagine Heybeliada in the middle of the 19th century.
No modern ferries.
No tourists wandering through the island.
No smartphones.
Instead, there was the sea, sailing vessels, naval officers, instructors and young cadets preparing for a very different life.
The school complex had classrooms, accommodation, a hospital, pharmacy, library and other facilities. Historical accounts also note that an English-style educational system was introduced and that some lessons were taught by English instructors.
The sea itself was part of the education.
After all, these were not simply students studying in a classroom.
They were being prepared for the Ottoman Navy.
This was the question I could not stop asking myself.
What did they look like?
What did they wear?
How did they walk?
What happened when they woke up in the morning?
I imagine rows of young cadets appearing in carefully arranged uniforms.
Their clothing would have reflected the military reforms and changing European influences of the Ottoman period. By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Ottoman naval uniforms had become increasingly recognizable as modern military uniforms, rather than the traditional clothing of earlier Ottoman periods.
And then I imagine the sound.
Commands.
Footsteps.
The movement of young men preparing for the navy.
Perhaps a whistle from an instructor.
Perhaps the sound of boats being prepared below.
And beyond all of it—
the Marmara Sea.
Of course, this is where imagination must remain imagination. The exact daily routine, uniforms and ceremonies changed over the school's long history, so we should not present every imagined scene as historically documented.
But the fascinating part is that the institution itself really did evolve continuously as naval technology and military education changed. By the 19th century, the curriculum included increasingly specialized naval training, while later reforms brought further European influence.
In some ways, probably yes.
In others, the difference would be enormous.
A naval cadet then still needed discipline, physical endurance, technical knowledge, navigation and teamwork.
But imagine learning navigation before GPS.
Imagine studying charts knowing that your calculations could determine where a ship would go.
Imagine learning about steam engines at a time when steam technology was transforming naval warfare.
And imagine leaving the classroom and going directly toward the sea that you were being trained to command.
The school introduced a four-year academic programme in the 19th century, with students specialising in areas such as seamanship, marine engineering and naval architecture. A school ship was also assigned for practical training.
That combination of classroom + engineering + navigation + practical maritime training is one of the most fascinating aspects of its history.
The institution survived enormous political and historical changes.
The Ottoman Empire disappeared.
The Republic of Turkey was established.
The educational system changed.
The naval forces changed.
And yet the institution's long educational tradition continued.
The school eventually became associated with the Naval High School, while the modern Turkish Naval Academy ultimately moved from Heybeliada to its present campus in Tuzla in 1985.
So when you stand on Heybeliada today, you are looking at a place connected to a maritime educational tradition that stretches back to 1773.
More than two and a half centuries.
That is an extraordinary thought.
This was the slightly disappointing part of my discovery.
I could see the historic naval-school complex...
but I could not enter the premises.
And perhaps that is part of what makes the place so intriguing.
From outside, the buildings give you only a glimpse.
The real stories remain behind the walls.
The old classrooms.
The courtyards.
The spaces where generations of naval students once studied.
The places where ceremonies and military routines took place.
Today, visitors should not assume that the naval complex is freely accessible. The historic school grounds are not an ordinary museum open for unrestricted public exploration.
And so I stood outside.
Looking in.
And imagining.
I found myself wondering:
If I could travel back to Heybeliada in 1855, what would I see?
Would the cadets be marching?
Would a naval officer be shouting commands?
Would students be studying navigation in a classroom?
Would a sailing vessel be waiting below?
Would the island feel completely different?
And perhaps most fascinating of all:
What would one of those young cadets think if he could suddenly see Heybeliada today?
The bicycles.
The cafes.
The ferries.
The visitors taking photographs.
And people like me standing outside this old school, wondering about its life.