Last night my wife Ozge surprised me.

We were lounging in the living room, having just watched the last episode of our new favorite series, “Getting Better.” Just as the episode wrapped up, Ozge started on a project. She disassembled the book shelf in the living room, and began putting Christmas lights on it. While the cat and I looked on curiously, Ozge added some ornaments.

Before you knew it, we had ourselves a Christmas tree in the flat.

“Well – a ‘post-modern Christmas tree,’” as Ozge said, stepping back and surveying her work. “What do you think?”

“Not bad,” I said. Really, it was nice. Turkey is a Muslim country, and they don’t celebrate Christmas. But that’s my Ozge: she was doing it for my sake. Isn’t that a great wife?

Truly, it was unexpected, and a nice touch. You felt the warmth of the holiday season drifting into the living room.

Just then, we heard this loud bang outside in the night sky.

“Is it a storm coming?” Ozge asked.

Good question. We’ve had a lot of storms these past couple weeks. The balcony door was closed because it was cold outside, so it was a kind of dull, thunder-like bang. We naturally assumed it was another winter storm from the Black Sea.

It was about 10:45. Having finished the post-modern Christmas tree, Ozge went to her mobile phone, as she usually does, to check her updates.

“I think there has been a bombing,” she abruptly announced, looking up from her browsing.

“Where?” I asked.

“In Besiktas, near the football stadium. Near the palace.”

Unfortunately, such announcements are no surprise nowadays. We were far from shocked. In fact, the way Ozge said it, I was instantly reminded of the past July military coup attempt. It all transpired the exact same way. A quiet weekend night, we were comfortably settled into the flat, when suddenly inexplicable – or all too explicable – violence erupts in the streets outside.

We went to the news. Yep, there it was. Two bombs had exploded outside the Besiktas football stadium. Dolmabahce Palace – where my wife works – is just across the street.

“How many people killed, or injured?” I asked.

The news reports were still coming in, vague, unconfirmed. All we knew was that at least the explosions had occurred after the match had ended and the fans had already gone home. Still, it wasSaturday night in the mega-city, people were out at the bars and nightclubs, etc.

I went to the BBC and CNN, to supplement what we were hearing in the Turkish news. By all accounts, the early reports were conservative: at least 20 injured. The blasts had been targeted at riot police (routine for football matches here, unfortunately) who had been getting ready to leave the area.

I went out to the balcony to have a cigarette. The streets were eerily quiet – even the street lights were out, and there was not the usual Saturday night car traffic. And the pavements were dry as a bone.

“There wasn’t a storm,” I called in from the balcony.

“No!” Ozge said. “That was the bomb we heard.”

I did a quick mental recount – 10:45. That’s when it had all started.While my wife had been putting the finishing touches on our “post-modern Christmas tree,” that big blast we’d assumed was the arrival of a winter storm had been the bombs. The second one had reportedly gone off simultaneously, in the park near the stadium.

And we’d heard it – or rather, them.

Why’s that so significant?

Well, you see we live in Kosuyolu, on the Asian side of the city. The bombs in Besiktas were on the European side, all the way across the Bosphorus. On the other continent, if you will. As the crow flies, they were several miles away, and you have to factor in the water, the winds – even though now that I think about it, it was a relatively calm night. Still, the sound of the blast registered clear as a bell – clear as thunder anyway – all the way here in our little neighborhood, with the balcony door closed, crossing continents, shattering the calm of a Saturday night.

Sometime later, we went to bed, the news reports still far from satisfactory. We offered prayers for the victims and their families, hoping that the worst was over.

Except of course it wasn’t over. It never is in this part of the world.

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In the morning Ozge had to go to work at the palace just across the street from the stadium. Overnight, while we slept, the count had risen dramatically – 38 people dead, nearly 150 injured, most of them police officers. A day of national mourning had been declared.

The reports still could not confirm if the attack had been ISIS or the PKK, but most were indicating that it had been the Kurdish terrorist group, since it seemed to have their M.O, attacking police.

“Do you want me to go in with you?” I asked.

My wife shook her head.

“Be careful,” I said. She looked at me and sighed. We’ve been over this ground too many times before.

“Right,” she said, smiling grimly.

I waited an hour and texted.

She was OK. All the roads around the stadium and near the palace were closed. Security was tight.

“Looks like we’ll have very few visitors,” she said.

On Facebook, we both had a flood of worried messages.

“Are you both OK?” friends and family asked.

Yes, we’re OK.

I looked at our post-modern Christmas tree, that my wife had so thoughtfully put up the night before. It was all lit up, warm, merry and shining.

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James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and teacher living in Istanbul.