Why Were Monkeys Executed in Ottoman Istanbul?

During the reign of Sultan Murad III (1574–1595), Istanbul witnessed one of the most disturbing events in its history. In 1591, hundreds of monkeys were accused of “illicit relations” with humans and publicly hanged.

This was not a quiet incident hidden behind palace walls. It was a city-wide spectacle—an episode remembered because it turned animals into targets of public morality, and because it unfolded in the heart of a port-capital where monkeys had become part of daily life.

Istanbul, Empire, and Exotic Animals

By the late sixteenth century, Istanbul was a global capital—crowded, wealthy, and intensely cosmopolitan. Ottoman expansion and maritime trade pulled goods, people, and curiosities into the city. Among those curiosities were exotic animals—especially monkeys, many arriving through African routes.

Sultan Selim I in the Hunername: Defeating a massive crocodile with his personal courage on the banks of the Nile during the Egyptian Campaign

 They were kept as pets, displayed as status symbols, and sold in busy commercial districts. Two place-names sit right at the center of this story: Azapkapı and Galata, both near the Golden Horn and tied to the city’s maritime economy.

Azapkapı matters not only as a location, but as a clue. “Kapı” literally means gate, and Azapkapı was historically a city gate—a point where people entered Istanbul through the walls when this area marked the edge of the city. The name also ties to the azabs/azebs, a lower-ranked military–maritime class connected to the dockyard ecosystem. The term is linked with the idea of bachelors / unmarried men, because many of these sailors and irregular troops were not allowed to marry. So Azapkapı carries multiple layers at once: the gate, the men of the dockside, and the shipyard world that shaped this neighborhood for centuries.

istanbul - Azapkapi 1910

And this is where the city becomes personal for me. I always enjoy walking here: the road is still known as Tersane Caddesi, and even today it feels like a place shaped by sailors—like the dockside never fully disappeared, and the waterfront kept its old character.

The Rise of “Naval Monkeys”

Monkeys were not only entertainment. In the maritime world, they were used for practical work. Their agility and ability to climb made them ideal for the rigging and mast-tops, and their sharp eyesight helped them spot land or distant ships earlier from higher vantage points. Trained monkeys could move fast, climb higher than any sailor in seconds, and alert the crew with learned signals.

In a port city like Istanbul, that kind of usefulness quickly becomes visibility. Once monkeys become part of ships and shipyards, they don’t stay confined to the sea. They spill into markets, streets, homes, and public amusements. They become part of the city’s daily texture—something people recognize, talk about, and normalize.

And this wasn’t limited to the sea. In Hayâtü’l-Hayevan, written by Kemaleddin Ebu Abdullah ed-Demirî, monkeys are mentioned as being employed in tailoring and even working in jewelry-making. The same source describes monkeys in Yemen being trained for work such as running a grocery shop and even butchery. That detail matters because it shows the wider mindset of the era: monkeys were seen as trainable, imitative, and “close enough” to humans to be used—exactly the kind of closeness that can also trigger moral obsession.

A Cleric’s Backlash

 Not everyone accepted that closeness between animals and humans. The story centers on Molla Abdulkerim Efendi—the personal imam to Sultan Murad III—remembered by the grim nickname “Maymunkeş” (The Monkey Slayer / the one who strangles monkeys). What makes that nickname hit harder is that he wasn’t a random preacher shouting from the margins: he was a man with real proximity to power, a figure the Sultan respected and listened to, someone who could turn a moral complaint into action.

The breaking point came during a Friday sermon at the Fatih Mosque. (I was born and raised in the neighborhood that takes its name from this mosque; "Fatih" refers to Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror, who earned this title after his conquest of Constantinople.)  He ignited the crowd with a shocking accusation: “Women are using these monkeys for immoral acts.” The claim hit where it was designed to hit—shame, fear, outrage—and it spread fast.

Fatih Mosque 

And then comes the part that sounds like a dark punchline to the whole city: I’ve even heard it said that when Abdulkerim Efendi died, animal lovers in Istanbul celebrated—almost like the city itself wanted to exhale after living under a man whose name became synonymous with a massacre.

The Massacre (1591)

After the prayer, the crowd poured into the streets and raided monkey sellers around Azapkapı and Galata. The most chilling line attached to that day is simple: “Not a single tree in Istanbul was left without a monkey hanging from its branches.”

 The hangings became a public spectacle. In the logic of the mob, the monkeys were no longer animals. They were turned into symbols—stand-ins for “sin,” “temptation,” and “disorder.” And once an animal is turned into a symbol, violence starts getting framed as “cleansing.”

 The Echo That Lasted Into My Childhood

What makes this story even stranger to me is that Istanbul’s “monkey presence” didn’t vanish forever. Monkeys never completely disappeared from the street scene. Even into the late 1990s, I still remember seeing street entertainers and vendors using monkeys for amusement—sometimes as a mascot to draw attention, sometimes to perform small routines, sometimes as part of a street hustle while selling something. As a kid, I had the chance to watch those street shows with my own eyes, and they stayed with me as a weird, unforgettable detail of city life.

Bear leaders in Galata, Istanbul (1980s)

But that world didn’t survive into the modern era. With changing public norms and tighter enforcement—especially through the 2000s, in the atmosphere of broader reforms and harmonisation—the informal use of wild animals in street entertainment was pushed out and eventually banned. And in that sense, Istanbul’s monkeys truly became history twice: once in 1591, and again—quietly—when the last traces of that street tradition vanished.

So when I walk near the Golden Horn, past names like Azapkapı and down Tersane Caddesi, I can’t help feeling that the city remembers more than it shows.

 The Pirates of the Caribbean Link I Keep Making

 And here’s the connection I keep making in my own head, because once it clicks, it feels almost too perfect.

You remember Jack the monkey from Pirates of the Caribbean, right? He isn’t just an animal in the background—he’s part of the ship’s identity. And importantly, Jack is tied to Barbossa: the pirate captain has a monkey beside him the way a seafaring world would. Now, every time I hear the name Barbossa, I immediately think of Barbaros Hayreddin—the Ottoman admiral, the Kapudan Pasha, the Mediterranean legend. I’m not claiming the film copied Ottoman history scene-for-scene. I’m saying this: if storytellers want a pirate captain whose name carries the Barbarossa echo, and they also want a ship-world detail that feels authentic to maritime culture, a monkey beside the captain makes perfect sense—because in the real sea-world, sailors did keep and use monkeys, and port cities like Istanbul normalized that closeness.

Captain Barbossa and Jack the Monkey

So when I see Barbossa with Jack, I don’t just see fiction. I see a pop-culture shadow of an older maritime reality—one that Istanbul carried for centuries, and one that ended in one of the city’s strangest tragedies.