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In Ottoman society, timekeeping wasn’t simply about convenience or punctuality. It was deeply spiritual, connected to the cadence of Islamic prayer times. This created a particular need: accurate, locally understandable timekeeping instruments that could reliably indicate the five daily calls to prayer. As such, clocks and watches—especially those customised to reflect the script and traditions of the empire—played a crucial role in religious and civic life.
Although the Ottomans didn’t develop their own mechanical movements from scratch in any sustained industrial sense, they were far from passive consumers. European mechanical clocks and watches—especially from Switzerland, France, and Britain—were highly sought after, particularly in the imperial court and among the elite. These pocket watches weren’t left as-is, either. Local artisans, well-versed in their culture’s artistic and technical needs, modified these pieces. Dials were repainted to feature Ottoman numerals. Arabic inscriptions, often beautiful in calligraphic form, were added to mark either function or ownership. Some timepieces even had custom-made cases with Islamic motifs or courtly inscriptions. The result was a hybrid object—part Swiss engineering, part Ottoman artistry.
In the 19th century, Istanbul—then Constantinople—was home to a bustling ecosystem of horological talent. While they didn’t build movements from raw components, these skilled craftsmen were more than mere repairmen. They maintained, modified, and even built custom mechanical installations. It’s important to note that many of these artisans were from minority communities—Greek, Armenian, or Jewish families who had long-established traditions in fine metalwork, tooling, and delicate repairs. Their contribution to Ottoman horology cannot be overstated. Their workshops lined the busy quarters near the Grand Bazaar and Galata, quietly keeping the empire’s borrowed timepieces ticking.
Mehmet Emin Efendi is one figure who stands above the rest in the Ottoman horological narrative. A master clockmaker of considerable renown, Emin Efendi made his mark not in the world of pocket watches or personal timepieces, but through grander projects: clock towers and public installations. His mechanical clocks, many of them monumental and architectural in scale, still stand today in various Turkish cities, bearing silent witness to a forgotten era of public timekeeping. Though he didn’t manufacture wristwatches—an anachronism in his time—his contribution to Ottoman mechanical ingenuity is undeniable. These tower clocks weren’t merely for show. They marked time for prayer, opened markets, and regulated the life of the imperial capital.
- A true Pioneer of Ottoman Horology.
- A watchmaker who catered for Royal and aristocratic clientele.
- Mehmet’s work exemplified a blend of traditional Islamic art with Western mechanical watchmaking.
- He imported Swiss or French ébauches that he finished, regulated, and signed in Istanbul.
The beginning of a the Modern Empire
For modern collectors, there’s something magical about finding a 19th-century pocket watch with Ottoman numerals. These were never made within the empire but were adapted for the Ottoman market. You might spot them bearing the name of a Swiss maker like Longines or Borel, but with an enamel dial carefully repainted in ornate, flowing script. Occasionally, one finds a dual-time scale: Roman numerals on the inside, Ottoman numerals on the outside. These watches tell more than time—they tell stories of trade, translation, and transculturation. They are tangible evidence of Western mechanical precision marrying Eastern aesthetic and cultural nuance.
In the present day, modern Türkiye isn’t generally regarded as a centre of watchmaking. Yet a few independent brands carry the torch of Ottoman ingenuity in their own ways—small, passionate operations, often run by enthusiasts who design locally, assemble in-house, and import movements from abroad.
One such brand is Direnç Watches, based in the city of İzmir. The name, meaning “resistance” in Turkish, fits their design ethos—robust tool watches with military or diver-style aesthetics. They typically house reliable Japanese movements like the Miyota 9015 or NH35. While they’re still under the radar internationally, they’ve started to build a following among Turkish collectors who want something home-grown and built to last.
Then there’s Konvoy Saat, a more niche operation emphasising design that reflects Turkish heritage. They don’t make their own calibres, but they approach their design language with cultural specificity—often using inscriptions, case backs, and dials to reference Anatolian history or Ottoman motifs. Seiko and Miyota movements are the mechanical backbone here, but it’s the storytelling in their design that makes them notable.
Talay Watches is a newer name in the game, based in Istanbul, and oriented toward the luxury dress watch segment. They favour open-heart or skeletonised dials, polished finishing, and a strong emphasis on visual storytelling. Their pieces nod to Ottoman elegance, focusing more on artistic flourish than mechanical innovation. Still, for a country only recently rekindling its relationship with horology, they’re a promising sign of where things could go.
Nacar is a name that deserves more recognition than it gets. Founded in the 1920s as a Swiss-Turkish collaboration, Nacar enjoyed real popularity in mid-20th-century Türkiye.
For many families, a Nacar was their first watch—affordable, well-made, and proudly Turkish. Today, the brand exists more in the fashion-oriented space, but it remains active, and for many Turks, it holds nostalgic value akin to the Soviet-era Raketa or Slava.
Finally, while not a manufacturer per se, the Saat & Saat Group must be mentioned. They are the largest distributor of watches in Türkiye and hold the license to import and sell numerous international brands. They’ve also launched house brands—often manufactured in Asia but branded and designed locally. While these pieces may not appeal to purists, they reflect a growing appetite in Türkiye for affordable, stylish watches with a Turkish signature.
Regarding infrastructure, Türkiye still lacks the capacity to produce mechanical movements domestically. The cost of setting up machining, tooling, and quality control to Swiss or even Japanese standards remains prohibitive. But that doesn’t mean there’s no movement—pun intended. More and more young Turkish designers, microbrand owners, and collectors are investing in the idea of a Turkish horological identity. It may start with cases and dials today, but there’s no reason to think it won’t expand into more ambitious projects in time.
If nothing else, the Ottoman Empire taught us that timekeeping isn’t just about gears and springs.[/highlight] It’s about context. Culture. Language. Faith. Pride. And if you ever find yourself in an old Turkish market, peering into a dusty case at a pocket watch marked with strange but beautiful numerals, remember: you’re not just looking at a timepiece. You’re looking at a piece of time itself.
These watches weren’t simply tools for telling the hour—they were symbols of identity. The elegant Eastern Arabic numerals, the dual time formats for both Western and Islamic reckoning, the ornate calligraphy on the dials… all spoke to a civilisation that measured time through a spiritual and cultural lens as much as a mechanical one. To hold one is to feel the weight of centuries: of sultans and scholars, muezzins and merchants, each with their own relationship to the passage of hours.
And there’s a special kind of magic in that, isn’t there? In a world obsessed with modernity and speed, these Ottoman watches ask us to slow down—to notice the craftsmanship, to decode the markings, to imagine the wrist or waistcoat that once carried them. They connect us not just to history, but to people who experienced time differently, whose days began and ended not with digital alarms but with the call to prayer, echoing over minarets.
We’d love to hear your stories if you have pieces like this—perhaps handed down by a grandparent, or discovered by chance in the back corner of a bazaar. This is precisely the kind of forgotten history that keeps our group alive. Let’s dig it up, share it, and celebrate it together. Because sometimes, what looks like an old, unloved watch is really a doorway to a whole other world.
