In every culture, certain objects carry more than weight—they carry meaning. In the Ottoman world, few objects embodied this like the muska, a small triangular amulet worn close to the heart. Folded with reverence and stitched in leather, it held within it not just prayers, but generations of belief, identity, and longing. It traveled from village to village, from empire to diaspora, quietly bridging the earthly and the divine.
At Explored Parallel, we reimagine such symbols with care. Our Muska 1970 is not a replica—it is a respectful continuation. But before we share what we’ve created, we must first trace the path that brought us here. This is the story of the muska: its sacred folds, its rise and resonance, and how its meaning endures—even in digital form.
The Inkwell and the Fold: Where It All Begins
The idea of wearing words for protection is older than any one tradition. In ancient Mesopotamia, Egypt, and Persia, people wore amulets inscribed with invocations—often addressed to deities or cosmic forces. But it was with the rise of Islam that these practices took on a new clarity. The amulet, now emptied of superstition, was filled with the divine Word.
In this shift, the muska emerged. Derived from the Arabic nusḵa, meaning a written copy, the Turkish muska referred to a folded piece of paper inscribed with verses from the Qur’an or supplications from the Prophet. It was crafted not casually, but under the hands of a pious scribe—one who performed ablution before writing, who recited the verses as he copied them, and who folded the page with intention. These folds were then wrapped and sewn into triangular pouches, designed to be worn around the neck or hidden within clothing. In form and function, the muska became a wearable prayer.
Commonly, a muska contained Ayat al-Kursi, the Verse of the Throne—an ayah associated with divine protection—as well as Surah Al-Falaq and Surah An-Naas, which seek refuge from evil. In rural Anatolia, people believed that the triangle shape offered protection on all sides: one corner for illness, another for hunger, a third for the evil eye. The muska was worn not out of superstition, but as a vessel of remembrance—a subtle declaration of dependence on the Divine, worn in silence.
It is here that form meets folklore. Ottoman mothers tucked muskas into their children’s collars. Soldiers kissed them before battle. Traders pinned them inside their shirts as they crossed mountains and deserts. The muska became a companion, passed from hands to hearts, a relic not of ritual alone, but of lived experience.
Across Worlds: The Muska and Its Global Siblings
Though the muska holds a uniquely Ottoman shape and story, its spirit echoes throughout the Islamic world. In South Asia, the ta’wiz—often wrapped in black thread—is still tied around arms and necks, inscribed with similar verses. In West Africa, the hijab or grigri is carried in leather packets, often bearing Qur’anic verses alongside local symbols. These practices, while diverse in detail, share a unified essence: to keep sacred words close to the body as a source of remembrance and refuge.
Each region leaves its own fingerprint. In Morocco, amulets were often carried by travelers across the Sahara. In Indonesia, small Qur’an manuscripts were folded into portable forms. But it is in Ottoman lands that the triangle became more than shape—it became symbol. It migrated from amulet to rug pattern, from pendant to poetry. It became a motif of memory.
The Fine Line: Between Belief and Superstition
The muska has never been free from debate. Islamic scholarship across centuries has approached it with a blend of caution and compassion. Most scholars agreed that carrying a muska inscribed with Qur’anic verses was permissible, so long as the wearer understood that protection comes not from the object, but from Allah. Others warned that the line between reverence and reliance could be dangerously thin.
At the heart of this conversation lies a single truth: Islam demands tawheed—the oneness of God—and discourages anything that might become a rival in the heart. The muska, when misunderstood, could become more than a vessel—it could become a substitute. And so, the guidance became clear: use it, but don’t depend on it. Respect it, but don’t deify it.
Even with this tension, the muska continued to be cherished—not as a source of power, but as a quiet reminder. It was a piece of cloth wrapped around a verse, but it was also something more: a moment of calm in the chaos of life.
A New Century, A Familiar Shape
As we moved into the modern era, the muska adapted. Some remained traditional, crafted by elders in villages and sold at local markets. Others became decorative—symbols of heritage rather than practice. Some were emptied of text altogether, kept for sentimental value.
But something else began to emerge too: reinterpretation.
Not everyone today feels comfortable wearing religious text around their neck. There’s the question of where you go while wearing it—into bathrooms, into spaces that aren’t appropriate for sacred text. There’s the spiritual question, too—whether we begin to believe in the object, rather than the words or the source behind them. These concerns, real and valid, invite reflection.
That’s where we began.
Muska 1970: Our Inheritance, Rewritten
At Explored Parallel, we looked to the muska not as a product to replicate, but as a story to continue. The result was the Muska 1970: a triangle of hand-stitched leather, its shape faithful to tradition, but its interior respectfully reimagined.
We do not insert religious text. Instead, we’ve embedded an NFC tag, invisible but responsive. You can program it yourself—to open a link to Ayat al-Kursi, to store a personal prayer, a voice note from a loved one, a favorite family picture, a daily planner, a favorite song. It becomes yours—not a charm, not a superstition, but a digital archive of what matters most.
Why 1970? Because that was the year our founding father—and countless others—left the volcanic soils of Cappadocia for the unknown of northern Europe. They packed light. But in their shirt pockets, among the crumpled lira and folded family photos, often sat a muska. A piece of home. A breath of faith.
Now, we wear the same shape. But instead of paper, it holds memory. Intention. Connection.
Not a Talisman. A Compass.
We don’t claim to offer protection. That’s not ours to give. But we do offer orientation. The Muska 1970 is a signal—a way to hold on to something meaningful as you move through a fragmented world.
It’s for those who believe that heritage isn’t static. That tradition can evolve without being erased. That a triangle can be the medium of the One that guides us, even if it now carries code.
This isn’t nostalgia. This is navigation. This is continuity, redesigned.
This is the muska. And this is Explored Parallel.
Available now in limited release. Explore yours at exploredparallel.com
