Archaeology is the science that explores our roots and shows us the path civilization has taken. Catalhöyük in Anatolia is considered to be one of the oldest known city foundations, alongside sites such as Jericho and Ur, and possibly the oldest of all urban settlements of mankind.

Çatalhöyük just seems a smear of mud and bone, born around 7500 BC, maybe long before. Excavactions show there where no streets, no plazas or market placed, just a heap of homes mashed together like clay clenched in a fist - like a gigantic beehive. Roofs were the roads, ladders dropped you in, and the dead slept under the floors. They feared the ancestors, but did not want to be separated from their good spirit.This was rawer than first mesopotamien settlements like Ur or Uruk, it was quieter, the first stutter of humans piling up to stay.

Walls of sun-baked brick, so tight you could hear your neighbor breathe. No doors—just holes above, spilling you into dim rooms with hearths flickering. They painted bulls on the plaster, wild and red, and tucked skulls into corners like keepsakes. Up to 8000 souls lived here, not roaming, not scattering, but rooted. They grew wheat, herded sheep, traded obsidian sharper than flint. It wasn’t chaos - it was a knot, tied by need and something deeper.

Society here wasn’t loud with hierarchy. No palaces, no thrones - just families, equal in their huddle, was it a clan-dominated cooperation that gave society stability? It's probable. Archaeologists find no grand tombs or hoarded gold, just shared spaces and tools. Power, if it existed, hid in the quiet - maybe in those who knew the seasons, who led the hunts, who painted the walls. Women and men worked the fields, wove baskets, shaped clay (we all know the wonderful legend that in the end the cultivation of grain, which was necessary for brewing alcohol, led to man becoming sedentary). Burials show little difference - bones wrapped in cloth, tucked beneath floors, equal in death as in life. It’s like they ruled themselves, a community stitched by survival, not scepters.

The economy was agricultural-based. They farmed emmer wheat and barley, grinding it into bread with stones. Sheep and goats grazed nearby, giving meat, milk, hides. But obsidian was the pulse — black glass from volcanic hills, traded far beyond the plains. It cut cleaner than flint, and Çatalhöyük sat on the route, swapping it for shells, flint, ideas. No coins, no markets - there was just barter as form of exchange, hands to hands. Homes doubled as workshops; beads, tools, pots piled up beside the hearths. Food wasn’t scarce—grains stored in bins, bones tossed in middens. They had enough to settle, to paint, to pray.

And what about Safety? Walls block wolves and raiders. Warmth, too, with fires and bodies pressed tight. They buried their dead beneath them, keeping ancestors close, not cast out. Shrines rose, plastered with horns and art, whispering of spirits they couldn’t name. Staying put had weight—literally, in the bones below, and spiritually, in the bulls above. Çatalhöyük isn’t grand. No ziggurats, no wheels. Yet it’s the seed —before Jericho’s walls, before Sumer’s tablets. A city not because it roared, but because it held. People stopped wandering, started stacking, started marking their place. From that cramped huddle came the itch to settle, to grow, to last. The archaeological excavation field will probably offer generations of archaeologists and us the opportunity to keep discovering new things from this bygone era. Çatalhöyük didn’t know it was first. It just was.

A short video by 'History with Cy': https://shorturl.at/3spr1