1
"Every sin has a price"
-PREFACE-
I don't know how much it interests you;
You know the first question asked to a newly appointed civil servant, are you a nomad or a Circassian?
Are you Tatar?
I should have told the story of living this legacy.
With the hope of living in a world where identities are not lost!
-Attic2015
Eskisehir-TURKEY
-NECIP-
I'm in the attic, between your books, darling!" she cried downwards. "Old books make a lot of money these days.
I want to take a look at them." Did he hear my last words? "It's very dark out there; wait, let me give you a
flashlight." Good. It's not about money, actually, I'll read over and over again what I read.
For all my life, someone told me that I was constantly looking for attention. If there was a mirror showing my
smile; some light. "You'll break something in the dark." A flashlight reached up through the hole. The light at the
end of the lantern illuminated a random, unimportant corner; bueli caressed. The hand disappeared. I wonder
what he thinks? I'm sure he thinks I'm crazy.
For years but dusty, the spider had not emerged into the dark. Seeing the light, some insects escaped. scared;
however, thinking it would be helpful strengthened him. Maybe I should have done it without saying anything. I
should have researched and written about the past, not knowing where you came from is as bad as not knowing
where to go.
I don't know, actually I'm confused, research means food and time, sometimes I get confused; especially when
my head is buzzing, here are the pictures; pictures of his mother and father. Among them, an old shoebag, he
kneeled down, brought them side by side, old books ...
"Half of my soul" is the train journey that I have read many times.
Can I find a place for them? In the hallway, in the trunk room? I'm being ridiculous, Neslihan almost doesn't even
want the books here; she quickly skimmed the layout of the house. Actually, I'm afraid of starting, maybe not
being understood, maybe being ridiculous; but I can't live with fear! We don't know what it will bring, we have to
leave our profession, the city we live in or our hometown where we were born and grew up. We don't just say
goodbye to the walls we counted to ten by leaning our elbows on the corners and closing our eyes, we only say
goodbye to our first love, it falls while walking on the road to attract his attention. Life also teaches us to say
goodbye to our first love, for which we tripped and got scolded by the teacher. Here is the book that I bought and
forgot about in a corner; "One day will be worth a century" by Aytmatov was a book I wanted to read for a long
time, I wonder if I would like it as much as "The White Ship" because it described the inner world of a child as well
as "Candy Orange". By the way, author Mikhail Bulagakov's doctorate quitting his job also impressed me a lot, I
think it shows that he devotes his first priority to writing in order to complete his book. I think it's sad. Writing is a
kind of disease or addiction, but it is definitely a harmless habit, it can be a natural result of reading a lot. You
spend most of your time reading and after a certain time you feel the desire to convey what you read, for
example a bucket placed under a constantly dripping tap. I now begin to overflow and you start to write down
lines or long boring descriptions of the sentences you read, such as the spare container you put in so that the
overflowing water drops do not get wasted. This can sometimes be in the form of long letters to a loved one,
sometimes in the form of memories or essays.
The thing I am most curious about about writing a story or a novel is whether the author started writing after
designing the introduction, development and conclusion parts in his memory, or did they suddenly change their
mind while writing? Of course... not all of them lived today, but I think the vast majority started to write the story
after shaping the story in their minds and concluding it. I think it didn't let it go, you have to be very patient to
finish the book. It's a detective novel that I like less than the author's other books. I see it as today's Peyami Safa.
you walked and borrowed Secondly, "Paper Women", which I read in street lights, has exactly the same
similarities, so I have to admit it was boring to read both at the same time. If you want- "The Lion Soldier Shawik"
was the beauty you were looking for, I got it at a time when I was bored with detective novels and it made me
spend the weekend in joy despite all my lack of money, so I have to thank its author Yaroslov Hasek for this
beautiful weekend. Despite the first world war in the background, his characters It is a fun book that is read
without boredom with its selection and simple sentences. I remembered my military days, how fast the time is!
My professions in the military, marriage, social services...
He yıllardayaptığımziyaretlerinheps also hayatasağlıklıolarakbaşlamışyaklaşıkkırkyıl normal
birinsangibiyaşamışvesıcakyatağındaenfazlabirhaftaikidünyaarasındagidipgeldiiktensonraruhlaraleminegöçeceğini
düşüneninsanlardı.hepimizsabaherkendenkalkıphomurdanarakişegiderkenbug the "excuse" not
günolabileceğinibil last we spend, kafamızdafatur are, installments, ödenmemişsenet are işarkadaş, you will
açılamadığımızsevgililerimizvar.hayatınızınkırkbeşyılınımemurolarakgeçiriy, you
olarakvazifenizinbüyükçoğunluğunutamamladığınızıdüşündüğünüzandabirsabahuyandığınızdakollarınızdauyuşukl
ukhissetmeyebaşlıy have onlarıüniversiteçağınakadargetirmişsinizb is your father ikikız,
buhayatınızdaöncedengeçirdiğinizkısasürelikramplarabenzemiyorvekarşınızdaoturankelkafalıbeyazönlüklüada I do
that you
aklınızdatutmaktazorlandığınızbirhastalığayakalandığınızıvesayılıgünlerinizolduğunusöylüyor.beyninizdebir even
beyinhücrelerinizingayetistikrarlıbirşekildeöldüğünümilyondab is or ikikişiderastlanılanad sağlıklıhüc is There are
no blood cells that swallow yellow pons one by one, but first you lose your arms and then your feet and you start
to lead a life doomed to bed, we continue to waste our time roughly, without thinking that every day we live may
be the last day we spend healthy, I thank God for giving me the opportunity to write these lines...
She got out of her thoughts, then she took one of the pictures; he had left the lantern on the ground, he did not
know which picture he had taken. He put it on a high place. He was a little fussy; he hit the index on a board. He
staggered, fell to the ground; slight decrease. He did not dare to get up; he crawled to the lighthouse. In a bag.
Emptyed: old photos!
With his finger wet tongue; first the dust was mud, then...she found his picture, the black and white picture of
which he always laughed at, the border of my painting is sealed; here is the last person from the past; and he had
to research it: SATENIK KIRKIRYAN.
As a child, he had witnessed that his older brother often asked his father the same question; why did my
grandfather have no one, dad? then, when I remembered the blind answers, green eyes that told him not to
bring up the subject with a stern look...
Being a child in a sibling's apartment meant growing up with fights. Four siblings and four flats and six different
chances of "offending", the top floor with the bottom floor, the second floor with the first floor, the second floor
with the third floor with the third floor with the fourth floor...etc..etc.. The eldest member of the Gümüştaş
family lived on the top floor, that is, my aunt, the eldest member of the family studying at Cumhuriyet Primary
School, always thought how old the school was. There were days when he shouted under the street lamp with a
liquor bottle in his hand and made the neighborhood stand up late at night. a mentally ill person who is said to be
born with, but of course meet and marry in a south eastern town in Turkey of the nineteenth century. This
religious scholar, who gave a feast to those who listened to the Qur'an with his loud voice, where he memorized
the Qur'an many times, which he was very intelligent when his mental balance was in the early days, became
famous as a famous teacher in the villages. She used to shout in the town square with a bottle of liquor in her
hand. Carrying out a married life with this person meant enduring ordeal for the aunt. After raising her four
children, the aunt who managed to get divorced from this mentally ill hafiz who wasted everything she had,
experienced the difficulty of being both a mother and a father on her own. He took care of his older brother
Hakan, clung to life in poverty and died in his two thousandths, he experienced the greatest pain possible for a
mother in the last years of his life, he lost his first child from lung cancer in his forties, it was difficult to bear this
blow at his later age, he lived alone in his life alone. goodbye life a,necip experienced the closeness of his
grandmother on the terrace where he went many times, but when they ran and played with Osman, they made a
lot of noise.
They were often warned by their aunts that after many years, on a Sunday when the spring started to make itself
felt, when the grandmother passed away after going back and forth between two worlds for a week, she became
the eldest aunt in the family. In order for the grandmother, who was trying to end her century-old life, to go "to
the other side" in peace, opinions were taken from the famous religious scholars of the town, her children should
reconcile, and this dying old woman should have said in her ear, "Mother, the children have made peace", and a
few days after the peace came, the grandmother really did not live. He said goodbye. Of course, it was important
for a mother to hear this sentence before surrendering her soul. In the years when she was just entering
adolescence, what she remembered was her mother kissing her older brother's hand and saying "you are my
father", Osman's father crying like a child, his feelings and death's death at all ages. He realized that it was pain
for man. When Necip.Anneanne died, Osman was not in town. He did not return to the town he left for medical
education. His brothers Teoman and Hakan also settled in the cities they went to for university education. ...
last kattansarkanablasınınüstündebelirdiğigündenbuyanatekrargörünmedinecip to each
kitabıyaşamayeteneğiverengizemliadambeyazkürelerinbirarayagelerekoluşturduğuşekill he read but
bukabiliyetkitaplarındünyasınıaçmıştı.cumhuriyetilkokulundamızıkaçalanöğretmenininhediyeettiğikitapoku the
first kitaptıvekısadüzsiyahsaçlıesmerkız first love, okulbahçe in "yağsatarımbalsatarımustamöl that I buy"
oyunuoynanırk who always mendiliözleminarkasınabırak Necip, onunkendisinikovalamasıiçinveyakalamasıiç's,
they hayatındakienmutluanlarıonunyanındaoturupplastikfasulyelerlebirlikteoyna, defterlerinedefalar by "Ali
came" fiction and poetry was, vesekizyaşınagirdiğindeokulkapısındabeklediğibeyazarabanıngel not an iseenüzücü
off, ilerikiyaşlardayineaşıkolduelbet but çocuklukgib was sadecebirkereyaşan first love Years later, after marrying
and becoming a father, he was blinded by love. duNecip.Looking at the sea from a high hill...
He saw the white ship floating like a swan from ahead, I wonder if his father was the captain of that ship. Would
he feel the warmth of returning one day? Could the father be a friend or brother when the time came, or he
could be a sullen man who often scolds and sometimes beats, actually what does father mean? Although he
knows the dictionary meaning. the meaning of this word was not settled in his mind, when he got out of the book
and returned to his life, he spent the money he received from his father to buy bread, and when he returned
home, he remembered the beating he took at the store where he took his father by the ear to get the money
back, he remembered the day when he turned eighteen, he planned to get up early in the morning and steal
money from his father and run to the seaside for a waitress, He was caught at the last moment and beaten again
in front of the door. He left the question "Do you think he is a man?" unanswered, being a man was not perhaps
turning eighteen, standing on his own feet, working only for one day while working as a waiter in that sea town
and running away for the second day. be and confess In addition, it was very difficult to be a man, watching this
vast blue and listening to the sound of the waves had a price. Necip felt that he did not have enough strength to
pay this price. How deep was it? Was it bigger than the lentil washing pool in Osman's father's factory, and was
the water yellow, he knew that every summer vacation his uncle took Osman in his arms and lifted him into the
air and then threw him into the sea, they would set off in the early hours of the morning with the items they piled
into the red-colored car with a wide back. For his cousin it was sand and sun, but for Necip it was to work in
different workplaces, -to learn about life - relatives' children were apprenticed to the workplace of one of their
relatives.
In this ramshackle place, the past was gone; he had khayali to start the project, "geniuses can come out of the
children who come together," during his teaching years; when he heard this sentence, he left the book in his
hand and drew a young man trying to sleep by watching the stars on a cool summer night; according to some,
freedom fighter, according to some, terrorist...
young people who have always been on the agenda for the last thirty years; I wonder what young people think
about love? If I had read an interview telling that those who entered a relationship are persecuted, what else in
the world is there to lie on the grass on a cool summer night and watch the stars with your lover?
In the years I worked in social services, there were different people who entered my life in those years ...women
who were abused by their husbands or sold for drinking money, young girls who were beaten and abused, I run
ever but öğrenmeyedevamettiğimyıl,
gecenöbetlerindegüvenlikgörevlisikanepedehorlarkenyatakhanedeyorganınaltındaterkedildiğiiçinsessizceağlayanç
ocukbanahayatıöğrettivegençlig the ball peşindekoşark muscle
erimesisonucuyatağamahkumolanirimavigözleriiledağköyündekievininpenceresindenarabamızıngeldiğiyolugözle
Hussein also öğrettihayatıb me, life is always whether düzol was hepimizinengelliadayıolduğunuöğret,
Hüseyinyatalakolun ACE had full birkitapkurduol, I ziyaretinegelirkenonakitapgetir every month,
onuyaşamabağlıyansadecekitaplardıv I only
onunokumahızınaaslayetişemezdim.tazebeyinlerezihninenaçıkolduğusabahsaatlerindekarmaşıkformülleriöğret;
the new
uyanmışolmasınarağmentekrarkestirmeyebaşlayanbiryaşlınınsağlıkdurumunusormakarasındakalmıştımasl in
aynısaatlerdetelevizyonunkarşı was bukararsızlıktaegoistliğindepayıv, nedenmi? He
Çünkügecedeikikitapbitirdiğimoluy, I havanıngetirdiğiçiçekkokusuilebirlikteheyecaniçindeokuy cool my
dahaönceyarımbıraktığımromanlarıpencere, galibaokumakiç's And the only condition for writing was to be alone.
This çatıkatındageçmişiyenidenanımsark katındasıksıkziyaretinegittiğimhayat the terrace of the last
yıllarınıyaşayanv always türkülersöyleyipağlarkenbulduğumbenikocasınınadınıağzınaalmamakiç "Necmettii's" You
Is it geldinkalıplaşmışsorusuilekarşılayankişiaslındabenimgençlikyıllarımdagerçekanlamdados from him and
sanırımonunvefatıilebirlikteb was my first
dönemgençliğimdesonaerdi.ondokuzuncuyüzyılınbaşlarındadoğmuşolanarkadaşımadetayaşayantarih, they
işgalciaskerlerinkocaşapkalarınıhalahat, çocukluğundabulduğualtınkolyeyibaba of akıllıkızıolduğunueskiv new
alfabeileadınıyaz always always always be in the
yazbaşındagöreceğimizhavayasahipgüneşinyüzünüeksiketmediğigökyüz or
hatırlarım.kangrennedeniileayakbaşparmağıkesilmişveyukarıdoğrukavisyapmıştı.yaşadığımızkasabaadetaçöliklimi
diyebileceğimizkurakyazıngölgedekırkdereceyiaşankışmevsimindeisebatışehirlerimizdeancakilkbahar
açıkmaviolduğubiryerdivebindokuzonikidebukasabayakaryağmıştı.karyağışınıntümgündevamettiğinievlerinçatıları
nınhizasınaulaştığınıdinledimvebirçoc It is one of the happiest moments for ukwhen he was black-starved, when
he woke up in the morning, the fact that he was wearing a white wedding dress and the end of the game that
lasted for hours was stricken.
He was about to finish ninety-two years in this world, but his anger towards him was still not over, as I listened to
him, I observed that people were more attached to the revolution in the first years. While we were walking
around in the southern town far from the capital, the guard called us, he said one day, my mother and I were
afraid. said the guard. he would talk about it with memories, he would often tell that he was beaten not only to
himself but also to the children, especially that he chased my uncle with a line, and that, thanks to the
reassurance of the shopkeepers who intervened in the street, my uncle, who was attending primary school in
those years, returned from death, I felt that he was trembling, I don't know if it was from fear or hatred. or I
would see him go out at a slower pace, I learned everything about him from my friend, he would often repeat
how determined he was, that he loved to read and that my uncle was the most precious child among the four
children. I couldn't understand why he was so important, but it was clear that he was a determined person,
because he was somehow despised by the "noble" teachers in the school where he worked during his years as a
substitute teacher, he closed his room and worked for days, successfully finishing the teacher's school and
marrying the teacher's daughter of this small town's famous attorney. After his youth years when he was poor
and partly orphan, his wealthy years had begun, he was a pioneer in many ways with his actions, he was one of
the few manufacturers with the first phone and the first car in our town, moreover, he was known by the
majority, the reason for this fame was benevolence, the sacks of pulses he divided into bags he used to distribute
his food to the poor, he was again involved in charity distribution and collection activities on Eid al-Adha and now
he was struggling with cancer.
There are two colors that influenced me, in my childhood I thought the color of the floor on which the basketball
game was played was white, that's why I was first attracted to yellow, I met the second color when I was
seventeen in the south, a wheatfield that resembles a green sea in the spring...
I witnessed the color change of the wheat sprouts released by the light wind with the summer season, and with
the hot sherbet being poured next to the baklava master I worked with in my childhood, the yellow slices were
sitting on the tray.
I also witnessed the green of pistachios flowing like a thin line between the kernels, but the geography I lived in
had deprived me of the nose of the rainbow, however, in the nineties, the summer houses that started to replace
the summer houses in the seventies -of course, the first of all, the high-income-level.
My meeting with the real high-income family took place in the year when the walls were demolished and the first
Gulf War took place.
We visited this rich family on a summer day, the moments that we all have difficulties in adolescence are boring
minutes spent in the guest house because we get instructions from our elders, say "Welcome", kiss your uncle or
aunt's hand, hold slippers or cologne to the guest...etc. It always bores me. these conversations were too formal
and sometimes too fake, the fact that the ladies who talked like a fateful friend before leaving became enemies
after long conversations in front of the door after the closing of the outside door, and witnessing this great
transformation made me hate these fake friendships and therefore being a guest. I was struck when the tulle
curtain, which was left slightly open in front of the balcony door in the large living room where we were
welcomed, moved with the effect of the wind, I was struck by this color, or rather this tone of this color, for the
first time, so there were different tones in life, perhaps that was the wealth, seeing the tones that we poor do not
see, yes I loved the navy blue that day, because it was the first time When I was looking at the vast sea, I used to
dream of what I would do when I married Neslihan and I used to write pages full of letters and now I was enjoying
the silence and darkness between books and pictures in order to escape from her; I guess now writing letters is
outdated like our love... Messages written at a fast pace and without looking at the keys of the phone while being
typed have made history the days when you smelled your lover and watched the postman's way for days. In the
archive now love letters, glitter cards thrown before the holidays or New Year's Eve, cassettes divided into sixties
or nineties, for hours to open and rewind. Slowly rotating cassettes inside the cassette player with colorful lights
like rainbows on the speaker that I placed next to the TV, which I filled with cotton to record, filled the spaces at
the top with cotton wool. One of the days when I was a teacher, when I heard the music coming from the back
rows, I said, "Turn off that tape recorder". I was exposed to the questioning glances of young people who had no
idea what the hell was going on, I forgot that they were right, my long journeys with the Walkman, the middleaged travelers who slept snoring in the silence of the night, in the southeast, where I spent eighteen years of my
life, in an environment where the smell of feet and breath were mixed. I remembered the long journey of about a
thousand kilometers from which I "expanded" to the west for the first time in order to become a university
student from his town. That journey meant the end of an era in my life, actually I think it means the same for all
young people, it means independence. University life, as you get away from home, you dream all kinds of dreams,
your first goal is Finding a friend of the opposite sex is the first priority of your life, it doesn't matter how many
years you will finish school, you spend hours alone in the canteen to find friends. It happens when you go to class,
you have a long search for candidates with your eyes in the classroom. I realized for the first time how much the
influence of the town where I spent my childhood was in the first days of my university life. When I realized that
the love affairs started among my friends, I was just at the stage of greeting and asking about the situation, but I
should also mention that the first three relationships that were established the fastest did not reach the happy
ending, when the school was over, everyone thought that the six people I mentioned would sit at the wedding
table, but every It was a surprise for many of my friends, including me, that these relations, which lasted for five
years, ended in separation. Most of my undergraduate friends were gone, it was as if I had been cast a spell and I
was beginning to think that I would spend my next years in the university library, I was neither fully aware of the
fact that I was a teacher nor a student. I would start walking around campus after dinner, wearing jeans instead
of fabric pants. I read three books that had a great impact on me during this period. Jostein gardn watching the
sun go down on the top bunk.
I was turning the pages of the famous Sofinin World of er with great curiosity, as if I had stepped into a new
world, the magical colorful world of mathematics that I entered at the age of sixteen had left its place to the
world of attractive and mysterious philosophy. After this book, which started with the question "Who are you?"
Thanks to the "Alchemist" he read, I realized that just looking at the QA section in the library is equivalent to
eating the same meal every night. After these two fascinating books, I was saddened by the last sentences of
"Sugar Orange", which perfectly describes the pure heart of a child. Thanks to these three books, I am no longer
literature. I started to walk around in front of the shelves and most of the top row of these shelves were filled
with Aziz Nesin books, who, in my opinion, knew all the characteristics of the Turkish people well and had a very
strong pen.
I started to read more because of my loneliness, my roommates were all in undergraduate period, maybe there
wasn't much in common, why it was more attractive to read more than to chat, my life until the military period
this system continued, I thought that I wouldn't have time to read a book together with the military until the end
of winter
The first book of essays I read was Montaigne, even when I saw this book other than the one I read in my
childhood, I thought to myself that they stole Montaigne's book, of course, I wasn't old enough to understand
that the essays are a style! To work, to apply to games of chance or to gamble to get rich in a short time, there
are "cafes" that play games of chance in many cities, people who hate reading at their desks, reading sports
newspapers, grumbling at their desks, and going to a library as quiet as a library to get all kinds of information
from the health status of horses to the injury status of football players. If this energy was spent on science, our
country would make a lot of progress! I think that's enough for you to understand the problem. helicopters,
people covering their knees with a tablecloth while the family is playing okey in the tea garden, and the city of
Midyat, which I find interesting. Muslims and Christians are so intertwined and young girls walking freely with
crosses around their necks. I saw the same scene years later on Rumeli street. It is very nice to have people of
different faiths in a city. It is a proof of how tolerant that country is, I think it is a civilized country that cannot
even tolerate minarets and is civilized at every opportunity. The best answer to be given to Europe, which claims
that there is no such thing as a European religion, is the coexistence of people from different faiths and sects in
our country. Our ancestors applied it perfectly during the Ottoman Empire. I think that even the decline of the
empire, which embraced modern values the most, lasted three hundred years. The empire could continue to
dominate the Mediterranean for many years, I recommend you to read the Safiye Sultan series by Ann
Chamberlain, which tells the palace intrigues very well. It was a lesson I especially liked to memorize the dates of
the wars, so my primary school teacher called me the "chronological child". I think the numbers started to look
attractive to me in those years. I learned that the numbers that appealed to me were discovered by the Arabs
only in the history of science in my undergraduate education. In this course, Georges İfrah We had read the
"Universal History of Numbers" series of . The author, who is a mathematics teacher, left his profession to look
for an answer to his student's question "My teacher, where do the numbers come from?" When he entered the
class one day, he went on a world tour and created this book by making a living as a dishwasher in the cities he
went to. I must admit that I was sad when I saw it in the "cheap book" sections. I think the teachers have an
effect on the lives of the students as well as the role of the students in the lives of the teachers. Think about it, if
Gauss's math teacher hadn't had a headache, maybe this genius would have been noticed later, for those who
haven't heard the story. Let me explain briefly, the math teacher who doesn't want to lecture says to keep the
students busy, write the numbers from one to one hundred and add them and bring me the result, says the poor
man, after about ten seconds, Gauss is sitting on the table with a notebook in his hand.
I wonder how he felt when he saw that he was standing next to him, if he knew that the answer was five
thousand and fifty, he might be shocked by saying how he found it so quickly. If this had happened in our country
in the eighties, I think the poor Gauss teacher would have gotten a clean stick from the teacher. Not everyone
among us may be a mathematician, so let me briefly talk about the Gauss method. While his classmates were first
adding one and two, he added a hundred with one and found one hundred, then two with ninety-nine. Then he
added three to ninety-eight and found one hundred-one. Gauss, who decided that he would reach fifty hundredone in this way, multiplied fifty by one hundred-one and found the answer: Five thousand fifty I think the largest
number his friends found at that time was fifty-five. I think the secret of being a genius is hidden here. to collect
in a certain order or planned being original instead of acting, not falling into any mold...
The other day, we were going to meet my friends in the city centerand I should have been at the cafe where we
always played games and pulled each other out in an hour, the weather was bright, this beautiful weather was
good by taking a walk and trying to lose weight my intention, maybe it would be helpful, I said to myself to walk
hungry
It is my only place of travel when the needs imposed by life on people bore my soul. Because in the selfish and
noisy environment of the world we live in, the other world has a peaceful structure that makes us forget the
needs. There is neither greed nor jealousy in the clean climate of the hereafter. It has become a harmless habit
every time I pass by this grave, looking at baby graves and doing math just because they have lived for one year.
This unusable cemetery that I chose to shorten the road has a structure like an old crater, you go deeper as you
go, the shortest way to the city center is through here. While I was reading the text "Aysegul KARADENİZ with
silisteli", sometimes the "Hüvelbaki" article, half of which was deleted, on the other hand, I started to turn the
pages fast in the not-so-thick blue book that tells the life of a foreign philosophy professor who retired from
which university. Oh, last week, a philosophy professor retired from a university in our country told about the
years he spent in his academic life quarreling with his colleagues for five hundred pages and the difficulties he
faced while building a country house in the village of which province, and which is evident in every way that it
was written without research and effort, which I bought cheaply from the BAG BOOKS section. This book almost
turned me off from philosophy. This blue book was a hit, and at least I had the chance to read it from an author
who sincerely loved philosophy, who seems to have put in a lot of effort. My right and left were wrapped in a veil
of silence. Sometimes the sounds of birds make you want to live in this beautiful spring air, while the sounds of
the city still remain. He was showing his disturbing skill. Everything in the name of life had vanished here. well, i
visualized a picture in my mind, shrouded in countless corpses coming towards me while i was struggling to get
higher from the deepest part of this crater, alas!
He cooperated with Yağmur, every time I tried, the result was the same.
As if the poor dead were gathering in the deep pit in the apocalypse, as if they were preparing to give an account,
I woke up from the world of dreams when I saw the father and the child who preferred the way to bike like me.
LEBANON,1915
-AlpinarianKirkirianNarrow streets in a street with adobe houses, he was in a community where women in chador were gossiping in a
corner. It was in front of the mosque. It was a big mosque. Minarets, domes, arches and barred windows and so
on were all complete. Especially the courtyard: the most important place for beggars. He was standing on one
side. He also failed in begging because he showed no dexterity, or because he had no painful awkwardness, or
because he couldn't think enough to separate himself from the environment and regret his failure. Since he did
not sell corn in small containers, he could not sing and do good deeds on behalf of others with children and birds.
He did not take any interesting action other than leaning against the wall of the mosque. He hadn't even
attempted to open his palm yet. However, with the pigeon A dry woman wearing a headscarf and a chador, who
thought she was crippled, turned the hand of this reluctant beggar and put some money into it. Maybe because
she was blinking at the sun, which was so high at the time, she didn't look at the money; maybe he forgot to
cover his palm because he was obsessed with the children playing in the inner courtyard of the mosque. All of
this happened after the first benefactor of the day had walked away. As she stared into his face, knowingly or
unknowingly, she never moved her eyes. That's why his first client thought he was blind. He seemed to come to
his senses with the sound of another coin falling into his palm: When he lifted his head, he saw a man with a torn
suit and a long beard. Then, looking for the coin purse, the young girl appeared before him, frantically rummaging
through her purse made of an old carpet; a big coin weighed down his hand, he covered all the other coins. A
dark woman crouched next to him with the swaddling child in her arms. For a while they stood against the wall,
like two spots. Then, the clear blob walked into the middle of the courtyard. From the black-robed old man's hut
a walking stick reached for his legs; would almost fall. "Take me to the fountain," said the old man in a gruff voice.
"Not there," he stomped when his hut was pushed in the direction of the wheels, and went out; They turned the
wheels in the direction they wanted.
The old man grudgingly covered the open side of his hut; A small window opened from another wall. From there
he looked in anger to the courtyard. overshadowedolder; he went, leaned against the wall and watched his
money. "You're a solid man; aren't you ashamed to beg?" A fat man stood next to him: "You wouldn't work if you
were given a job." He looked at the fat man's suitcase, which was on the ground, and tried to lift it with both
hands; failed. Then he saw a porter, far away, resourceful. He did as he did: He knelt down, put his back to the
suitcase, grasped the handle; It did not happen. With the help of the fat man, it was loaded at last. On the way, "I
won't give more than two and a half dollars," he said, fat in his slender voice. They walked side by side. When he
came to the pier, he collapsed to the ground with the load on his back. The suitcase owner stoppedandundecided
for a while; then he extended the money. I guess she was a little hurt. He could also enter the ferry for a separate
fee; however, the wall of the porters' organization failed. Then he begged a little on the wall of the ferry port.
When the possibility of reloading appeared, it was sidelined. He was a little battered, swaying slightly where he
was. There were those who accused him of being drunk at this time of day; he did a pretty good job though. Then
again the suitcase, the chest and so on (to the pier). He went between those who believed him healthy and those
who were injured. Maybe it would have worked harder. However, just as a well-dressed gentleman put his hand
in his pocket to give him money, he walked away without waiting for the money when the child in the lap of a
passing woman began to cry out to the scruffy man; immediately went to the counterstrike.
When he came to the mosque courtyard, he went under an arch, and he had his money under the dim and cool
wall; then he made it whole to the bagel shop on the opposite wall, and some coins remained. He walked, it was
a crowded street; mingled with people again. He stood in the middle of the two porters with tired vets, watching
himself in a large engraved, gilded full-length mirror: he had no jacket, his shirt was in pieces. Looking at the
mirror, he unwittingly brought the pieces of his shirt, which had been torn in a row, in which he got into the fight
of two bums and mediated them; he grabbed and untied his pants, a tighter knot. Then they took the mirror; He
couldn't watch his torn pants and the rubbers on his bare feet. He walked slowly; he passed from narrow and
crowded streets to narrow and crowded streets. The voices of the street vendors joined the noise of the people
walking. Then the sellers began to buy certain and fixed places on the sidewalks: First, short-standing benches
appeared; benches were raised, poles and awnings were equipped. The sun disappeared; the heat has decreased
and there is no place to walk on the streets. It got stuck between the clothes and the fabrics, where it is unclear
where they were hung; had to stop. A white cloak swayed by the wind or by passers-by rolled over his face. A
long and bright coat. A closet-tipped ghost with a big button; wide-collared, cool. There was a light wind; burly,
swarthy, and his appearance wavered vaguely the countryman's clothes. Only the white coat did not move; it
should have been made of a heavy fabric. The seller watching him finally broke the silence: "What is it? You're
not going to buy it?" He did not respond. Smiling, he spat on the ground; there was a half-cunning, halfindifferent expression on his face.
there was a flowing sun. Even though he slowed his steps, sweatdrops slid from his forehead, wetting his beard.
Leaning on the railings on a large bridge, he took refuge in the shadow of a dealer. He touched the seller with his
coat, his beard, and his gaze over the passers-by; from the unemployed and powerless, there were those who
stopped to watch him; those who carried heavy loads found it convenient to rest right there. A few were sold out
here. They couldn't get close to getting burned first because he just stood there motionless, expressionless. There
were those who tried a few words they knew from the most spoken foreign language on it. "This man is not a
tourist," someone said. "Yourself Another one knocked him with a curse in a foreign language. He couldn't be
answered. A bingo with American cigarettes in his pocket said, "No, this guy is British, maybe he's an agent." Five
packs of cigarettes and three matches were sold in a short time. When the seller came back, a filtered cigarette
came from their stalls, and the fishmongers watched the fishmongers without speaking.
He stood in front of a window in a narrow street. He watched himself. It was on a street where fabrics, clothes,
and vendors overflowed from the shops. Customers were being cut off. After a while, he felt that he was being
watched from behind the window. The fat shopkeeper was staring at him with thoughtful little eyes. Then, a wide
smile covered her round face; eyes narrowed, disappeared. "Look here," she called, clutching the door with her
fat body. "Where did you find it" He looked; did not respond. Another person approached him at that moment,
grabbed his arm. "Hey mister!" said. He told me something in a language he did not understand. It did not
happen. He supported his words with his hands; Also, he tried to explain with his arms what he wanted. It did not
happen. He opened his suitcase lying on the floor, took out yellowed shirts from transparent papers, and lit them
in his hand. "You're a tourist," he said, resting his finger on one of the big buttons of the coat.
He just left it in front of the window and went to the corner of the street. The fat man was waiting for the result
at the door of his shop. A little later, a young man sprang out like a black bush among the flowers of his shirt and
the hair of his chest stood before him; looked at the shirts: "How much?" said. The young man's face was only
looked at. The salesman on the street corner stamped his foot greedily. "He's a junkie," he grumbled. "He's deaf,"
said the hairy young man in the red trousers, getting close to not miss the customer. The principal stared angrily
into the man's face; he hesitated for a while, then he put his ear to his mouth.
"I am tongue-in-cheek."
"Come in a little bit." He stopped, thought: "Well, he wouldn't understand." He tried the way of the Seller with a
Suitcase: "You come, the shop is here," he said, and without waiting any longer took him by the arm and pulled
him inside. He and the clerk wandered around for a while, wondering what they could do with him. "The guy
looks like a mannequin, too. I can't just sell a ball of fabric in his hand!" He turned around for a while. "Model,"
said the fat shopkeeper again, unable to find any other words. "Mannequin, mannequin," they were chanted for
a while with the shop assistant, and much later they thought of using her as a mannequin. For a while, "Live
model!" they shouted happily. Then they pushed him towards the window so that he would stand there (he could
not be made to be heard otherwise). Just as he was about to take a step towards the ledge of the window, the
clerk warned his boss, "His feet are very dirty, and so are his trousers." They stopped him. Some white cloth was
wrapped around the top of his shoes and the bottom of his pants. it was like a mummy in a museum with the
parts it couldn't cover. They grabbed it by the arms and put it on display. "Don't make it look like an idol," said the
shop assistant. "Let's give him a nice pose." They thought about it. "Let's open your arms," said the boss. "Let him
fill the window." "He gets tired, he keeps moving his arms." Finally, they decided to hang it from the ceiling with
nylon strings. They stretched out an arm, tied it up, and fastened the string to a nail on the display case. They
placed the other arm on a shelf they had unloaded on the wall. A few people began to watch their work. Then,
the number of people accumulating in front of the showcase increased. There were those who said, "This is
lifeless, puppet." The clerk was shouting in front of the door: "Come to the live mannequin store! See our range
of refreshing fabrics. Here, the Mannequin, which we had brought with great sacrifices, bears this heat only by
wearing our light fabrics. Here, even the big coat does not make him sweat. We fly in the air like a bird with our
fabrics and tell you the most lively mannequin." and makes the most real advertisement.'Saran Fabrics' is only
available in our store.
Until the noonholiday that day, the good job was done. "She should give him something too," said the boss when
they sat down to eat at the counter and opened their lunch boxes. "It will stack up later." He went to the
showcase, solved it, released it. They pulled up a stool in front of the counter. They put some hummus on the
cover of the cruciferous bowl; He ate his dinner using two small pieces of bread like a fork. He drank some water
from the sink at the back of the shop, reaching out to the faucet. He sat on the floor; he kept his back on the
bench; they gave him a cigarette. It must have aroused some respect because the boss lit his cigarette. Then he
patted him on the shoulder and turned to the counter, "It worked for us, didn't it?" he laughed. "Are you tired?"
said the clerk, looking at the boss. It was difficult to talk to him as he did not respond. He finished his cigarette,
sat for a while. Then he slowly stood up and headed towards the door. "Where are you going?" shouted the boss.
"Too bad, you're making money." It didn't stop. They ran after him, beer in his pocket They pressed money. He
walked away with the needles that the boss had forgotten on his coat, and with the strings hanging from his
arms, dragging his white cloths and yellowed shoes. A small piece of fabric that remained on his shoulder fell to
the ground as he turned the corner of the street.
He stopped when he came to the top of a steep slope. He sat on the edge of the curb. He wiped the sweat from
his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked around: got up, took a step or two, stopped again. The cloths
that the clerk had wrapped around his feet were starting to unravel. He took the rope off his waist and placed it
on the ground. With a stone standing on the side of the pavement, he crushed the rope in the middle, cut it in
half, tied it on the bandages, and pulled his trousers over him as he walked. A yoghurt seller passed by; It hit him
as he entered the door of an old house behind the stop. the man staggered, looked at the door; The yogurt seller
disappeared in a dark courtyard. Then a dark head, with dark glasses and slicked black hair sticking together with
oil, began to emerge from the pavement, and he saw an empty space that was descended a few steps. The
spectacled head grew, rose; became a man. An old man with a bunch of belts on his arm. The beggar stretched
out his hand on a dark belt, unbuttoned it; but he couldn't find a place to put the belt on the waist of his trousers.
He wanted to pull his trousers up a little; The wraps on the bottom, the ropes did not allow. He looked
despairingly at the beltmaker; Then they looked at the belt together. Kemerci headed for the hole he came out of
and disappeared for a while. He emerged holding a chain made of huge safety pins. These pins were attached to
the inside of the waist of his trousers. "Put your belt on now," he said, laughing, and handing over one of the
banknotes he had taken out of his pocket. The belt man looked at the money, then took it and entered the
grocery store next door. The money came out with a bottle of cheap wine, and after a few sips, she handed the
bottle to the man. Seeing that he didn't take it, he disappeared under the ground again. He came back with an
empty tin can with trimmed edges so he wouldn't cut you off while you were drinking. The tin was filled with
wine for the man. They sat on the wall of the staircase leading down to the hole, their feet dangling down, they
drank together, somewhat relieved. He looked at the smiling man with sweet eyes. He finally realized that she
was smiling without looking at him.
It was Alpinarian's first day in Beirut. The wounds on his feet were the cost of crossing the Halfeti-Beirut road. He
started walking out of the city with tired steps, his fellow countrymen were in the church.
Along the way, he thought of Abdullah, the one who caused the greatest pain in his life.
Saylakkaya-Halfeti-TURKEY
1914
-ABDULLAHDogs barked after me on my way home last night. Our neighborhood dogs. A couple of them followed me; I
tightened my steps. I had never encountered such behavior from them before; I was scared. They always looked
at me with lazy eyes; but I didn't sense that there was tension between us. However, this tension lasted for a long
time; I was used to it. I had to remember one of those proverbs that seemed weak and embarrassing to think
about, as if a barking dog wouldn't bite when they started walking behind me. I was small to myself because of
the dogs. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but at this time, I was thinking bad things about someone, grinding my
teeth, putting him in difficult situations that he couldn't get out of. No, the dogs couldn't have heard that squeak.
Maybe it was a quiet squeak, a spiritual squeak. Now that I had lost my old playfulness, I couldn't have heard the
irony I feel now. However, it could not be interpreted well that the tension between us and the dogs broke out at
such a time. All this had happened close to my street; they barked at me on the last street where the houses
were crowded. I thought the dogs couldn't come all the way to my door; There were three houses on my street,
so there were three trash cans. No, they could not live there. Only I could live on this street. I had my reasons too.
Dogs could not have such reasons, they could not think. I was able to explain the situation in my own way.
Although it was difficult to explain to others, this explanation order was not easily accessible to everyone. Also, as
with the dog issue, this order was shaken in some cases. Therefore, I was unduly angry with the dogs; Most of my
anger coincided with the period after the barking was over. As I guessed, they did not dare to enter my street;
that nasty skinny dog pretended to take a step or two behind me, barking its neck for the last time; Then they all
went back together. I crossed my three-married street in thoughts, and suddenly I found myself on my doorstep.
My house, more precisely, I have reserved a part of the barn for myself and turned it into a house, it is as much a
house as it is called, we have straw bales and animals in the back, I sleep in a small tandoori and goatskin in my
room with light in the front. Upstairs, my mother draws ashes from the stove; it is clear from the voices; now we
will give one of our cattle, in addition to the bride price, to get Meryem, we will mess with the creek after the
morning prayer, we will not wash wool.
He will go down with his mother, and I will feel comfortable instead of staying in this barn now, but I have many
memories here, we used to hide here with Alp when we were children, we used to eat the peanuts we stole,
throw the shells into the tandoor fire and watch them turn black, then Alpinarian would ask me to tell you how
the donkey kicked, I used to laugh. He looked at me with his colorful eyes saying why did you approach the
donkey, he took off his trousers, he wanted my eyes to be caught again because he knew how I got stuck on his
milky white skin when we were swimming in the lake, he looked as if he was inviting, as if to say why did you
untie the donkey, and boldly took his hand from my baggy bag. We realized that we couldn't hold back any longer
when he plunged and stroked my manhood, in our childhood memories of wrestling, I thought he was
deliberately laying under me, he would lean his hips to feel my hardness, he would look at me with his moss
green eyes like a woman waiting to be kissed, but now I have to stop this perversion, Alp is in the morning coffee
again. He said that he wanted to come to the farm, there is nothing wrong with him, maybe because he is infidel,
but our marriage age has come and passed, in fact, he does not realize how lucky he is!
The most beautiful woman in her village, may God forgive me, sometimes the gaurus paladin comes out of me,
why do schoolgirls have golden hair and cotton, sometimes I take care of Alpinarian when my feet tingle on the
mosque in the morning prayer.
I wonder if they would take care of us too, have there been times when they said, 'We were Islamic in this village,
we would be comfortable?'
Aslındaçocuklukarkadaşımolmasınarağ man we do not konusundapekkonuş religion Alba,
çocukluğumuzfıstıktoplayıpgöldeteratarak was bulduğumuzyerdegüreştutarakgeç, soldiers return to the
kahvedesohbetederek will onuniçinevlenmekdahakolayol, başlıkver will both zatenbahçe also
yıllarcayetecekkadariritaneliüzüm are, there they incirlerivefıs, but still acırımbaz that, when buoğlanevlen what
yapacakdi to, şimdiyekad Allah beniaffet whether I alıştırdımonubel that also bugünahkariş, I've
ışığındaonunlagünahişlerkengölgelerimizebak candles bazenbizimahır, Alps now is been Islam He is bent in front
of me as in prayer, but he also has his masculinity in the tale of candlelight shadows.
NecipSometimes I ask myself why I like to read stories instead of writing; so no one will pay you when you read, but if
you write and become popular, financially good days are waiting for you. Maybe reading is more attractive, but
why do I read the stories I read over and over again, I don't understand it, Why do I read the books of Sait Faik
Abasıyanık and Aziz Nesin over and over again?
I think the so called story has the effect of psychoanalysis on me, and it's more calculated! If I had a headache or
felt very depressed that day, a hungry Nesin story, for example, when I read the story of Imam Efendi, who is
invited to every opening, the boredom leaves its place to laughter, my soul is sweetened, then life is solid. I
continue his boring days in reality. I read some, if not all, Nesin stories over and over again. When I read these
stories, I go back to the troubled days of the seventies, I think he is the author of this country and is an essential
part of the people this land has created. It has been twenty years since Aziz Nesin died. After reading the stories
he wrote forty years ago, I say to myself "What has changed?"; I guess only the style of writing the story and the
words used have changed, poverty, reaction, the state, and sometimes when we come across a funny situation,
we say it's a full-blown story, to put it bluntly, poverty despair and human situations such as their rights to stand
still (which - at the age of 13) we can give an example the arrest of a child in class) nowadays it has become a very
common topic open to ordinary outdated emotional exploitation. While those who defend Atatürk are labeled as
bigoted stereotypes and spider-headed people, trying to restore the caliphate or at least being inclined was
progressive! A situation!
In the stories of Nesin, he tells a deep poverty that this poverty isolates, and that desperate people live to get rid
of this situation - sometimes not to get rid of it - with a humorous language. The robustness and ease of the
portraits of the oppressed and the oppressor are also remarkable.
He knows that the oppressed in our country will never be able to organize - which I think is against our genes -
and knows that they will not seek their rights, so it does not paint an unnecessary rosy picture. Instead of
realizing that we are a "master" society in matters of fraud, people who think that it is more profitable to save the
day, as a result of a great coincidence, all of these You will be surprised when you read that it is gathered in the
geography. Even though our people are well-meaning poor people, they do not have a heart of gold. At the party
where the members of the same party gather for the sake of the interests of the same party in a village that does
not fly, how they open old accounts and split each other's heads in a moment of darkness, how closed they are to
enlightenment and innovation is impressive and their most powerful weapon.
it's kind of imprinted in our minds using humor, that's why I'm rereading his books in this dusty dark attic, and
some of the stories between the lines reminded me of someone I knew in my life a long time ago.
When I got to know her, my wife was pregnant with our second child, she had just started her internship, those
were the days when my eyes were often squinted because she bent down with her white apron with a long
neckline, and I think she noticed these flirtatious looks and the next day she reduced the neck depth of her apron.
I, who lived a single life until the thirties, could not be successful in his profession, struggled with economic
difficulties and started to work in a city that he always despised, without reaching his biggest goal in his life, was
also new to anti-depressant drugs.
I guess I must have made you feel the devastation of my Greek, Actually, I wanted to write you this night much
later. I don't know how it happened - probably from the rush and excitement - I guess it got stuck in between. But
I have to point out that I don't want to upset you, but that night, in a way, turned my life upside down. While my
wife was preparing for sleep, I received a message from her exactly ten years later. It would not cross my mind to
blame her or even be offended here. However, after that night, I began to hate many of the details that had
entered my daily life. In those days, I was intent on organizing my house a little; I wanted to buy these new wall
paints and give the house new colors. I bought a furniture magazine from the second-hand booksellers' bazaar,
chose a room or two from its pages, and started painting both walls of my bedroom. Although the first coat of
paint was a little wavy and smeared a little on the ceiling; but an acquaintance of mine who understands these
things said that they would be closed on the second floor and helped me a little and increased my courage. When
I completely finished the small piece of wall under the window, I started to think about this job too. In the
meantime, of course, messages from my lover - I'm ashamed to call this impertinent woman my darling in your
presence - were circulating, suggesting that he thought I was making preparations for marriage. There were
moments when I found her beautiful in a way. I don't know, she could have been called beautiful when viewed
from a certain angle in a bit of darkness. Sometimes it didn't look that way at all, she. Then, maybe because she
was a nurse, she infuriated me by saying that she always complained about plastic surgery, such as shrinking her
nose and getting a new face made. Let me also say that I cannot forget the moments I spent in his house. In short,
when I wake up in the morning, I'm already looking forward to the side painted walls and therefore my lover.
It was nice to correspond with him again after exactly ten years - even if it was very short - although there were
negative statements he wrote in response, I went to the past
I met him in the land of the prophets, this city has a special place in my life, firstly, my father's village, Cibin or its
new name Saylakkaya village, is connected to this city.
The second feature of this city is that it allowed me to take the intercity bus for the first time. In the year that the
first gulf war just started, because my little sister got married and settled in this city, the cities at the exit of the
town with a limited amount of money that we were given as companions to my elder sister and mother during
the frequent visits. We used to start waiting, about ten minutes later, a broker who lost a leg would come to us,
he would always ask the same question, this man had a thick wooden bat on his left foot and a nailed piece of
rubber on the end of this piece of wood, no bus would stop if the lame broker didn't come, the town Since it is
close to Urfa, the drivers would find it unnecessary to go down the low ramp for the money we would pay, but
the driver who saw it lame would stop immediately, so this lame broker and the girl from Izmir at the university
were equivalent to me. to the back seat I used to be a sidekick. Roman citizens were taken from the side of the
road in order to relieve fatigue and the journey continued with "live music".
However, because my mother did not like this live music, she called her assistant to her. As a result of my
experiences with a few people in Şanlıurfa, I came to the conclusion that it would be more beneficial to specify
my father's village as my hometown instead of saying my birthplace.
Antepspor was the team that caused it to drop the most, and the second reason was that the people of Antep
took care of the pistachio. Being from Halfeti meant opening the doors to a mystery for me too. In that black and
white photo, which is a heirloom from my father, I was a little closer to the village where that woman was born
and grew up, looking desperately towards the future in that black and white photograph. It was a spiritual
approach. The first thing that caught my attention in my father's village was that the people looked like tourists
from Scandinavian countries. We came to this village for condolences, the father of my father's ex-fiancee had
passed away. There was a cool shadow in the courtyard of the condolence house, despite the month of July. With
the hope of seeing the ex-fiancee with the courage he found from the fact that a different woman did this job
each time, he was examining the ladies who were looking at the tea service while reading the alms. lose her
father when there is a young girl It is reprehensible when a woman of sixty got up and served a tray of tea to the
men on the other side of the courtyard.
We were guests at Kel Müslüm's house. May Allah have mercy on him, Mr. Müslüm was a very hospitable person.
He hosted us in the best way possible. At the same time as the day of condolence, they had a nurse returning
from a foreign country, so the number of visitors in the village increased. Meanwhile, everyone in the village who
heard that "Arogilin's son has come," came to Müslüm Bey's house. Some touched Armen, some gave a name
and asked if he knew him. The story of the people of Cibin flocking to Müslüm Bey's house and showing excessive
interest in Armen was as follows:
Armen's grandfather, Armenag Aroyan, was born and raised in 1878 in Cibin. They had a pistachio grove of many
trees, so they were well-off people. Since Hovannese Aroyan was a very forward-thinking person, he sent his son
Armenag to the Central Turkey College, which was within walking distance of a few days, to Antep. In addition to
being the first Cibin native to attend Central Turkey College, Armenag successfully graduated from the College,
became a teacher, returned to his village and worked as a teacher. The date was showing 1898 at this time. In the
following years, Armenag would go to Egypt to work, where he would meet and marry Gülenla from Antep. When
they had a child, Armenag would hit the road again and come to Cibin to show the baby to his parents. However,
it is here that he will catch typhus by great misfortune and Dr. On Shepard's advice, he would not return to Egypt
with his family, but would stay in Antep and await his death.
All this had happened before 1915. When the deportation decision was made in 1915, most of the Armenian
families in Jibi did not want to take their daughters to desert roads that they did not know and full of dangers.
They were on good terms with their Muslim neighbors. An estimated 30 Armenian girls were left behind in this
way. They were raised by Muslim families and married to the sons of those families. Thus, the mothers of most
Jibinites became Armenian. Of course, all of these girls became Muslims and took Turkish names... Having an
Armenian mother in Cibin is nothing to be ashamed of, nor is it something to be blamed or gossip about. I had a
chance to see it in America, and father Aroyan was a typical Cibinian with his eyes, his gaze and his blond hair.
Yes, this is where Armen Aroyan's bond with Cibin came from. The "son of Arogil", as the people of Jibin say,
came to visit them almost a hundred years later, and they cared a lot about them. Müslüm Bey took us to Arogil's
pistachio first... Armen was very excited: "This is just like my family told me... Red and fertile soil. If you sit on it
and then shake it off, the soil doesn't stick at all. The weather is nice, the sky is blue, people are beautiful... I am a
lucky person, God has blessed me to see this place..." He said. As the sun was heating the red fertile soil with all
its might, we started to visit the graves with my father.
Another stop in Cibinde in June was Satenik Kırkıryan, whose name was recorded as "Miss" on her identity card.
At that time, Satenik was an 88-year-old, henna-haired, extremely talkative woman with a wonderful memory.
Those around him said to Satenik, "The son of Arogil has come, he wanted to see you." She made Armen sit
beside her as She began to speak. Holding her arm, she said, "Your grandfather was my teacher. What did he
teach me?" And she began to read a passage from the Bible that she had learned, beginning with the sentence
"The Lord is my shepherd." Armen had burst into tears at this time and was crying freely without controlling
himself. They continued talking for a while. Then they brought Nuri Güngören into the room. Nuri Bey was
another Jebini whose mother was Armenian. His eyes were born blind. With the help of his Armenian uncle, he
went to a school for the blind in Beirut and Aleppo. He remembered the Armenian language, which he had
learned but never spoke, upon Armen's arrival in the village. He started speaking Armenian, singing old songs... I
remember Armen was ecstatic and asked, "Sing another one, talk a little more". I am hI was extremely surprised
to encounter events and a culture that I was not aware of inside, I was looking around with curious eyes and
trying to record the events in my memory as much as possible. A few years later, we went to Cibin again. All the
people I knew as Jibini were dead.
I would feel this feeling again in the future, just as all the elderly people I knew when I worked as the assistant
principal in a nursing home, none of them survived my visit five years later....
We went to Arogil's pistachio again, and on the way we passed by the cemetery. I knew so many people lying
there... I was sad of course... But wasn't that how life was? Satinic came to my mind.
Yakup quoted a sentence that his father told him: "Here's that tree, Arogil's father planted it with his hand. It was
a very big tree when I was a child. It got old in time, the wind broke its branches and only this trunk you see
remained. We don't want the tree..."
If we go back to my ex;
I met him in this city ten years ago; he was a young man at the beginning of his career, just turned eighteen, at
first I ignored many of his messages, I either replied late or did not write at all, I told him that I was married and
had children, but he did not give up and won, but I left with my appointment.
It was in the school courtyard that we met under the thin rain. He must have been almost seventeen or eighteen.
He had a face that seemed to have waited for his hair to turn gray in order to achieve what youth and the
lusciousness of the lines made only a vague promise. He was out of breath, as if he had run because he was afraid
of being late. I don't believe in hunch, but for a long time I lost faith in my disbelief. There is nothing more
deceptive than affirmations like "I don't believe it anymore". I nearly fell while trying to collect the remnants of
food (toast crumbs) under my feet. I was pretty ridiculous. "Let go." "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, excuse me..." He was
laughing. Despite his young age, he had wrinkles around his eyes like the old man when he smiled. Even though
he had returned, I feared the worst thing: to be known as a man without manners, to give the impression of a
'rude' person.
Being a teacher in this school meant setting an example with his attitudes. It was the anatomy teacher who came
to the rescue. He leaned towards me with a small smile on his lips. "Excuse me, sir, the principal is waiting for you
in her room to give her the lesson program". Could you please tell me where is her room?"
He was wearing a loose gray coat. He said sarcastically rather than seriously and anxiously: "I think it's bad for you
to have a mathematics teacher working in a science high school in a health vocational high school..." I thought I
was an unobtrusive person from the outside. I was wearing my groom's suit. I was thinking of keeping my
responsible and calm appearance in the eyes of the students. I had an impressive physique: strong shoulders and
penetrating eyes. Every minute that passed was taking me away from me, affecting the big blue eyes under the
glasses. Since I had to return to my single days in this city after my day, I thought it would be appropriate to drink
tea at the cafe on the terrace of the white high building in the center, with a view of Urfa, instead of returning to
my sister's house early.
I bought a Chair with some of the wicker fibers on the seat broken off. There was an ashtray only on the table, a
waiter approached to order. He was wearing a white apron with a turn-down collar, an old wide-rimmed glasses
that had been smashed over his right eye and had carefully combed hair. Next to the cafe, youngsters lined up for
tickets for an action movie starring Gina Manes and Jean Smith at the cinema. Casanova's flirtatiousness was
evident in his black olive eyes. And his nose, which was conflicting with his troubled eyes, was thrown forward to
seek help; it was as if he was pretending to be an animal training in the circus. What kind of mood did being a
world-renowned celebrity create in one? While I was immersed in these thoughts, I was startled with a gentle
hello. dear senior student and group of friends that caused it to spill onto the floor, I suggested to them that they
sit down if they have time and have tea together my kind invitation was accepted after about three months, this
time in the same cafe just the two of us sipping our tea to her to look at me at least once with her green eyes I
would insist.
I don't know how I did it..." "A small suicide attempt," he said. He tried to smile. "This has to happen. You
shouldn't be angry with me. There are moments when—" "More than anything and especially nothing. We could
have been together a little longer;" "I no longer have any desire to be happy."
"Who is it that tells you about happiness, Deniz?
You knew I was dating, I thought it was just going to be a date, I'm talking about being afraid of you doing such
dangerous things." "You see very well that I'm not superfluous." I'm 18 now "Of course, if one pretends to take a
box of antidepressant pills.." Don't be so harsh when you judge me..." "You're welcome!" I tucked the tie in my
pocket. Tying a tie after sex is always rude.
He was still looking at my wife's picture while we were making love... I can't make any complaints against my
wife. She was pregnant with our second child in those days and she was at her mother's house. Maybe we were
done before, the two of us. Maybe I was looking for an excuse to get angry at the sea, I used his suicide attempt
every time I got stuck yes yes, it is necessary; I need this excuse..."
He rested his face on his knees, then lifted his head. Gene began to look like someone who had been subjected to
harsh criticism. "In situations like this, you have to go far," I said. At last I had the right to feel a little pleasure on
your lips.
These were our last kisses. "Eskişehir?" "Eskisehir." "It's too far, I have to go very quickly and, as I said at the cafe,
I have to come back after completing my PhD." He went to the kitchen and brought a bottle of water and a glass."
I drank. He was looking at me friendly. "Is this new?" "What?" "He looked at my book like it was nothing." I
looked at my watch. I opened the door: he was lightly stroking his forehead as he was leaving. only a part of the
minaret was submerged under the water. When we corresponded again ten years later, he wrote that nothing
had changed in his life and added:
"Rewrite if possible!"
Over the years, one learned to bear the pain of abandonment or inevitable abandonment with different faces.
Over time, you could also discover the magic of hiding behind certain images... You could also tell your inner
person what and where you left off from time to time, in a time of loneliness or irreversibility. Even if you feel
unprotected against all defensive areas, naked despite all clothing... You had to believe in the existence of this
road in order to live in your own time, in your solitude, in those places where you know you cannot set foot, with
those people, with those people, with your facts as you wish. It was the rule of the game, in the usual,
commonplace, somewhat hollow expression. Because the 'others' were there. Others were there... As in all
'known' stories... As in other times, climates, emotional worlds, cities that could not be lived as imagined... Others
were there... Even if they moved to other places, they would always stay there even if they were invisible to you.
Even if you went to other places, explored other geographies with your own borders, they would stay there, they
would not leave you. The play was your play, and the stage was one of those scenes where everyone made
preparations in private rooms, preferred not to carry their private rooms to others, the mirrors were often
wanted to be ignored, the audience was also actors and could not escape being. Preparation was always done by
someone, for someone. For the days that are always given birth to someone, as it should be... For the nights that
are multiplied by games, or more accurately saved... For the weekends you live and share by being content with
small nature trips, small departures and small steps. A silent agreement that everyone knows, but that no one has
the courage to question out loud. What has fundamentally changed, what has changed in real terms, what could
have been? You could think of the images of triumphs, defeats, resentments, regrets, and separations that
sometimes returned to you with different deaths. But in those moments, in order to better understand the
reason for his longing and search more than anyone else, besides trying all these possibilities, it was also
necessary to know how to reach the limits of a story aimed at resisting, defending and confirming what
happened. ... with a little fear... In those long nights of solitude, I don't fully learn who is remembered and how,
with what sights, smells or sounds, as an accepted guest, an actor in those lives, only to a certain extent, parts of
the whole as necessary, That's why it wasn't easy for me to combine as many of those people as they wanted. I
wanted to go down to those corridors, too, but despite all their efforts to understand or explain, people could be
each other's obstacles and watchers there. Some images and some emotions were in another part of those lives.
Over time, I would understand the importance of this region. Me too... After I learned to make progress in those
people to some extent, despite all my squints... Back again, clues, knowing how to catch clues, living stories
hidden behind clues or details, in a new, unexpected place, or at least trying to pretend to be alive. In that case, it
was only necessary to fall by risking walking in a dream... You could go beyond a play that only wanted to be
brought before others with its scenes that could be shown, its scenes that could be shown, and its speeches that
could be announced.
I will fulfill his wish, I will not write again!
mosquito-1914
-Village coffee-
-AbdullahI pulled one of the chairs under the shade of the big mulberry tree. There was a burning sun in the area outside
the dark shade. Ökkeş was distributing tea with thin-waisted glasses arranged on a yellow tray.
"Welcome," he said, as he placed it on my desk.
While I was taking the first sip, Arogil suddenly appeared next to me with his donkey; he took the saddle and
lowered it to the ground, leaving it on the grass so that there would be no mud; he stretched out his arms for a
long time against the sun, his face was red as always, somehow drenched in sweat in this early hour of the
morning
.