42-Necip

The other day, I was going to meet my friends in the city center and I had to be at the cafe where we always play games and tease each other when we finish, within an hour, the weather was bright, my intention was to take advantage of this beautiful weather by walking and lose weight, maybe it would help, I told myself to walk hungry, but if I went on for too long, I would be late and say, "Where were you?" Instead of answering the question, I decided to shorten the path by passing through the cemetery that was no longer used - that is, no longer buried.

It is my only wandering place when the needs that life imposes 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. In the clean climate of the afterlife, there is neither ambition nor jealousy. There I stay away from everything except God. It is like feeling His presence in the middle of a cemetery. Over time, looking at baby graves and doing math on the grounds that they only lived for a year has become a harmless habit every time I pass by this grave. This unusable cemetery, which I chose to shorten the road, has a structure like an old crater. As you progress, you get deeper and deeper. The shortest way to the city center is through here. Sometimes I was reading the text "Ayşegül KARADENİZ with silistra" and sometimes the half-erased text "Hüvelbaki", while on the other hand, I started to quickly turn the pages of the not very thick blue book in my hand, which tells about the life of a foreign philosophy professor who retired from an unknown university, just last week, in our country. This book, which I bought cheaply from the BARGAIN BOOKS section, in which a retired philosophy professor from a university tells about the years he spent in his academic life arguing with his colleagues and the difficulties he encountered in building a country house in a village in a certain province, and which is clearly written without any research or effort, almost took me away from philosophy. This blue book, which was going to cool me down, was a success, and at least I had the chance to read it from an author who sincerely loves philosophy, and who obviously put in effort. My right and left were covered in silence. While bird sounds sometimes aroused the desire to live in this beautiful spring weather, city sounds still showed their disturbing skill. Everything in the name of life had disappeared here, and I was immersed in my own silence. We will all undoubtedly taste death. Looking at the graves on the opposite hill, I said: "Don't worry, I will be among you soon." The vastness of the cemetery looked like a sign of the apocalypse to my eyes, I visualized a picture in my mind; countless corpses on their shrouds. While it was coming towards me, I was trying to get up from the deepest part of this crater, alas! My muddy feet were covered with rain from the rain until the morning last night.

It cooperated with the rain, the result was the same every time I tried, I found myself at the bottom of the pit again, like the cockroach that tried to get out of the sink in my childhood and fell every time...

The poor dead were gathering in the bottom pit at the place of judgment, as if they were preparing to give account; suddenly I woke up from the dream world when I saw the father and the child who preferred the shortcut like me. When I got closer until I heard my voice, I said, "Salamin Aleykum!"

Saylakkaya-Halfeti-Türkiye

1914

-ABDULLAH-

Last night, as I was walking home, the dogs barked after me. Our neighborhood dogs. One or two followed me; I quickened my steps. I have never encountered such behavior from them before; I was scared. They always looked at me with lazy eyes; But I couldn't help but sense that there was tension between us. However, this tension lasted for a long time; I was used to it. When they started walking behind me, I had to remember one of the proverbs that seemed weak and embarrassing to think about, like a barking dog never bites. Because of the dogs, I became small to myself. Maybe it was a coincidence, but at this very moment, I was thinking bad things about someone, and I was gnashing my teeth by 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 creak, a spiritual creak. Since I had now lost my old humor, I could not have felt the sarcasm I felt now. However, the tension between us and the dogs breaking out at such a time could not be interpreted in a good way. All of this happened close to my street; They barked at me on the last street where the houses were crowded. I thought dogs couldn't come to the door of my house; There were three houses on my street, so there were three garbage cans. No, they couldn't stay there. Only I could live on this street. I had my reasons too. Dogs couldn't have such reasons, they couldn't think. I was able to explain the situation in my own way. Even though it was difficult to explain to others, this method of explanation was not easily accessible to everyone. Moreover, in some cases, as in the dog issue, this order was radically shaken. Therefore I became more angry with the dogs than I should have; Most of this anger occurred in the period after the barking ended. As I expected, they did not dare to enter my street; That dirty weak dog, my back He pretended to take a step or two from the city, stretched his neck and barked for the last time; Then they all turned and left together. I crossed my three-house street with thoughts, and suddenly I found myself in front of my door.

It's my house, or rather I reserved a part of the barn for myself and turned it into a house. It's just as much of a house as you can call it. We have hay bales and animals in the back. I sleep in my light-filled room at the front, surrounded by my small tandoor and my goatskin. I couldn't sleep in the room with my sisters who are at wedding age. Upstairs, my mother is pulling ashes from the stove; It is clear from the sounds that we will now give one of our cattle in addition to the bride price, to pick up Meryem, we will go to the stream after the morning prayer, she will go down to wash the wool with her mother, I will be at peace rather than staying in this barn from now on, but I have many memories here, we always hid here with Alp when we were children, We would eat the peanuts we had stolen, throw their shells into the tandoori fire and watch them turn black. Then Alpinaryan would ask me to tell him how the donkey kicked, and we would laugh. While telling the story like this, he asked me for what purpose did you approach the donkey and looked at me with his colorful eyes, he had pulled off his shalwar, and how I was obsessed with his milky white skin when we swam in the lake. Because he knew, he wanted me to look at my eyes again, he looked at me as if inviting me, as if he was asking why did you untie the donkey, and when he suddenly put his hand inside my shalwar and caressed my manhood with courage, we realized that we could not hold ourselves back any longer. In our childhood memories when we wrestled, I thought that he was lying under me on purpose, he would lean his hips to feel my hardness. , he used to look at me like a woman waiting to be kissed with his moss green eyes, but now I have to stop this perversion, Alp said that he wanted to come to the stable again in the morning coffee house, there is nothing wrong with him, maybe it is because he is an infidel, but we have reached the age of marriage and it has passed, what actually happens? He doesn't realize how lucky he is!

He is engaged to Satenik, the most beautiful girl in the village. May God forgive me, sometimes I feel like being an infidel and marrying her. If you ask why, Armenian girls have golden hair and cotton skin. Sometimes, when my feet tingle on the cold sackcloth in the mosque during the morning prayer, I emulate Alpinaryan.

I wonder if they will emulate us too? Have there ever been times in this village when they said that if they had converted to Islam, they would have been at peace?

Actually, although he is my childhood friend, Alp and I do not talk much about religion. Our childhood was spent collecting peanuts, sweating in the lake, wrestling wherever we found them, and after returning from the military, we chatted in the coffee house, saying that it would be easier for him to get married, he will not give a bride price, and his gardens are large enough to last for years. He has grapes, figs and pistachios, but I still feel sorry sometimes, wondering what this boy will do when he gets married, may God forgive me so far, maybe I have accustomed him to this sinful job, sometimes I would look at our shadows while sinning with him in the candlelight in our barn, as if Alp had become Islam. He is bowing down in front of me as in prayer, but I can tell from his shadow in the candlelight that he is actually a man.

Necip-

Sometimes I ask myself why I like reading stories instead of writing; no one will give you money when you read, but if you write and become popular, financially good days are waiting for you. Maybe reading is more attractive, okay, but I don't understand why I read the stories I read over and over again. Why do I read Sait Faik Abasıyanık and Aziz Nesin's books over and over again?

I think the thing called story has a psychoanalysis effect on me, and it's more economical! If I had a bad headache or felt overwhelmed that day, I immediately read the story of Nesin, for example the story of Imam Effendi, who is invited to every opening, and my distress gives way to laughter, my soul becomes sweeter, and then life becomes sweeter. I continue his boring days in reality. I read some, but 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 that he was the writer of this country and an essential part of the people created by this land. It has been twenty years since Aziz Nesin died, his After reading the stories he wrote forty years ago, I ask myself "What has changed?"; I think only the style of story writing and the words used have changed, poverty, reactionism, the state, the same sometimes when we encounter a funny situation, we say exactly what kind of story it is, to put it bluntly, poverty, despair and humanity. Situations such as the violation of their rights (we can give an example of a 13-year-old child being arrested in class) have become commonplace and outdated issues that are open to emotional exploitation. While those who defend Ataturk are labeled as bigoted, cliché-minded spider-headed people, they try to bring back the caliphate or at least try to bring it back. Being inclined has become progressivism! What kind of situation is this really!

In his stories, Nesin tells in a humorous way that a deep poverty is isolated by this poverty, and that desperate people live to get rid of this situation - and sometimes not to get rid of it. Along with the oppressed, the solidity and ease in the portraits of the oppressors are also remarkable. If we understand the power of the oppressor, the poorWe also understand Godliness.

He knows that the oppressed in our country will never organize - which I think is against our genes - and will not demand their rights, so he does not paint an unnecessary rosy picture. It is a great coincidence that people who think that it is more profitable to save the day rather than grasping the whole that we are a "master" society in bragging and fraud are all doing this. You will be surprised to read that it is collected in geography. Even though our people are well-intentioned poor people, they are not with hearts of gold. At a party where members of the same party gather for the sake of their interests in a remote village, how they open old scores and split each other's minds in a moment's darkness, how they are closed to enlightenment and innovation, is impressive and their most powerful weapon, humor. By using it, it literally engraves itself on our minds, that's why I'm reading his books again in this dusty, dark attic, and some of the stories between the lines remind me of someone I knew a long time ago in my life.

When I met him, my wife was pregnant with our second child, he had just started his internship, and my eyes were often caught by him as he bent down frequently with his white apron, which had a long collar depth, and I guess he noticed these flirtatious looks and reduced the neck depth of his apron the next day.

I, who lived a single life until the thirties, was not successful in her profession, struggled with economic difficulties and started working in a city she had always despised before reaching her biggest goal in life, had also just become acquainted with anti-depressant drugs.

I think I must have made you understand the misery of my Greek Cypriot. Actually, I wanted to write to you about this night much later. I don't know how it happened - probably due to rush and excitement - I think it got stuck in between. But I have to point out that, I don't want to upset you, but in a way, that night turned my life upside down. While my wife was getting ready for bed, I received a message from her exactly ten years later. I can't think of blaming her or even taking offense at her. However, after that night, I started to hate many details that entered my daily life. In those days, I intended to organize my house a little; I wanted to buy these new wall paints and give new colors to the house. I bought a furniture magazine from the second-hand bookstore, selected a room or two from its pages, and started painting two walls of my bedroom. Although the first coat of paint was a bit wavy and smeared a bit on the ceiling; But an acquaintance of mine who knew about these things told me that they would be closed on the second floor and gave me a little help and increased my courage. Once I had completed the small piece of wall under the window, I started to come to terms with it. Meanwhile, of course, my lover's messages - I am ashamed to call this inappropriate woman my lover in front of you - were circulating, showing that he thought I was making preparations for marriage. In a way, there were moments when I found her beautiful. I don't know, if you looked at it in the dark and from a certain angle, maybe it could be called beautiful. Sometimes it didn't seem like that at all. Then, maybe because she was a nurse, she was driving me crazy by saying things like plastic surgery to reduce the size of her nose, which she always complained about, and make a new face. Let me also say that I cannot forget the moments I spent at his house. In short, when I wake up in the morning, the walls are half painted and therefore I am already looking forward to seeing my lover.

It was nice to correspond with him again after exactly ten years - even if it was very short - even though the negative statements he wrote in response were negative, I went back to the past.

I met him in the land of the prophets. This city has a special place in my life. First of all, my father's village, Cibin or its new name, Saylakkaya village, is connected to this city. However, the reason I went to the village for the first time was for condolences and it happened when I was completing my tenth year in the profession.

The second feature of this city is that it allowed me to take an intercity bus for the first time. Since my younger sister got married and settled in this city in the year when the first Gulf War had just started, I worked as a companion with my older sister and my mother during frequent visits to the cities at the exit of the town, with a limited amount of money given to us. We would set out on the road and start waiting, about ten minutes later, a broker who had lost one of his legs would come to us and always ask the same question. This man had a thick wooden cross in place of his left foot and a piece of tire nailed to the end of this piece of wood. If the lame broker did not come, no bus would stop in town. Since it was close to Urfa, the drivers would find it unnecessary to go down the low ramp for the money we would give, but the driver who saw the lame would stop immediately, so this lame broker and the girl from Izmir at the university were equivalent to me. Those who saw this beautiful girl from Izmir, who was my classmate during my student years when I hitchhiked because of lack of money, stopped immediately, as did I. I would sit in the back seat and be a "sideman", so I would be very happy when the lame broker came to us. In those years, there were vehicles called 302 that the new generation did not have the chance to meet, these vehicles were often empty, so the driver started from the last night and at noon the next day.He would pick up Romani citizens from the roadside in order to relieve fatigue in the last kilometers of his journey towards , and the journey would continue accompanied by "live music".

However, since my mother did not like this live music, she called the assistant to her and told them that she had a severe pain in her head and to stop this noise, so my journey, which started with the violin and darbuka, ended before I reached the Suruç district. When I was appointed as a teacher in this city, the 302Ss were replaced by mini televisions behind the seats. As a result of the experiences I had with a few people in Şanlıurfa, I came to the conclusion that it would be more useful to mention my father's village as my hometown, instead of mentioning the town where I was born. The thing that pushed me to this behavior was that the team that caused Urfaspor to be relegated from the league was Antepspor, the second reason was Pistachios were protected by the people of Antep. Being from Halfeti meant opening the doors to a mystery for me. I was a little closer to the village where that woman was born and raised, looking hopelessly to the future in that black and white photograph with yellowing edges, a heirloom from my father, but this was more of a spiritual approach. The first thing that caught my attention in my father's village was the people. They looked like tourists from Scandinavian countries. We came to this village to express condolences. My father's ex-fiancée's father had passed away. There was a cool shade in the courtyard of the condolence house, despite the month of July. My father handed over a tray from the door entrance to the men's side to serve tea, and each time a different woman did this job. With the courage he gained from doing this, he was reading the inspiration and examining the ladies serving tea, hoping to see the ex-fiancée. I did not give my father much chance to see the ex-fiancé again with the eyes of the world, because while there were so many young girls, an old lady who had lost her father got up and walked across the courtyard. It is reprehensible for her to serve a tray full of tea to the men next to her.

We were guests at Kel Müslüm's house. May God have mercy on him, Müslüm Bey was a very hospitable person. He hosted us in the best possible way. They also had a nurse who returned from a foreign country at the same time as the condolence day, so the number of visitors in the village increased. Meanwhile, everyone in the village who heard that "Arogil's son has arrived" rushed to Müslüm Bey's house. Some touched Armen, some gave him a name and asked if he knew him. The story of why the people of Cibin flocked to Müslüm Bey's house and showed extreme interest in Armen was as follows:

Armen's grandfather, Armenag Aroyan, from whom he was named, was born and raised in Cibin in 1878. They had a pistachio grove with many trees, so they were well-off people. Since Hovannese Aroyan was a very forward-thinking person, he sent his son Armenağ to Central Turkey College in Antep, which was a few days' walking distance away. In addition to being the first Cibin resident to attend the Central Turkey College, Armenag successfully graduated from the College, became a teacher, returned to his village and taught. Meanwhile, the date showed 1898. In the following years, Armenag would go to Egypt to work, where she would meet and marry Gulenla from Antep. When they had a child, Armenag would hit the road again and come to Cibin to show the baby to its parents. However, by a great misfortune, he would catch typhus and Dr. On Shepard's advice, he would not return to Egypt with his family, but would stay in Antep and wait for his death.

All this happened before 1915. When the deportation decision was made in 1915, most of the Armenian families in Cibi did not want to take their daughters to desert roads that they did not know and were full of dangers. They had good relations 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 Cibin residents became Armenian. Of course, all of these girls became Muslims and took Turkish names... Having an Armenian mother in Cibin is not something to be ashamed of, nor is it something to be blamed or the subject of gossip. I had the chance to see him in America and father Aroyan was a typical Cibin native with his eyes, looks and blondness.

Yes, this is where Armen Aroyan's connection with Cibin came from. "Arogil's son", as the people of Cibin say, came to visit them after almost a hundred years, and they cared about him very much. First, Müslüm Bey took us to Arogil's pistachio grove... Armen got very excited: "Well, this place is just like my family told me... Red and fertile soil. Even if you sit on it and then shake yourself off, the soil does not stick at all. The weather is nice, the sky is blue, People are beautiful... How lucky I am, God gave me the fortune to see this place..." he said. While the sun was warming the red fertile soil with all its power, we started visiting the graves with my father.