Carrying life

I'm standing there on a bridge. 'Separation' and 'reunion' are holding each end of a rope, trying to pull me in their direction. 'Separation' pulls on the rope with all its strength. It draws most of its strength from memories and habits. 'Reunion' is no different; with the hopeful dreams of a new life and the happy feeling of getting closer to loved ones, it too hangs tightly on the rope. Neither one gives up, nor the other prevails. I stand in between, right in the middle of the rope. I'm in the middle of that suspension bridge connecting the two shores; the bridge is my rope. My soul has been waiting on this bridge for a while. I stand with the sea to my right, the sea to my left, my face turned to the future, my back to the past. I stand on a thin line between the old and the new, the past and the future.

As I felt the strange numbness of these conflicting emotions mingling, a voice whispered into my ear: “So you’re leaving me? I heard you were packing your things. How do you feel? It’s complicated, isn’t it? I’ve known you for nearly half a century, I know your childhood. I never imagined you’d leave; I thought you belonged here. Won’t you miss my streets, my bazaar, my corners? How will you ever get used to your destination? Do you think it’s easy to form a sense of belonging? Besides, you don’t know those places at all… You pick up your phone, type in the address. You look at the distance on the map. Everything looks so easy there, doesn’t it? You say, ‘I’m in the same city, just changing sides’… But believe me, you’ll feel like you’ve moved across town. Things aren’t that easy, let me tell you. I think you’ll live with the feeling of ‘I’m the other person’s taxi’ for a long time after moving there.”

Remember when you were a kid and there was a cassette player in front of your house? It was the late 70s, early 80s, and they used to play the trendiest songs. There was a song you loved. I've forgotten the name now, too. You'd ask your cassette player brother to play it, and he'd be happy to play it. Oh hooray! Look, how you remember it; you're tired? It was called "Little Girl." You'd sing along, a rosy glee on your face, your eyes sparkling. The song would end, and the games would begin. You'd jump rope, hide-and-seek, hopscotch... When you got tired, you'd line up on the stairs like rosary beads.

You moved out of that house in '87. Until recently, you'd sit in front of the bakery and drink a relaxing coffee on your way back from shopping. The bakery was right across from the house where you spent your childhood and adolescence. As you sipped your coffee, you'd gaze up at the fourth-floor windows. Sometimes, the image of your mother waiting for you to return from school would come to life in the window, sometimes your own childhood. Oh! Look, your friend from the apartment next door has climbed up to the window, and you're chatting together. What did you say? Yes, they demolished your house a few months ago. There's a huge void where the fourth floor used to be. I know that too. But no one has the power to destroy memories, right?

There were so few cars back then. You'd walk through the market holding your mother's hand. I know it's been a while since your mother left. Her departure has been the biggest blow to your life. I know that too. But you know her house is still there. Every time you passed the street, you'd slow down and look at the flowered window and balcony that used to be your mother's. Who will stand on the corner and look at that house from now on? Even if they did, what would they see?

You haven't finished your coffee yet, have you? You're on the balcony; I see you. You look at your father; he's come home from work and is signaling for you to come down. He's loaded up his melon and watermelon again, asking for help. You're descending the stairs, jumping three or five at a time. What's that? You'd just reached the apartment landing when you dropped the watermelon from your lap. You looked at your father guiltily; he wasn't angry at you at all, remember? That's right, your father left even before your mother. He was always quick to get things done; he was agile. He was also more hasty in leaving. The foundation of the house of deprivation was his work.

Remember your schools; memories would often come flooding back as you passed. You were once one of those who ran in those gardens. You're right, your schools don't exist anymore; they were demolished too. I understand you; every loss made a little more room for the feeling that "your time is running out here, too." It hurts you to see the buildings that bore witness to your life, that accompanied your days, crumbling one by one. You want to preserve that dimension of time as it was in your memory. And you... That's why you don't want to update your memory. After all this destruction, preserving the past has become a way of existence for you. Your memory is like a museum—you want everything to remain in its original state, unspoiled.

What about the house you live in now? The people you love, your balcony, the clouds, the birds and seagulls you feed on the rooftop opposite… Oh! Look, I didn't know about this yet, so that's about to be demolished too. Looks like you'll be entrusting all the memories to your memory. That's all from me. I think I've talked too much, so tell me a little more.

Yes, my beloved neighborhood. I'm preparing myself for a separation. The time to say goodbye is approaching. I know it won't be easy. But know that what I've experienced with you will also come with me. A period will begin in my life that I will divide into two: before and after. Just so you know, on the other end of this separation is the reunion of two siblings. My sister and I have lived on opposite sides of the city for years. This reunion will bring our two sides together. The distance between us will be the elevator ride from the 7th to the 13th floor.

How will the move happen?

My belongings, my flowers, my plates and books in boxes that will be loaded onto a moving truck. My belongings that will cross the sea. My belongings will travel.

As I pass the ring road at the foot of the cemetery, I'll say, "My dears, I'm going a little farther." The wheels will turn, and I'll turn on some music to escape the sadness of being away. Mahsuni Şerif will call out with his heartfelt voice: "Here I go, my black fountain..."