July 2nd and the journey of pain within us

Nesimi Çimen was sixty-two years old when he lost his life in the Madımak incident. Thirty years have passed. 37 people, most of them in the prime of their lives, were killed in this heinous incident. We also had writers, poets, and bards. If they were alive, who knows what works they would have produced. What beautiful flowers, and even the flowers of flowers, would bloom.

We can't help but get caught up in a spiral of agitation. Let me get away from this feeling and get back to my main topic.

Nesimi Çimen was born in the Fatmakuyu Village of the Saimbeyli district of Adana in 1931. He migrated with his family to the İncemağara Village of the Sarız town of Kayseri when he was ten years old.

In those years, the villages of Sarız were a district where many Alevi-Bektashi bards and local artists, who had migrated from provinces such as Sivas, Tunceli and Kahramanmaraş, lived, and where the şelpe technique of ırızva, or cura, was played.

Under the influence of his environment. Nesimi started playing the cura when he was thirteen or fourteen years old. He was talented. He had a strong memory. He had achieved mastery at an age that could be considered a child.

He would later become the owner of a shelpeh system that would be named after him.

On the other hand, he had to earn his living. He started working as a marabou for the village lord. And when he started, he fell in love with the lord's daughter, Dilber.

When they had no choice but to escape together, they escaped from Sarız and found themselves in Sevdili Village of Elbistan.

Elbistan was a milestone in Nesimi's short life. He lived the days when his art turned towards maturity here.

Here he became acquainted with the poems and world views of valuable poets such as Mücrimî, Hasretî, Melulî. He became familiar with their works. He was influenced by them. However, some things started to go wrong:

The taste of the world has been spoiled

Come on, let's migrate, my love, let's go from here

There is no name left for love and respect

Come on, let's migrate, my love, let's go from here

There is no value in truth, the clown is in the eye

Morals are corrupted, disgrace is on its knees

There is no longer any sense of modesty left

Come on, let's migrate, my love, let's go from here

There are no fewer wise men left.

Where are the people of conversation, the people of language?

Whatever you are looking for, a bunch of ignorant people

Come on, let's migrate, my love, let's go from here

At least you understand and think about it in reality.

Every day seems worse than yesterday

There is no place left for Nesimi here

Come on, let's migrate, my love, let's go from here

He settled with his family in the Faydalı Village between Elbistan and Kadirli Kozan. He worked as a hoe in the fields for a while. He learned tinsmithing and coppersmithing from his uncle. He traveled from village to village with him and worked as a tinsmith. He spent the years 1953-1956 in the military. When he was discharged, he settled in Kadirli. He was having financial difficulties. He tried to go to Germany as a worker. However, he could not overcome the health obstacle.

His son Mazlum was born in 1959. Mazlum would later become both a worthy successor and one of the important artists of our country.

One day, Nesimi Çimen met Yaşar Kemal in Kadirli. He went to Istanbul. He went to the Turkish Workers' Party to get to know Yaşar Kemal. He had no place to sleep, no money. They let him sleep there. His family in the country was curious and waiting for him. However, he had no opportunity. He poured his feelings into verses and his words:

I heard your cry, my back broke

It is not possible to come, forgive me

I struggled, I struggled, my path is closed

It is not possible to come, forgive me.

Your hiccups burned me and finished me off

He took my soul away from me

If I had seen your face it would have been enough for me

It is not possible to come, forgive me.

If I were there I would wipe your tears

I would take your beautiful head on my bed

If I came, I would kiss the soil stone

It is not possible to come, forgive me.

Your suffering is great, you have great pain

I'm away from you, I'm burning, my love.

I would come if I flew like a bird

It is not possible to come, forgive me.

…….

Nesimi hides you in her heart

The world without you is a prison, my world is a world of sorrow

I would sell myself to come too

It is not possible to come, forgive me…

IN TOMORROW’S ARTICLE, I WILL BE TALKING ABOUT YAŞAR KEMAL HOLDING NESİM ÇİMEN’S HAND AND TRAVELING TOWARDS THE UNENDURING PAIN INSIDE US.