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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

-AlpinarianKirkirian-

Narrow 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, half-indifferent 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

-ABDULLAH-

Dogs 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.

Necip-

Sometimes 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-

-Abdullah-