I am right in the middle of the womb of the dawn doctor. The Sun is coming back, the moon is still here.They seem to serve humans just fine. Humans; they are just so troubled. Yes you are right; so am I, if you are trying to read me between my lines. That is right blame me for telling the truth, scape goat me, scapegoat me more because I am a woman, just because of the little comfort of the sweet lies you wake up to every morning.


I could not sleep last night doctor. I did not let my neighbour sleep either. I asked her questions about God, universe and us. She thought I was mad but she did not say that. She showed me pictures of her dead moments instead while we killed the time and time killed us. Yes you are right, I am on my PMS period. I read that some women had murdered their kids because of PMS. I am aware of that, but still trying to control it. Maybe I needed a little bit of help. I left her to her cats. She has thirty six cats, can you believe that?



I came home and wonder why I had to past so many tests in life if I am eventually and inevitably going to die doctor. Why do I have to make so much effort to grow if all it leads to is just a brutal death? And why do I have to prove my love to God If he/she/it made me of love anyway? Surely he/she/it does not need my love, I need his/her/its love instead. And I need it bad, because humans are no longer capable to love each other doctor. They seek it in everything and everyone but they don’t give it to anyone, they are unable to. What made them that way, why and how, I don’t want to say I know even though I do. Because I know they will hate me for telling it. They are so eager and ready to hate and attack but they cannot love…they cannot love…they cannot…am I not right doctor? You know I am. I know you that but you never say it because you, too, are in it.


Where are you now? On the beach? With your new lover? Did you lie to your wife again? I am sure you did. Yes, you are right. I should not dive so deep into unknowable things like right, wrong, love and God. I should just live but never bleed. Even if I do bleed I should never admit it. I should fake happiness, I know that is what you want me to do. But don’t you die if you do that, too, doctor? I can see you smile. That is right, you should only dive into sea that deep. Even then you get so close to death and you need more oxygen don’t you doctor? I need more oxygen these days.


A woman laughed…no not purely out of joy…but pain. She begged to be loved but she did not say it…it was hard. Man felt every particle of her heart but he was unable to recognise. Even if he did, he would not know how to kill her pain but fuel it. Is your new lover killing your pain doctor? Are you slowly killing her with your fake love? Are you dying doctor?


Please write back before you are dead doctor. I miss arguing with you, fighting, screaming, swearing and all that jazz… I guess that is where I hide my joy, love and respect. I am sure you understand.


I am troubled doctor, please come back…come back before death.










Sometimes I wonder doctor.

Don’t look at me like I am a rotten tomato…I, too, can wonder.

Yes, but I wonder what makes you wonder.

That, I won’t tell you…you bloody bastard! In fact, I want to see sweat even in your ass to find that out.

I see.

Sometimes I wonder doctor…I wonder where my s…Hey what is that in your hand?

Oh, this?

What else is your hand doc?


Then why do you ask me such a question? Are you a doctor or a magician?

It is a game cube. You want it?

Are you bored?

No, it is for patients.

I am not sick and you are not a doctor!

You know that…there is no you or me or she or he or we or us you know that! Give me that black  cube!

Here, take it!

There is only this dark cube game, you play it right! I willingly play it wrong! That is all doctor! You know that you cowardly hero!

Hey listen!

I have a story to tell you for a change…

I am sure you do.

A story that has a clue for everyone who feels lost on this maddened world.

I love riddles and clues…

Cool…I thought you had lost your ability to love quite a few times actually. Are you really able to love?






Despite everything?


Then why are you still here?

How do you know where I am?

Who is talking to me right now?

A doctor.

And that is not you?

Only a part of me.

But that is still you, in fact, maybe the darkest part of you.


That is not true!

We will see. Let me tell you my story…sometimes I wonder doctor! I wonder how on earth I had managed to live with no soul for so long…and I remember the morning when I commuted to work. I was on the train…it was full of slaves with fearful faces. They were too embarrassed to look at each other so they all stared at adverts on walls of the train where they lean their heads on sometimes. Or they all read the same free newspaper to look, sound, feel and act like they were all on the same page of their artificial culture. I was calm and quiet, still running around the world to satisfy my stomach. And I wondered why that newspaper was free in a culture which kept telling people there was no lunch for free. It bothered me but I tried to convince myself that I could still be an angel with no wing. Are you with me doc? Stop taking notes, you can never decode my madness!

I might!

And I ran and ran and ran to catch the same train over and over again many morning doc. I did not read the free newspaper nor did I stare at the adverts on the top of my head or secretly watched people’s reflections on the windows of the train. I wanted to understand this shit so I turned to philosophy. There they said, you cannot philosophize if you put into account your God! Then they got me ask whether there was a God! Well, how you could you talk about something that does not exist anyway I asked.


And then one morning I saw a man in his 50s wearing a black suit while sitting on the same train, readying myself for 12,5 hours long slavery. That was fucking wrong, hence I was searching for the truth.


Where was it?


In the smile of the man in the black suit.


How so?


He was standing by the door with a woman in a black suit. He looked at what I was reading and smiled. He then looked at the woman standing beside him. She,too, smiled victoriously and devilishly.




Because the article I was reading to learn how to philosophize was titled “Does God Exist” without realizing that was how…




That was how I began to loose…




Loose in this magicians’ world…but now I know all their secrets doc!  I now know why the man in black suit smiled at me that sarcastically that morning.



There never was a free newspaper…people paid it with their souls. There had never been a true philosopher on the face of the earth! They were all devil boys in black robes! They were there to steal God from people!

And you are a bastard doc!  Because I found my soul!

Hi doctor! How are you?

Very well, thanks. Yourself?

Confused like hell.

I see.



I mean what do you see?

I see what you say.

See, that is what I mean when I say I am confused. Hear me doc! Do you hear me!


Good! Nice red tie! Are you horny?

No, are you?

Then why are you wearing a red tie doc?

red tie

Oh stop that! Sit back in your chair!

Call the nurse, call the nurse you cowardly hero!

Sit down!

I won’t before you be as honest as I am.

I am honest.

Then confess it!

Confess what?

The reason why you are wearing this fucking red tie today.

Just to see how you react to it?

Oh! So did I react as you expected?

Hmmm, you could be better!

You could be much better than that doc! Your tie is not even red!

I see…

Do you really?

Yes, I do. Do you hear?

Yes…my head is getting too noisy these days. I stare at the sky, birds, trees, seas, mountains…I walk in the woods sometimes but it becomes even louder…all the knowns and unknowns make the same noise doc…weird as hell doc.

You sure?

I am confused…I told you doc. I am confused like hell…they say…


Some unknown smart ass’ blind followers.

Who are they?

Almost everyone with a washed brain.

I see.

You see doctor?


That smart asshole said that if you feel irritated by something in someone you have the same irritating thing, same flaw in you. Otherwise you would have never felt that way. Do you agree doc?


Smart answer but not so honest. So do you think I am dishonest just because I can detect dishonesty in you doc?

No, but at least you know the taste, colour, sound and feel of dishonesty well enough to detect it. So it is highly likely that you were at some point in your life dishonest.

That is the longest fucking answer I have ever had from you doc…BUT!  If that is true then I am in a shitty situation…


I met a bitch! I instantly knew that she was a bitch despite her best possible mask when I met her. Does that make me a bitch!

No, but…

But what doc…you like bitches! Is that what you want to say?

No…I actually love them.

Cool…is that because they are as bitch as they are doc?

I know you are…you are a bitch doc! All of us are! Because…because we all know what it means to be a one.  But anyway I met that bitch who acted like an angel. Ever since then the folk in my head have been getting louder and louder every day doc.


Because she acts like a healer and I know she is not.

And that bothers you?

Lies always bother me!

Since when?

I don’t know…stop being a little dog of Freud now…but I am certain about one fucking thing…

And that is?

The folk in my head want me to find the truth!

Let her be!

Your tie is killing you doc! Red fucking tie!

The folk in your head!

They are all there!


In that fucking red tie!


Posted: November 6, 2017 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , ,

“Hey Goldie,” the dominant lady with big belly exclaimed. Her name was Teresa. Old, almost blind lady Goldie stopped and looked. She was ready to do whatever she was about to be told.

“Come here,” Teresa ordered dominantly. Her husband Michael smiled in the manner of a dog. Was he really that submissive or was that love, I asked, wondering who that man was smiling behind his thick glasses.

“She Is too old now…she cannot see, she cannot hear, she can hardly walk, she does not understand what we talk,” said Teresa as the old Goldie ran towards her in slow motion which generated compassion in everyone. Michael laughed to compliment his wife. I joined him not to receive oppressive look from Teresa. She, too, laughed. I had to have her heart in my palm, it seemed like from the first minute I had met them.

She held my index and middle finger very firmly after greeting me in our first meeting and stroked them like she stroked Michael’s cock when she felt like.

“I let that house to an Armenian family,” said she and invited us into her own house with enthusiasm of a teen, hardly containing herself in her old body. I kind of liked her then and there. I knew why; we had the same kind of madness maybe at different degrees. I was already imagining how we could become explosive one day if we ended up being friends or acquaintance as I followed her with my old neighbour who was in love with me. I fancied his son and slept with him soon after I had met him with no guilt or shame. He was the sweetest man I had ever met. He fancied me, too. Hence he hid the fact that he was married twice and had two kids. You see, I could have easily called him a liar if I did not like him so much but I have not. I guess I still like him. I cannot help it just like his father could not and still cannot help being in love with me. I did tell him that I liked his son and slept with him like I had never slept with any man before but he did not care. His love was extremely blind. I did not know what to do about it but for now it was good to have him with me to give a great first impression to Teresa and Michael. Yes, it is still true that a woman, no matter how attractive, how pretty, intellectual she is, is not respectable on her own unless she has a big bank account and two body guards in which case she would not need to rent a house of such people like Teresa and Michael. Yes, it is still true that money is the only power unless one is supernatural.

goldie lady


“You might want to buy this house,” said Teresa to my ex-fucker’s father whose name was Emir. He smiled.

“It is a big and beautiful house but I need something smaller,” he lied, and smiled at me sarcastically. He was good at lying. It made him feel smarter than others but he had no idea about tricks of the mother nature nor did he seem to have met a secret demon catcher like me before.

“Oh aren’t you, too, going to marry soon,” asked Teresa and laughed without knowing a word about us. She knew she had just said something she was not supposed to. So many butterflies began flying into the air from Emir’s eyes. I did not know what kind of stomach he had to love the woman who slept with his son and who was his child’s age. I stopped condemning people long time ago. Playing with their weaknesses as I pleased was more joyful, I discovered. It was so much fun to make them believe that I was the person they had perceived and behave like who I really was when they least expected.

goldie 2


Emir smiled like a shy teen, I looked away, Teresa looked at us as if a fortune teller looked into a crystal globe and told the future on top of the stairs in her big old and messy house which smelled food. Michael did not even bother to walk in and interrupt her. He knew that she was not going to give him a chance to talk so he stayed outside and played with the cat instead. She talked, talked and talked…she talked even when she did not talk, I heard every word crossed her mind. She was not really showing her house to us, she was studying us in her house. I decided to play idiotically innocent young woman whom she could easily deceive even abuse sometimes. I knew this was the type Teresa was looking for to let her house. I made sure that she regretted letting her house to the Armenian family before we walked out of her smelly, messy big house. I did not talk at all. I only smiled and acted so extremely kind to the point of stupidity. By the time we walked out of her house, she was in pain, I could see it in her eyes. She was no longer dominant but extremely motherly creature. She held my hand and said:

“Let me show you a place.”

“You said you let it to an Armenian family, did you just change your mind,” I asked.

“No, forget about that place…I have a better one for you,” said she and led us to it. We walked through beautiful garden right side of which had admirably peaceful white houses. I had never imagined to have one up until I was thirty. I never thought I was going to live long enough to have a house, I contemplated about killing myself if I did not die that soon but I did not. I could not, there was still some goldie 3love left somewhere in my bleeding heart apparently , I did not kill myself nor did I die. I had chosen love.



“Oh, that is exciting,” I said to Teresa and smiled. Mad parts of our selves greeted each other second time when she looked into my eyes as we walked through a heavenly garden.

Michael did not come with us. He stayed with the cat instead.

“I kept this house for my son, I was going to live here after selling my big house for a while but since I loved you so much I am not going to let you keep looking for a place,” said Teresa with a great empathy which I was not sure whether stroked her ego or was a sign of her humanity. I was not in a position to care about such subtlety, I needed a place. Where I currently lived was too noisy. I was no longer able to sleep at night due to loud fucks around my flat. People were primitively basic around that place.


“Here is the living room,” said she and I fixed my eyes on the bluest and brightest Aegean Sea shouting quietly in front of the balcony. Teresa did really love me, I thought stood where I stood in the evening she and Michael visited me with a bowl of soup and some cookies. Goldie had come with them, too.

The old, half blind and deaf Goldie stood by her feet and kissed them. It was hard enough to be a dog but harder to be an old one, I thought. She was living last years of her life, according to the local vets. Teresa and Michael were prepared to lose her any moment.

“She had been with us for fourteen years,” said Teresa and lifted her up. Even her hair looked old and weak. Teresa sat Goldie on her laps and stroked her back. Michael smiled, sitting next to her.

“Would you like a cup of tea,” I asked. Teresa stood up as the biggest authority. She had already decided on behalf of all of us. She took three packets of three in one coffee out of her bag immediately and walked towards the kitchen. Michael smiled like a little old dog. That was how he had coped with her dominant nature half of which seemed to have originated from love and desire to express her womanhood. I allowed her to be the best woman on earth. She made us coffee very motherly and served the cookies she had made.


“Teresa loves kitchen and she is a very good cook,” said Michael and smiled. And I admired them with regret. They had been married for forty-seven- years, they were almost seventy but their love was as young as seventeen.


I would have married to love of my life only if I knew what it meant to have a family like the one they had, only if I knew how…only if I knew that when I had the chance. I had never seen such a happy marriage or family in my entire life before. All I knew was how to push away someone or withdraw myself. And he was now so far away. Maybe with someone else. Maybe happy or maybe faking to be happy…I can feel he is not really happy and I know my feelings are true because he still texts me in my hardest time as if he feels it, too.


“Did you like my cookies,” asked Teresa after she had served her coffee.

“Delicious…everything you make is delicious,” I said to delight her and she was delighted.

“What is your secret,” I asked.

“I put love in everything I make my dear,” said she and Michael held her hand like a school boy.

I admired them with regret and heartache once again.







Who Is Sick Doctor?


I have a nest of ants in my head. They try to get out before I open my eyes in the morning. They don’t allow me to move in my bed and get on with my day before they are all out fucking me up over and over again. One of them is you, doc, I know. Fuck you! What do you know doc! What can a person who wasted half of his life only to have two letters in front of his fucking name anyway? You are probably scanning all the definitions, descriptions, patterns of the diseases you tried so hard to memorise, now…aren’t you, doc? Fuck you! I know I don’t matter to you, nobody does…all you care about is those two letters and how they fill your wallet. You, fucking bastard!


There is this terrorist whose head I fucked after he had fucked my cunt. I reported him to the police but he is still free, walking around like he is as good as his mother before she was fucked to get pregnant for him. Yes, you expected me to say as good as you, didn’t you, doc…you will have to wait for that for years but you won’t hear that from me doc…you know why, don’t you, doc? You know that I have to be as bastard as you to call you good, don’t you, doc? And you know I am better than you. You know, the bastards around me, made me come to you, don’t you? You know perfectly well what Freud said, why do you still pretend that I am ill? Say what he said if you have a droplet of honour left in you, say it doc!

mad world


“Before you go to a psychiatrist and allow him to diagnose depressed, check out how many bastards you have around you.”

“Thank you very much doc! So why don’t you ask me that, doc!”

“You are already telling me about them, please continue.”

“Please continue…you bastards, blood suckers, mother fuckers…you all have this posh accent…guess what doc, it does not impress me no more, in fact I want to fuck language like you do doc.”

“Cool, how are you going to do that?”

“There you go…you don’t really care about me more than you care about your fucking game, do you, doc?  Yes, you don’t. You want to be the only fucker in the world, don’t you, doc…yes you fucking do. You cannot hide it from me, I can see…I can see everything doc…you are dying to see my soft, warm, pink pussy…you are dying to touch it, aren’t you, doc? The thing is doc, you are not man enough. I only fuck those who are good and those who aren’t usually have too little or too big cock…see doc sometimes people don’t really need to seek justice…it is already there…in the nature of everything.

“I have a medium size.”


“Medium size cock…million times cocked up head that is ugly and bald…a life that is wasted listening to…anyway enough about you now…you are as pathetic as anyone in the ward. You feel like a God in everything you do, stupid people respect you because you have a degree to say that…when the patient in the ward says that everyone laughs and calls him mad…just because he does not have a fucking degree to say that…you like that don.t you, doc? You like being treated like a God but you know deep inside that you are not. Especially when you lick a beautiful pink cunt…


Another one is out of the nest now…another ant. He was a woman trapped in a man’s body. He loved the power of his cock but was unable to handle its responsibilities. He wanted to fuck like a man but loved and protected like a woman. In other words, he was a coward. I cannot call him homosexual because there are some good people who are homosexual, too. He was just a pathetic little parasite who happened to have a cock. Hence, he could do anything to abuse those who did not have it, he thought. No that was not really what he thought because he was too lazy to think…that was what everyone with cock had thought and he happily bought. So, doc, tell me who is sick , tell me who is actually sick doc?






My Sister

Posted: October 19, 2017 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

My Sister


“Hi,”she said.

“How are you,” she asked and that was enough to fuck me up. Not because I was sad or bad or even mad but because it was her who asked how I was. She shattered all the pieces I had glued. They all stuck to each other I had thought and I was back to who I was, but had I ever known who I was. I mean the one who was free from wounds, scars and pain. Who was I going to be without them, I wondered. Without my wounds, scars, tears and cries who was I , what was I, I asked. How empty I looked to myself while trying to empty myself. What did I want for God’s sake, I asked my hungry-self. Experience but no wound…knowledge but no responsibility or headache…wisdom but no fucking pain or heartache…best of all I wanted power to murder all my weaknesses…but what kind of power would ever bring my pieces back and make me unbreakable, I wondered.


“I am fine, how about you,” I asked.

“I am okay, thanks,” she replied. I did not see her to know how sincere she was. “She is not really okay,” whispered my heart but I was not brave enough to ask whether she was or not. But I knew she was not somehow. And I knew she was not brave enough to say more, to ask more, to talk more…so she hushed up her heart and let it bleed like I did and we both listened to the sound of our pain for a while, thousands of miles away from each other.


broken rose 2


“I dreamed of you last night,” said she unexpectedly. It was courageous of her to say that. And I did not know what to say.

“I moved to another place, that must be the reason why,” I said , not daring to hear her dream.

“Where did you move to,” she asked, drifting away from what she had initially wanted to communicate knowingly or unknowingly, willingly or unwillingly…it was not that clear to me.


“I moved somewhere near the sea,” said I, pain of her accident in the darkest part of my heart.

“I wish you happiness in your new house,” said she, knowing perfectly well that happiness had got little to do with the house sometimes even none.


“Thank you…come and watch the sunset with me on the balcony one day,” said I. I listened to the silence, it was loud, it was wet, it was long… and it was resentful…


“It is still hard for me to walk, especially when the roads are not so good,” said she.

“The roads are not so bad here,” I said but she knew that they were. She knew that she was worth nothing before the accident like everyone else and now she was worth less than nothing as she was disabled. Nothing must be something if there was something less than nothing, I thought in that brief moment. Yes, moments can be incredibly brief and unbearably long sometimes.


“Do you remember how we had everything once…youth, health, determination, time, strength, yet… yet we did not appreciate them…maybe we did not know how to… or maybe we were too young and arrogant to do so…yes we wanted to be loved without being able to give love…we wanted money….we wanted to succeed something big…become someone bigger than anyone on the face of earth…yet we were put in invisible little prisons separate from one another…unable to hear…unable to see…unable to understand one another…yet we were told how free we were in those invisible little prisons…and that was the reason why we were unable to love…no matter what we had did not seem to be enough…and we were never good enough to our imprisoners…and how we hated each other…and how we hated ourselves, do you remember now,” I asked without uttering a word the best of which was surely going to hurt.


“I still panic when I cross the road,” she then said.

“Yes, that is because you had the accident while crossing the road, that will stop,” I said but I knew it was not that easy. We, humans, had hearts which had nothing to do with reason. Reason could explain why we had pain, how it occurred but it would never care how it hurt. It could cure it with some medicines, it could even numb where it hurt but it would never care what every pain left behind. Reason was dry, so was I. And I knew she did not like my reply. She did not know how upset and how angry I was.


“Is your father still alive,” I asked.

“He was, I heard,” said she. That was when we felt hell of anger and resentment but no word. That was when we felt the sharpest knife of our lives stabbed in our hearts but had nothing apart from watching how we were losing blood.


“It is okay,” said she, remembering the day she had had the accident and how her father pushed her in front of a bus which crashed her to the pieces. I knew it was not okay, she knew that, too.


“There is nothing we can do, just forget all about it,” said she. She said that despite her broken leg. I knew that she did remember him every time she took another step. She sounded like she had learnt how to appreciate what she had, including her bad and a little mad dad.


“He is not bad, he is just an angry dad who has never been hugged or loved and whose anger was the way he begged for help to get out of his loveless hell,” our hearts whispered to each other. And we stopped texting to each other. I sent her a picture of the sea I saw from my balcony.


“Come and enjoy the sea one day…at least we can have one nice sisterly memory to remember…it might make us forget the bad ones maybe,” I texted while the sun was leaving with a hope of another tomorrow.


She did not reply.






What a Fatherless World

Posted: September 3, 2017 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,

It is the night before Eid. People post about it, talk about it, how it brings solidarity or how it should bring etc… aaand there is this song sang by two girls in Brussel as part of International Festival of Language and Culture’ 2017 festival.


Ben yoruldum hayat gelme üstüme,

Diz çöktüm dünyanın namert yüzüne,

Gözümden gönlümden düşen düşene,

Bu öksüz başıma göz dağı verme.


Je suis épuisé la vie, ne viens pas sur moi,

Je me suis agenouillé face à ce monde lâche,

Dans mes yeux, dans mon cœur tombé tombant,

N’intimide pas mon innocence.


It hurts yet something forces me to listen again and I do…it hurts again and I promise myself not to listen to it again and it ends…a brief release and I struggle with myself in seven long seconds…once more, once more, begs me my inner voice and I hit the play button once more…I listen it hurts a little deeper especially when the black girl sings it so soulfully and so painfully…her heart cries and I hear…and it finishes…okay I say this is it…I must cheer up it is the Eid night…but the black girl still cries in my heart and I feel urge the urge of sharing the song and I do…I send it to someone who hides his heart and plays smart…and he is too far from where I am…and the song travels to Switzerland in matter of seconds through whatsapp…and there is this painful silence which dies to bring back the song to my mind and it does…and I start listening to it again…wait impatiently for the black girl to cry her heart out and touch mine and she does…but something is different this time…I begin listening to it through the ear and heart of my friend and imagine whether he would feel the soul of the song like I do or not…since it is after midnight I get no reply from him…maybe tomorrow I say as the song ends…


I see the piece of paper my neighbour sent me the other day when my stomach refused to take all that nonsense which my mind accepted to tolerate. It aggressively forced me to throw out everything even a glass of water not only through my mouth but also my nose for two long days…yes I knew that it was a psychosomatic reaction and I did not want to remember it, but this piece of paper and the number on it…it came from the man with a white hat…he wanted to help…and I have not called or texted him yet…


I hold it, register it on my phone…and then he appears on the screen and I hear the black girl again…and the last expression on the face of my friend who had to go to Switzerland…the man with white, the black girl and my friend…they all become a part of the same story in that song and I listen to it again.

fatherless girl


Ben yanıldım hayat vurma yüzüme

Yol verdim sevdanın en delisine,

O yüzden ömrümden giden gidene,

Şu yalnız başımı eğdirme benim.


J’avais tort la vie, ne le jette pas contre moi

J’ai donné chemin à l’amour le plus fou,

C’est pourquoi de ma vie parti partant,

Ne me fais pas baisser la tête.

Loss…defeat…regret…loneliness…humanness…and life…the song is about everything that is painful about being a human…and that hurts human beings. I decide to call him in the morning and I sleep with the voice of the black girl echoing in my heart…


I wake up and it is Eid. I greet the sun with grace before my mind turns itself on and continues from where I left it last night. I drink water and put the kettle on to make a cup of coffee. I drink it as I design a post for the quote of the day…if the projection is true, I say and stop…then why do people happily own compliments and personalize them so quickly, I ask…will anyone reply…I don’t really care, I let them project and I project…


I text to the man with a white hat to say how kind of him to send his number upon hearing my gastroenterological ordeal which was actually psychosomatic explosion of my whole year.He immediately texts back to say how nice it is to hear from me on a beautiful Eid day. He sounds desperately lonely and hungry for sincere human connection.I can hear screams of his heart in his messages…he almost sounds like the black girl in that song and I cannot bear anymore…I invite him to my place…I ask him to share half of the first day of the Eid with me…and he happily and expectedly accepts it.


I have a look at my novel’s murder scene again…It is good but my hero still seems passive…I wonder how I managed to make the villain look like a hero…my friend texts back from Switzerland and celebrates my Eid. He does not sound like so cold but still distant…I know he did not feel the song…how could he…he is too lucky to have an empathy for someone’s loss or defeat…so I stop listening to the song through his ears and heart yet he is still attached to it but not to voice of the black girl this time…he is attached to the cold girl with little or no wound in her soul who sings with the black girl. I look out of the window…it is a sunny yet cool day…I feel ready to walk out of my home and I do…


I want to buy a really good desert for the man with white hat and I do…I feel the peace and joy everywhere I look somehow…strange I say to myself…why do I feel so happy…because of the man with white hat…what is so special about him for God’s sake…how and when did I put him in such a great place…yes I did see him many times, he just lives in the opposite block on the floor five…he looked broken, kind, reserved and strong despite his old age and that is fine…but that cannot be the reason why I almost feel thrilled, I say to myself as I walk around the shopping mall. I buy him a big cup that is as white as his hat and many other things to eat for a week…I return home, put everything in the fridge, tidy the house like I have never done before…no I don’t worry about what he would think about me or my house but I still want him to be comfortable. And he knocks the door all in whites.


He is wearing white t-shirt, white trousers but not white hat to my surprise this time. He walks in with a big smile. He is wearing big black rimmed glasses and he has a beard in French style just like the little blue scarf around his olive skinned old neck. It matches with is blue sandals and I like it. He kisses me and it does not feel strange straight after walking in.


“Hey, so nice to see you,” I say after feeling his soul and smile. I know he is as excited as me but of course I don’t know his reason just like I don’t know mine. I offer him a place to sit and he sits on the white sofa. He has a small plastic bag in his hand. He opens it and takes out a packet of white chocolate…I don’t like white chocolate but I pretend to love it and thank him in the sincerest tone of my voice…and I smile. He smiles back and I can see he also studies me behind his big glasses. I can hear voice of the black girl echoing in my heart again but I try to ignore her.


“What would you like to drink,” I ask him. He takes a tiny little jar out of his small bag this time and holds it in the air.


“This is the tea I always drink, it is combination of many herbs,” says he and hands it to me. I find it rude but I still smile as I walk towards the kitchen.


I put the kettle on and walk back to him. I sit next to him, I cannot sense any sign of danger or he hides it well, I am not so sure. He has so many lines around his small eyes which happily smile despite his pain that speaks to mine.


“I had a major operation two weeks ago,” says he and looks at me. I know he needed compassion two weeks ago and I know he still needs it… and I give him with no word.


“My doctor friend told me not to have it due to high risk of death but I had it,” says he and smiles again. “Actually I unpacked my hospital bag when he said the night before the operation but I re-packed it in the morning and went to the hospital,” said he and stops.


“I wish I knew you back then…I would have go with you…stayed with you in the hospital,” I say. He looks at me…he feels my heart but cannot speak.


“It is okay…I said to doctors before the operation that they should kill me if they know that they disabled me somehow…because they said that there was a high risk of losing my legs if I survived,” he says and smiles again. I can see he still cannot believe that he is alive.


“Unbelievable, isn’t it,” I ask. He laughs.

“Yes…was unable to sleep, my leg was always in pain…now I sleep and wake up…nothing happens and I laugh…I sleep again to see what happens…nothing happens and I laugh…I laugh nonstop,” says he and laughs.


I go to kitchen and bring him his tea with the desert I bought for him specifically. He likes the fact that I have made some preparation for him. He takes it, I bring my plate of desert and tea and sit next to him. Strange I am wearing white shirt, too, I realize suddenly.


“I stayed in Switzerland for thirty-seven years,” he says as he feels close to death. I wonder what really brought him back to such a chaotic country like this one but I don’t ask not to hurt him. I know how it feels to hear that question.


“Yes, I met many people who divorced their partners for no reason but just to go back to where they were born and die there,” I say instead but I realize that that was even worse than an offense. But he jumps to that and agrees with me. I become unsure of his honesty. I begin to believe that there is certainly another reason but let him continue…


He checks his phone and says:

“My son from Switzerland…he celebrates my Eid.” And he shows his picture. I don’t tell him that I know him, I tell him how handsome his son is instead. And his picture appears in my mind, my heart gets warm in the sweetest way after seeing his breath taking, sublime God given look. And I resent God for not giving the same beauty everyone equally. His father hears my heart and explains. He tells me about his son. How handsome, how fortunate, how free yet how idiot he is. He tells me how he was fined because of raping two girls in one night.


“Well he is lucky that he was not jailed,” I say from the standpoint of a man as I have no choice other than that.


“Yes…but he had to pay one hundred thousand dollars not to be jailed,” he says. I begin to see why he did not listen to the song I sent him.


“God,” I quietly exclaim instead.


“I mean he did not force those girls to go to his house, they went because they wanted to,” says he. Well they must have thought that your son was a decent man not a rapist, I thin and what kind of decent man can pull two girls from the bar and sleep with them in the same bed, asks my mind until I utter a word as a response.


“Hmm,” I say and try to understand whether he is also a rapist like his son. Was it his dark side that made me curious about him, I wonder as he says:


Well…anyway…even that did not stop him tiny bit…he would sleep with 24 girls in 24 hours if he could…he is addicted to women.”


“Or sex,” I say.


“Both,” he replies but I can see how much he loves his son despite all that as he tells all that with pride in a playful manner. And I understand that he is not really fully matured man despite his old age. That does not surprise me at all…power of manhood corrupts little men and that is okay, I say to myself as I ache in silence again.


He shows me his daughter’s picture and his grandkids without any strong sign of emotional connection.


“Your wife must be very beautiful,” I say as all his kids are amazingly beautiful and his grandkids.


“She was and she was a very good woman but she died,” says he and I know he lies. Only a month ago, his son told me that she was alive. And I wonder what kind of hell I have inside to be curious about such a man with white hat.


“Oh I am sorry to hear that,” I say to make him believe that I am some kind of idiot. He relaxes and talks about his job, his ex-lovers and how finds it hard to live here sometimes. I listen and it gets dark outside. I turn the lights on although I love it a little dark. He jumps and says he loves it dark, too but I am no longer sure whether that could be true. He says how much he enjoyed his time with me and cannot go back his lonely home.


“It is okay, you don’t have to go just now,” I say as I draw the curtains with the same painful notes in my ears. He stays, despite finding it hard to sit due to his recent disk operation. He has something more to say, I know. He is in pain to say it.


“I am actually looking for a woman to share rest of my life with,” says he.

“I am sure you will eventually find one,” I say to him. He looks upset but he hides it. He wished to bring his youth back first and then he made himself believe that he could still try his luck but maybe not so soon, I hear his internal dialogue.


He stands up.


“I think I better go now,” says he.

“As you wish…thanks for coming,” I say and stand up, too.

He hugs me this time, his expectations look more alive in his eyes. I close the door after he walks out. I look at where he sat, I feel what he has left behind. I feel sad. And I wonder why I wanted to meet him so much. I resent life for not giving me a father like the man with white hat who loved even crimes of his son.


I open the window to let what he has left behind out. And I play the same song…the black girl cries I cry…she sings and cries…I listen and cry…what a fatherless world, I whisper as the man with white hat appears in the garden and his lucky son in my mind…


Ben pişmanım hayat sorguya çekme,

Dilersen infaz et kar etmez dilime,

Sözlerim ağırdır dokunur kalbe,

Şu suskun ağzımı açtırma benim.


e regrette la vie, ne m’interroge pas

Exécute si tu le souhaites, mais je ne dirai rien

Tes mots sont blessants, ça touche le cœur

Ne fais pas parler cette bouche silencieuse







It is red hot outside and cicadas are singing …or are they screaming, I am not quite sure but I can feel the joy in their tone. There is a middle aged couple in the pool trying to challenge time but I can see the pain in their love…Children laugh with fear of their dependency in the corner of their eyes with the most beautiful sparks…I look at the immortal mountains and walk back inside…

I always write at the table,I don’t want to do that anymore. So I am sitting under the table on the hard floor and typing. No I am not trying to be different or crazy.I am fucking bored…no maybe not bored but maybe a little tired…no,maybe not even tired but sick…sick? No, maybe not even sick but all of it…tired of chasing love and end up with disappointment…bored of hearing the same talk everywhere I walk…sick of games little creatures play to feel superior to each other…tired of the hot weather that makes me sleepy in the climax of my dialogue with the Infinite Consciousness…I mean I hate it when I find myself hugging an angel as soon as I close my eyes while trying to go beyond consciousness and wake up screaming as she turns into a murderer. I constantly feel betrayed these days…yes, that is it…I feel betrayed…

fire of life

No, I am not yet enlightened, I know that. They say if you think you are enlightened go and spend a week with your parents. I cannot stand to hear my mum’s voice even over the phone. Yes I have forgiven her but what she did to me still hurts…it hurts no matter how much I grow…Well, anyway, let’s forget about that…God must have chosen the wrong angel for me when I arrived in the world…maybe it is too soon to say that because I am not in the end yet…but I am ready…cause I never hurt anyone unless I had to take revenge…yes, that is the only feeling I cannot resist…God how will I learn that?

I have been burning with the desire to sing Adele’s song as fiery as her ever since I heard it without knowing why. Here are the lyrics:

“There is a fire starting in my heart,

Reaching a fever pitch,

It is bringing me out the dark,

Finally I can see you crystal clear

Go ahead and sell me out

And I’ll lay your shit bare.”

Now I know why the song has been burning me every time its notes reached my ears. It is about everything I have been feeling about life and love…it is about disappointment of love, betrayal and revenge…obviously an angel has turned into to a bloody murderer in her life, too. She is bleeding…but still there is a joy in that… I can feel it. Joy of expressing her heart, joy of making art…even cicadas want that, too. They scream all day long…maybe they don’t make art but they are the art…but if they have heart they have fire…so they have to express their fire…fire of being…fire of love…fire of life…they have to tell us how it feels to burn…





Story of a Good Rat

Someone knocked at my door a day after the big confrontation by the pool. It was a soft knock but not hesitant. I knew there was a woman behind the door but I still looked through the eye hole. It was her, standing there with her thoughtful even worried eyes which have almost lost their sparks. She was known as a rat, rat Rezzan, in the neighbourhood but I did not believe that. So I opened the door with a big sincere smile.

She was so thin as if she had just escaped from a famine. It hurt me to look at her, I was overwhelmed by the river of my own compassion. There was an untold tragedy standing by me, all my cells could sense that. She smiled in her red shorts and white t-shirt. Her arms were thin and had scars of hard work…hard work that had lasted too long. Her legs were thin, too.

“Please sit,” I said and showed her the creamy white sofa in the living room and asked: “What would you like to drink?”

She smiled and looked into my eyes that were searching warmth and understanding in mine. She wanted to know how welcomed she was and I smiled wider to let her know that she was very very welcome like she was never before.

“Thank you very much, I really don’t want to drink anything. I have come to talk,” said she as she walked towards the creamy white sofa. She sat and crossed her legs, she was not more than forty five kilogram. I sat next to her.


“I was having a breakfast but I could not,” said she and she looked concerned.

“Why?” I asked.

“I thought I had to tell you not to worry if two women from last night knock on your door in this morning,” she replied.

“Why do they want to do that? I told them all I knew about him…it is their job to think how he could harm them,” I said.

“No, no…it is not like that…this is  now matter of life and death…none of us slept after you had left last night…everybody was so devastated…they all feel unsafe now.Did you think that was the end?”

“Yes, was it not?”

“No, it was the beginning…that man is going to have to leave this place…people will not stop until they discover the whole truth,” said she.

“I told the truth,” I replied.

“No…they know you know more,” said she.

“No, I don’t…I told them what I knew,” I said.

“They want to know more!” said she as she opened her eyes wide and stood up.

“Well, I don’t know more,” said I and stood up, catching a little bit of her panic.

“They think you know…tell them what you know…there is no way back…everything changed when you talked last night,” said she and walked towards the door in a secretive manner.

“I see,” said I and walked her to the door.

“I must go, don’t be surprised when they come…and they are not bad people…they all have your back…they don’t want anyone bad to live in this neighbourhood…he has to go to hell, that man- heartless paedophile,” whispered she, holding the door handle, her eyes hardly contained her inner turmoil and her little body.

“Okay, thank you,” said I in the same secretive manner. Well I was already surprised, asking myself whether she did not want to let those women to taste sweetness of surprising even shocking me by their visit but she wanted to do it instead or whether she came here just because she could not help being a rat. I was confused but I knew she was not a bad rat, she, too, was a soldier of goodness on earth.

“I am going now, take care…yeah?” said she and walked out softly. She climbed down the purple stairs quietly, looked back and smiled once again before she disappeared. I waved at her, wondering what kind of hell’s door I had opened last night.

I closed the door, wondering what I was going to hear from the other two women who had attacked me the night before. I could hear bells of my stomach, my head was like an ant nest where billions of ants lived with no rest and it was hard for me to keep my eyes open. My phone rang. I walked towards the table and looked. It was my ex next door whom I never talked to due to an unbridgeable gap between us. I had blocked her number straight after we met for the first time but it seemed like what I knew had made her restless, too…just like the ants in my head. I employed one of the ants in my head to talk to her before picking my phone. It was a collective issue after all…and it was not her, she did not dare talk.

Two women came following that phone call and went with no event despite the great disappointment of their discovery. They looked more shocked than they did the night before. And they did not blame me for telling the truth but they were still not sure what to do about him, woman hater paedophile whom they used to respect and sought comfort like their granddad. What they were going to do was going to determine my location and reputation, too. It was a risk that I took but I was never going to regret it. The bigger risk was to become a close friend with such a man in order to discover the truth. The biggest risk was to allow him to think and believe that one day he was going to be in my bed despite his psychopathic traits and old age. Men are mad like that. They really believe that they can do anything they want in life, the world is their playground. Hence hardly a few of them truly grow up. Everyone was learning a lot from what happened and was going to learn more what was going to happen.

Rezzan came back again next morning.

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” said she. I told you she was a good rat. She was wearing a green t-shirt. Her short, thick, curly hair had some grey in the front.

“No, not really,” I replied, thinking about the real reason of her regular morning visits.

“You should have seen how men reacted…they all met again last night…they will kick this paedophile bastard out of this place by law…you will see they will do that. This is not a joke…this is our honour…he has to go,” said she as she walked towards the creamy white sofa before I offered. I was a little surprised to see how deeply they believed what I said without knowing me so well. I hardly communicated with them but I always wished them well.

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed quietly. Only psychopaths could exclaim loudly in this place. The walls were too thin to give anyone sense of a proper privacy. We had so many issues that violated our privacy and reported it to young rich landlord who listened to us insensibly and probably laughed out loud after hanging up the phone.

“Yes, I think they were already suspicious of him somehow but they just could not put their finger on it,” said she in her own secretive way when I sat next to her on creamy white sofa.

“Of course they were…how couldn’t they be? This man was always drunk…the only reason why people kept quiet was because of his age,his money…and-and he was so good at lying…and he bullied the weak ones when they did not believe him…and I think people needed someone to care for them, someone older with wisdom and compassion…he pretended to have and offered them to women to make his way to their beds,”

“Once, he shouted at me like a little child and said: ‘You are a tenant here, you don’t even own an inch of a land, know your place and keep quiet!’” she explained, her lips trembled and she was in tears. I wanted to see that old paedophile hanged or drowned in the middle of the pool where he had secret orgasms by watching little girls and women in their bikinis, took their pictures, as her tears rolled down on her bony cheeks covered with dry and wrinkled thin skin. She was a forty-nine years old divorcee with no kid of her own. And he knew that…but that was before I exposed him. All his fantasies to have a young lover like me while harassing every other woman and little girls as an old, respectable superintendent of two blocks of apartment, all his power over people, all the joy he used to get from abusing the house keeping staff died in one night. I felt proud of myself for the first time after that night.

“So nobody stood by you back then?” I asked.

“No, they uttered no word…I know why they did that…they did that because I am a woman who does not depend on a man…and a woman with no man worth nothing in their heads,” said she.

“It must be so dark in their heads,” I said.

“It is dark everywhere in this land…the Sun comes and goes but it is still dark here,” said Rezzan in tears. I knew she was a good rat in search of love…






Dawn is breaking here. Here where I still feel like an outsider. Hence I am never here. Where am I? Sometimes sitting right beside you watching you waking up next to someone else, loving your dreams in her, loving yourself in her, searching deeper meaning of life in your togetherness…but why is there still shadow of worry in the corner of your blue eyes, I whisper in your ears. You walk to bathroom and look into mirror.

“Everything is fine,” you say to the man in the mirror, trying to avoid his fears and invisible tears. You walk into the little cubicle to have a shower. Water cools you and I touch you softly with my deepest love.

“God, water is the best miracle,” you say as you walk out without seeing me there.

love letter

You feel nervous all of a sudden as you dry your body because you remember that you left your mobile in the bedroom. Do you cheat on her…yes you do…some part of you is still not satisfied…I wonder what can fill that void of yours because I know it is not who…no one can handle that task. You go out and take your phone without disturbing her. You wonder whether she checked your phone and you look at her with a subtle anger…you know it is not her it is you…you are angry with yourself but you never admit that. You dress up, wear your perfume…everything looks perfect on you until you push them all into the shadow of your pride.

She wakes up, you wear your manly smile that is broken with your pride. You don’t want her to know what power she has over you…you don’t want her to know that she has something you desperately need…you keep telling her “I love you darling,” but she knows how much you mean it and how much you don’t. She smiles and gets out of bed. And this invisible distance becomes apparent to her all of a sudden…you cause it to expand…she feels it but she lies to herself as it confuses her. Why do you still do that to women who come to you wholeheartedly…are you scared of being left alone again…don’t be…not everyone is a mad truth seeker like me…not everyone is in existential crisis like I was when I was with you…not everyone is crushed by dishonesty early in life like and developed some trust issue I had…yes I did not tell you about it, did I…because you assumed that I had never had a wound in my entire life…you never asked…you either could not stand to see me bleeding in words or maybe you really did not care…or maybe all you cared about was to have a beautiful and smart woman standing next to you…you were so excited to impregnate me…lock me in your house with your kids thinking that that was what I really wanted…but it was not…I did not come to this world to bear your kids and spend rest of my life bringing them up just to be rarely appreciated…I have learnt how to appreciate myself, thank you very much…no that was not the life I had in my mind but you never asked…your dream was supposed to be mine…and I was gone while still standing there, staring at you.

love letter


“Love you, too,” says she shallowly as you walk down on the stairs. She does not walk you to the door. You secretly resent but don’t tell a word…why would you…that would be too weak…you walk out leaving so many tests for her to reveal her real self…you did that for me , too…I mean what the heck was that for…why did you not talk…did you think everyone was a liar like you were…yes that was it, wasn’t it…but every test you left behind was a proof of who you actually were…don’t do that to her…she might walk away, too, one day.

You get in your car and drive…I am sitting next to you…you vaguely see a butterfly on your left side…you look for no apparent reason and see the empty seat in the middle of enjoying infinite freedom roads generate within you like they used to do…you cannot see anything but you hear a vague voice and look again…you feel drawn and you eventually touch the seat…


“Bloody weird,” you say to yourself and turn up the music. I can fuck your morning joy, making you feel even weirder but I don’t because I still love you…and my love does not dictate you to lead your life in my way…it has never done that to any man I liked…I say l liked because you were the only man who I loved and you still are…I send you love and hold on to my dreams not yours…I send you love and I will always do while pursuing my dreams…while you bringing up your kids…sorry I could not make you one because I could not be cruel enough to push a child into this world just to see how it feels to be a mother…I am working to save them all instead…I do not wish to be the mother of one but of all children on earth…I am working to show them the light…


The Orchids’ Prayer

No it was not love…he knew it was not…she could feel it was not but wanted to believe that it was…at least for a little while…she looked strong like an oak but she was an orchid on the inside…yes that is right she was fragile…the world was cruel…she was fragile…the world was cruel…she was fragile…the world was cruel…and she was stubbornly fragile…to believe in love…it made him feel weak to love someone who was not strong enough to survive without his love…she was too fine not to see that in his eyes…which lied…which lied… he felt smart as he lied…he felt more manly as he lied…he thought he could conquer her world…he thought he could destroy her with his lies…but some part of his cried inside…some of part his died…she was too fragile to fight…too divine to let him drown…no it was still not yet love…she still smiled…stood like an oak…but still fragile inside…


Yes it was a defeat…how could he have accepted it…the world was cruel…he was brutal…how could he have accepted it…it was an oak he had destroyed…it was an orchid he had drowned…how could he have accepted it…the world was cruel…he was brutal…but still beaten…still defeated…how could he have accepted it…he was ashamed…filled with guilt and disappointment…no oak…no divine look…no weak orchid…but disappointment…guilt…defeat…laughter of his demons…how could he have accepted it…he stood on the top of his roof…to destroy the defeated brute…he looked at the Moon…he looked at it again…he was ashamed…orchid was there…he heard her prayer…love he said…how weak…how blind…how dark…how ignorant I was he said…orchid cried with grace….she prayed…he looked at the roof…he looked the brute who stood on the roof…he looked at the Moon…Orchid prayed…she still loved him with grace…he could not forgive the brute…and he pushed him…God, said he as he began to fall…Love said he as he continued to fall…Light whispered he when he lay on the ground…Orchid prayed…people learned to love the brute in the Moonlight…Orchid prayed…people prayed…They smelled orchids…

“Orchids,” they said and the Orchids prayed.
“Grace,” they embraced and the Orchids smiled.
“Love the brute,” Orchids whispered and people smiled. Tears dried…

Morning Verses…

Posted: April 28, 2017 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,

Hello everyone,

Here are some verses to murder your fears.

morning verses

Have a wonderful creative weekend…

Why Do I Write?

I slept 12 hours. I wanted to meditate but that would send me back to sleep. So I washed my face with cold water, I looked at the mirror. I hardly remembered where I left myself yesterday, who I was planning to become, what did I become when I last stared at the mirror but I heard the same command over and over again.


“I nodded and opened my curtains.

“Oh God! SUN!  How beautiful, how sublime!” I exclaimed, standing in the balcony.

“WRITE!” exclaimed back sun. Write about me, write about my beauty!” said she.

I nodded once more and a big white bird sang in the sky and the little ones followed her chanting, craze of spring in the wings.

“Don’t forget to include us in your stories!” they begged.

I nodded once more and was about to walk back in. Three big mountains called me back.

“Hey, wait!” they yelled. I looked at them.

“We know how much you love us. It is not only you who look at us with grace and admiration in your eyes every morning , tell everyone how much we love them, tell them to look and see everything with love,” they said with no word.

I nodded again and was going to walk back in.


“Hey, you! Can I be the best looking homeless dog in your story?” asked a dog, standing by the big black gate with no one but a freedom with no boundary. Yes, humans’ love for animals was not yet commercialized in this land with lots of minarets.

“I love you doggy, you are the most aristocratic dog of the streets,” I said when the cat joined us and exclaimed while jumping from one roof to another.

“Meow!” said she naturally of course but I knew what she meant.

woman writing


“I know what you mean you, the freest bitch!” I said and smiled. And I finally walked in. Someone knocked on the door.

“I brought you tea and some pastries,” said my old womanizer neighbour. I knew what he meant, too, but I smiled. Though not so wide because he could easily twist my smile. He looked at me and expected me to invite him for breakfast. He was full of love but in trouble with his cock. I looked at him. He found it hard to control his cock and put his hand in his side pocket. And I knew what he did that for.

“I know what you mean, it is hard for men to have a pure love for women but I think yours is different…yours is some kind of disease…what did you do here on earth for all those years… how did you spend your life so carelessly…” I said in silence.

“WRITE!” commanded silence once again in his stare.

“Are you going to write today, too?” asked he, my hand on the red hot tea.

“Yes,” said I.

“I will go climbing today…you should join me one day…animals might inspire you, too,” suggested he, but I knew what he meant.

“Maybe,” I said and smiled but not so wide. That would drive his cock wild.

“Okay then,” said he and stepped back, still hoping to see me smiling like a child whom he could deceive with a candy.

“Enjoy your adventure with animals,” said I and I laughed but not so loud and not so apparent only inside. That would drive his cock wild.

I closed the door as he walked to his flat, already trying to console his crying cock.

“WRITE!” said the red hot tea and fresh pastries. I agreed without knowing what. I don’t think I was completely awake yet. I should have never slept that long. Maybe I should play some Arabic music; that might help, I thought to myself as I held the glass of tea by my upper lip.

“Oh no…what if he put something in it to make all his fantasies come true…no no I should no drink this,” I said to myself and poured it into the sink.

“Shame,” I said and smiled as I fed the birds with the fresh pastries in the balcony.

“Stop fooling around! Birds know how to hunt foods! Just WRITE!” whispered the trees; the dark green, light green, orangey green and yellowish green.

“You write to be immortal, don’t you?” asked the shadow of the lady, still standing in the balcony on my left.

“Fuck you woman! Why would I care whether I live in your fucking mind when I die or not…I am in an endless agony, which leaves me only when I write…it might kill me…I might die if I don’t write,” I said to her shadow.

“You write to get back to someone, don’t you?” said the old editor with big belly and little talent to write but insatiable appetite to criticize those who do, turning the possibly poisonous pastries into a TED stage. But none of the birds felt dizzy or fell on the ground yet. Maybe it was just me and my broken trust in my womanizer neighbour. Maybe they were really fresh pastries after all.

“Go fuck your big belly and your distorted mind, you idiot!” I shouted at the old editor and walked back in. I felt so good when I saw my next door whore in the opposite apartment as I closed the curtain. She tried to drive me insane but pathetically failed with her idiot fucker. She had to move to the other apartment where both of her next doors are policeman. Yes, she cannot fuck with them. Now she knows how to fuck quietly but sadly her coward fucker left her. She could have asked me how to fuck quietly before all that though.

“ARE YOU GOING TO WRITE or NOT?” asked dead authors in my shelf.

“Yes, I will but there is something in my head, it is like it is no longer my head …maybe first I should shout aimlessly…loud and with no aim just to pour out my never ending craze…or maybe stretch myself to the point where I could reach the mountains…or maybe I should have a shower with a very cold water until I scream…I don’t know my head does not feel like mine anymore…I know I am here to write…this is why I was sent to this earth no matter what any fucker thinks why I write…oh God! What shall I do to break this egg?”

I found it, I will play Arabic music and dance like a mad until I sweat …until I sweat like I used to when I was a cheap worker…no I am not trying to get back to anyone…but to myself… how did I blindly give away my power in those years…how did I ignore this divine voice when it was little…

Shaking belly is good, better than trying to understand nonsensical creatures around you…Try it but don’t try writing until you hear this constant command everywhere…





I was so kind…so kind…even too kind…too kind to be true…so gentle like an angel…my soul was like a feather of a baby bird…I was not even able to feel it most of the time…but I was a human…no other human could comprehend that…nor was I able to believe they were humans…I was right they were not…because they ate me alive day by day…bit by bit…day by day…more and more…but I was not finished…and they were so annoyed…

They wanted me to either die or develop some kind of demons in my feather like delicate soul. I refused they attacked,I refused they attacked, I refused they attacked , I refu…they attacked…I ref…they attacked…I re…they attacked…I r…they attacked…they must have attacked more after that…they must have…they must have drunk my blood…humans…they do that a lot…they love that…and they think they love dogs…humans have forgotten what love was…


And one day I woke up but I was different…I was still human…but I had irresistible urge to harm…I had invincible doubts about everyone…I was unable to sleep in the dark…I think…I think…yes I think I wanted to kill the dark…I wanted to attack…I wanted to control…I wanted to hurt and rule…I want to be more important than everything and everyone on earth…I wanted to see millions bow in front me…I want to kill the ones who refused it…I wanted to kill the passivists, I wanted to kill the activists…and I did…unless they wanted to kill, too.

But I knew…I knew I had never won…no human on earth had won…but demons…and one day I decided to kill myself… I decided to kill myself in front of millions…just to kill all the demons in every human…and I did…and I become like a feather again…demon-free like a feather…

It was full moon and I reported all my ex-lovers to the police. Yes, I did…I did…I did…Oh God…I did…I don’t know why I did it but it felt so good…so empowering…it felt like I fucked them better than they fucked me at least once…but I wanted to kill some of them or maybe I already killed all of them…

And then I sat down and thought…about what else I could remember about them…I wanted to know more about their dark and dirty side…I wanted to report them again…I don’t know why I wanted that…It was like I had swallowed a dragon and it was now uncontrollable… telling me to fuck all the fuckers… all the fuckers who secretly thought that they were more important than me…because of their big muscles…and their secret weapon they had between their legs.

I was confused for years…especially after I had my first fuck…I asked myself how can a cock be used for love if it is mostly used for revenge, anger, hatred and domination…How can a man like Bruce Willis, who supposedly expressed his love saying that he wanted to fuck his lover while in reality he was only horny, filled with semen not with love. What a smelly rottenness covered with a masculine smile…what a cocky way of degradation of love and women…what a subtle suppression…Yes it began with him…Willis started it…and then misogynistic comedians  with little dicks continued…


And one day I came to conclusion that no man actually used their cocks for love…they used it to feel man…to feel man meant to feel superior to them…to the society that was formed by them, empowered them, entertained only them, privileged only them unless you are the Queen Elizabeth…And then I began thinking about the weapons I could use not to wound or kill the cocks but trivialize them…I discovered that some fellow women thought that they could use their kids for that…I sighed and wanted to remove their uteruse immediately…they were just dumb and lazy…well, yes they were…not only that…they were not one or two or three…they were many…

Why do I still think about them…aren’t they all so small…with little light in their mind which is only enough to show them what they have between their legs…I want to report the guy, who wrote the script of the movie where Bruce Willis replaced love with fuck in millions of people’s minds, who produced that movie,to the police …I want to report Mohammed, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche to the police of the Hell. Yes, I know they are in the hell…I can feel it…Oh I also feel the dragon that reminds me of all that…

“Play dumb, discover dirty secrets of more men and report them if you cannot fuck them!” shouts he.

“No, that is not so smart…I cannot play dumb in my entire life…tell me what I can do to break their weapons!” I ask.

“Produce money!” shouts the dragon.

“Money?” I asked like a real dumb.

“Yes, because money is far more important…far more powerful than any man!” whispers the dragon and allows me to breathe.

Oh God! I can breathe…what was that all about…was it the Full Moon…was it my PMS…

All I wanted to was to love…



It is 5 minutes to midnight now. I was in my bed, trying to sleep only if I could stop hearing screams of the Judge who was angry and awake in my head.

“No, no…that is not porn…it is not pornographic at all…something isn’t quite right!” No, it is not matter of right and wrong but what is it that is burning my gut in the middle of the night?

“So what is porn Uncle Google,” I asked when I sat at my desk, millions of bugs in my mind, the Judge still staring at me in its back yard.

“Pornography is the portrayal of  sexual subject matter for the purpose of sexual arousal,” answered Wikipedia.

“What does the girl in this image do to cause sexual arousal?” asked the Judge with no gender.

bacak aramda

“Nothing, she seems to have been undressed forcefully…which is why she is looking down with shame,” I replied.

“Exactly! What kind of soul can get sexual arousal from such image?” asked the Judge.

“Oh God!” I exclaimed. The Genderless Judge looked happy…no not because s(he) made me feel sick but s(he) managed to teach.

“Have another close look,” said the genderless judge. And I looked at the image below which was the book cover of my first poetry book.

“Yeah…I mean she is not human is she…she is a robot…and made by a man,” I whispered to myself and looked back at The Genderless Judge.

The Genderless Judge smiled and disappeared.

Now I am asking you, was The Genderless Judge right?

Should I create another cover or should I insist on using this one?

I am going to bed now.

By the way, the content of the book is nowhere near pornography…it is all about gender war…

I am going to talk to the stars in the balcony for a few minutes just to miss my warm bed…otherwise I won’t be able to sleep…unless they say something to oppose The Genderless Judge…Oh God!

He left and it rained but not because he left. It just rained. I thought I was upset because he had left, but I was not…not because of that. He said he was my friend and I agreed with that….at least for a few moments a day…or something like that. I then got a severe headache…no not because he had left but because how I felt after he had left. And it rained. Something felt fake when I waved at him from the balcony… something was still fake. Was it something in me or in him, I did not know that yet.

I hated his beard for the first time. He, too, admitted that men with little manhood tended to grow big beard in this land where minarets were more potent than most of them. Was it his beard? No, not completely that. He smelled like a hell and he did not seem to know that. No, no…don’t get me wrong before I even began. I did not even touch him, he was my friend. Just because he wanted to…but he was too primitive…too manishly man…too shallow…too proud to have a little extension between his legs…no he thought he was but he was never my friend…and I never cared. Wasn’t I dreaming like everyone else? And it rained…I love the way soil smelled…a big white bird opened her wings and flew towards me…she seemed to have known how I felt.

red and blue pill

What pill would kill the pain a fake friend left in my head? I opened the cabinet and took the blue pill. I poured water into a thin tall glass, put the blue pill in the middle of my tongue and pushed it down with water. The pain seemed to have disappeared as I walked towards the mirror. My face seemed different to me. There was disgust and regret even when I stared like a newly made statute or dead. I felt more sublime when I was a statute, insignificant and sad when I pretended to be dead. Then I got scared , no I did not want to be dead…but I did not want to be fake either…I began hating the mirror after my friend…no he was not mine…he was just a friend …

He told me how he stabbed a man…he was proud of that because that was very brave…that was the only reason why he had become  a friend in my conscious sphere…I knew how sorry he and all the other men felt sorry for me for not being a man…I felt sorry for him for not having anything else apart from the little or big extension between his legs.

“Have you ever thought that you are smarter than me?” asked he. He knew the truth, I knew the truth. I still had to pretend that I did not know the truth…because I was not a man…and I could not stab a man…but I think I am going to have to, I said to myself…I am going to have to pretend to be mad…because I know that is going to be less painful and more real…I am going to be a mad woman, shooting the minarets…cutting the throats and cocks of men who made me fake…who forced me to pretend, I promised myself. No, Buddha would not do that…because he was a man…he, too, would not understand…nor would Mohammed…he would laugh at that…

“Sit down! Stay down woman!” he would exclaim, stroking his big beard.

It rained…it rained regret all day… and I took one more blue pill…it rained revenge all night… and I took another blue pill…



Writing is Joyfully Painful

Write…you should write about that girl…isn’t that such a touching scene…how could he do that to me…Oh God! That hurt…still hurts…fuck him…fuck that and everything…cry…cry until your heart stops aching because your head takes it over… close your curtain write about that too…sit there until your but feels like a stone…write how many killed…how many wounded…how many orphaned in your heart’s battlefield…rescue the good…punish the bad…show the truth…kill the devil…let the love win…let the justice prevail…let the one who had faith from the very beginning smile and walk away…yes it is dark…but who cares…what goes on outside should be corrected here inside…whatever went on, too…open the curtain for a while…see the Sun saying goodbye in colors…feel blessed…you are calm but not quite right…not completely…

Call someone…hear a human voice to heal your soul…o how beautiful…how miraculous they are…hear them swear…hear them smile…hear them cry…that is the life…that is how we know God…that is how we love…and close your eyes…let the stars whisper in your ears…let them come to your dreams…let them plant your next move in your heart…let them bring storms, snows into your life…let them make things fall apart…let them whisper you in the middle of the war that you are fine…you will always be fine…let the angels wake you up in the middle of the night…or before the dawn…be quiet and listen…they want to tell you something…something to mix with your ink…listen…and then you can go back to sleep again…


Wake up…feel guilty if you miss the sunrise…feel blessed if you don’t… say hi…hi our beautiful sun…I love you so much and leave her for a short while…close your curtain and write…yes you have lost your appetite ever since that scene got stuck in your mind…hurt your heart and made you cry…you did not even know why…why you cried…but when you sat at your desk and began to type…you realized…why you cried in the dark that night…laugh out loud in the middle of the fight…life is not that cruel…you should not be either to your readers…they love, they long for a small sweet surprise…smile at them between your lines…just like how God does to us in between day and night…

And the last chapter…you struggle…not because you don’t know what to write…but you don’t want say goodbye…you don’t want to leave your characters…you don’t want to leave your readers…you don’t sit at your desk for a day and another day…but you don’t enjoy anything when you are away…so you eventually come back…sit at your desk…and say goodbye…o how hard it is to put the last full stop of the last page…you look at the page; you are excited…upset…happy and sad…but you do put the last full stop…”are you sure you don’t want to put a comma,” asks your heart…you smile and feel amazed…you remember the last mad two months you spent at your desk…and you smile again…

A day goes by…you are in pain again…you are restless again…you miss your desk and new characters are already writing themselves up there at your desk…you stop walking by the beach unexpectedly and come back to them…That is how joyfully painful writing is…That is how joyfully painful writing is only if you are a true author…

Here are two books I have written joyfully and painfully. You might have already read “The Little Virgin Whore” and discovered who you truly are by conquering another woman’s life. If you have not then this is the time because you will get “The Bloody Foreigner” for free when you buy “The Little Virgin Whore.”

They are available on Amazon,Apple, Barnes&Nobles.Grab them now!




The new study by the National Institute of Economic and Social Research announced today that employers in three sectors employing large numbers of EU migrants – hospitality, food and drink, and construction – reveal they were unprepared for the Leave result and believe it is bad for business.

According to the study employers were surprised by June’s referendum result and some expressed strong feelings including ‘shock’, ‘horror’ and even devastation. Employers are worried about recruitment once free movement ends, are concerned for the wellbeing of their EU workers who have been left in the dark about their future and they want a say in future immigration policy.

The research with 17 employers with workforces of between 30 and 15,000, reveals their EU workers feel they are unwelcome in the UK and have even experienced hostile comments from customers. This led many to issue reassuring messages about the value of EU migrants to the business.

The research reveals:

  • Few employers sent out information to their workforces about the referendum before the vote but many regretted not doing so.
  • Workplace discussion about the referendum has been livelier after polling day than before.
  • A number of employers have needed to put in place policy to deal with xenophobic incidents involving the public towards their EU employees.


Employers say their preference is for free movement to continue. They cannot see how a points-based system, often proposed during the referendum campaign, could work in low-skilled sectors. They are interested in the use of sector-based schemes but are concerned that any system should involve minimal additional cost and bureaucracy. They are also concerned that any visa systems will not allow them to respond quickly to fluctuating labour requirements.

britihs flag

The study re-interviewed employers who took part in research on free movement before the referendum. Following the Leave result a number are looking more seriously at how they might recruit more UK workers but can see no easy answers. The CEO of a bakery company employing 280 staff, including 168 EU migrants, stated:

“The outer’s view is that migration will stop and we’ll suddenly have a sensible level of tens of thousands net migration whereas anybody I know who works in a food manufacturing industry is thinking ‘oh crikey, if that happens, we’re going to be seriously stuffed in terms of what we can do to make food’.”

Dr Heather Rolfe, Associate Research Director at NIESR, said:

“Like many people, employers were not prepared for the Leave result. But unlike others, employers have already felt the impact and have needed to reassure worried EU workers. They feel regret that they were not more involved in the campaign and that business failed to convey to the public how changes to the economy impacts on people’s lives”.

“As we negotiate our way out of the EU, politicians need to minimise damage to businesses and individuals. A new immigration policy should be formed in consultation with employers, among others.”

Dr Rolfe wrote on her recent article at NIESR that while the referendum results took immediate and devastating effects on migrant employers, who received racist attacks from their customers and co-workers British employers who were described as “jubilant” will be experiencing the same effects next year when the Article 50 is triggered.

The manager of a holiday resort chain stated:

“The general flavor that I got back from EU workers was discontent, concern that English people do not like them being here and what is their future going to be.”

“Employers should be involved in shaping immigration policies; beyond immediate concerns for their businesses and their EU workers, employers are worried about an end to free movement and want a say in future policy. “ further explained Dr Rolfe in her article today.

National Institute of Economic and Social Research (NIESR) launched its latest economic review at the organization’s quarterly press conference yesterday in Westminster, London.

According to NIESR’s review of UK economy, GDP is to grow by 1.7 per cent in 2016 and drop to 1 per cent in 2017 and will continue to deteriorate in the third and fourth quarter. Inflation  is to increase and peak at 3 percent at the end of 2017.

UK will barrow additional £47 billion within the next five years, the forecast predicted.

Simon Kirby, Head of Macroeconomic Modelling and Forecasting at NIESR, who presented UK economy at the conference explained that :“We expect the UK to experience a marked economic slowdown in the second half of this year and throughout 2017. There is an evens chance of a ‘technical’ recession in the next 18 months, while there is an elevated risk of further deterioration in the near term. In light of the downturn underway and the downside risks to the outlook, a decision by the MPC to provide monetary stimulus would be welcome and we look forward to assessing the new Chancellor’s plans at the Autumn Statement.”

recession after brexit

NISER expects the unemployment rate to rise  from 4.8 per cent in the second quarter of  2016  to a peak of around 5,75 per cent in the middle of 2017.The organization estimates that the economy will shrink in 2016Q3 and lead to a recession at some point during the period 2016Q3 to 2017Q4, inclusive.

Dr Angus Armstrong, Director of Macroeconomics at NIESR, presented the organization’s  forecast of the world economy following Simon Kirby. According to the forecast the world economy is expected to grow by 3.0 per cent in 2016 and peak at 3.5 percent in 2017.  Inflation is likely to be below target in the OECD economies in 2017. The European Central Bank (ECB) stands ready to ease monetary conditions while the Federal Reserve is likely to raise interest rates gradually.

“Re-joining EFTA (European Free Trade Association) is consistent with the notion of ‘taking back control’. This will result in less economic integration with the EU and so lower productivity and output over the medium term. The critical issue is whether the UK can strike deep trade deals with our trading partners elsewhere.  This could be  joining the Trans Pacific Partnership or the Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership. At this stage both face significant challenges due to lack of popular support,” said Dr Armstrong at the press conference.

Forecast shows that Brazil, Japan and Russia economies are to grow . India is likely to remain the fastest growing major economy. The US is expected to grow by 2.3 per cent in 2017, with the Fed likely to raise interest rates only very gradually. Inflation is expected to be slightly lower .OECD average inflation will remain well below central banks’ targets through to 2018. The exception is the UK where a short-term rise reflecting the depreciation of sterling is expected, NIESR’s forecast indicated.

Brexit Letter to David Cameron

It was almost three years after the great recession and the UK economy showed no sign of growth. Everyone looked for someone to blame. So did the new enthusiastic Prime Minister, David Cameron.  Politicians, bankers, economists, ministers.Oh no they were too powerful to attack! Public needed someone or some groups who were well weakened, had little rights to defend themselves, whose skin colors were slightly darker than theirs, whose genders were not yet fully accepted or recognized, whose religion was already stigmatized. And there were three groups of people who met all those criteria.Muslims, immigrants and women.

David Cameron, whose incompetency no longer needs a proof, was quick enough to develop extreme anti-immigration policy.He spread strong nationalist sentiment across the country to the point of racism which caused young, angry, frustrated youth to attack Muslims and immigrants explicitly. Surely, short sighted prime minister could not see how the same bullet was going to kill him only after five years. And then that shameless big van! They drove it around London streets and ordered immigrants to go home! Well,their homes were now battlefields! Thanks to Compassionate Conservative PM and his democracy distributor, human rights protector, oil hungry allies! They had no home to return! Where could they go? Weren’t they in the heaven of democracy?


In the meantime, scandalous MPs’ expenses were exposed. Government bailed out too big to fail banks for messing up with the public.What was wrong with that?PM Cameron, who once defined himself as compassionate conservative,continued attacking the weakest groups of the public instead. Muslims, immigrants and women!He forced them to pay the price through austerity measures in his best capacity. Unemployed youth mirrored the same rottenness back at him; explosive riots and embarrassing looting began while women and immigrants quietly paid the price. But wasn’t unemployment also immigrants’ fault? Of course, too big to fail dodgy banks were right, they had done nothing wrong,it was all immigrants’ fault!

bloody foreigner 7

And now Brexit! Why do you even look surprised Dear Mr Cameron? Isn’t that what you were supposed to reap after  what you sowed in the British public’s heart? Politics is a serious business Dear Prime Minister! You cannot play with public sentiments!Let me tell you how you will be remembered dear very Compassionate Conservative! You will be remembered as someone who spread hatred in such a beautiful land like England instead of love! Someone who was not even capable to clean up his own mess but quickly resigned when the truth began to shine in the end! Now, everyone knows that none of those was immigrants’ fault, after all! I hope you get better dear Compassionate Conservative! I hope you learn how to love!

Here is the novel I wrote while you were busy torturing the immigrants including myself!It is called “The Bloody Foreigner”. I am only able to publish it now. After disastrous Brexit. That was because everyone thought that you were right before Brexit accident.They sincerely believed you.I was weakened to my marrows to defend myself.Eventually I began hating myself after all your anti-immigration attacks that lacked compassion. Every immigrant hated themselves as you made the public hate them. So I quietly left your land. I am still recovering from all that I experienced if you care to know at all.

Now I cannot even imagine how awful it must be to be an immigrant in England. I have read about anti-immigration attacks in London, Birmingham on the internet. I am sincerely sorry to hear that.And I am sorry for all the innocent people, who will have to suffer from the consequences of the Brexit.

However I still dedicate this novel to you! To the Compassionate Conservative. I dedicate it to all immigrant haters to say that LOVE is the only solution. Please read it when you think you are finally able to empathize for other human beings. So that you can appreciate the painful journey of my immigrant protagonist! Consequences of Brexit will also help you with that…Like no little immigrant ever could…

Brexit was not an accident Dear Prime Minister.It was the Universal Justice which usually occurs free from governments.

With love and peace,

A Bloody Foreigner.


Critiques of Dick

He was tall,big and known to be bold. His name was Dick. He used to write gossips about girls and boys for a magazine in the past. Back then, his journalist friends called him Dick Hardy.What they really meant was that he was impotent, weak, little guy inside. How some knew about his impotency and weaknesses did not bother anyone. After all he was officially gossiping about everyone.

And one day he resigned; he resigned from his job unexpectedly. He moved to another city and detached himself from everyone.He decided to be a new man.He began writing reviews for a national newspaper.He wanted to feel a little more important and potent, but he knew he wasn’t.

the big little man 33

He reviewed plays, novels, movies for a well- known newspaper. Six months after he began his new job, his editor realized that he was he was harsh on female novelists, playwrights and directors but understanding and soft to the male ones.

“Dick, I decided to study your all the reviews you have written for us so far after receiving unpleasant letters from readers,” said his editor in his late 40s when they sat in his office.

“Unpleasant letters?” asked Dick.

“Yes, many of them,” replied the editor decisively. Dick could not believe him.

“No, that has got to be a joke, it cannot be real,it must be a smear” he said to his editor without a word.

“I studied tone of your reviews and your critiques… I discovered something amazing,” said the newspaper editor.

“What is it?” asked he, unsure what to expect anymore. “Before answering your question, answer me, do you have some issue with women?” asked the editor.

“No…no…I mean…why would I…did you find any sexist expression in my reviews?” asked Dick, holding the arm rest of his chair firmly.

“No,no it is not what you say actually it is what you don’t say in your reviews suggests that you might be misogynist.” replied the editor frankly.

“I strongly disagree with you on that!” replied Dick, feeling tense.

“I understand your defense perfectly well but this is not my opinion only,” replied the editor wisely.

Dick looked at his right side and the left; he did not see what appeared in his sight.

“What do you suggest?” he eventually asked,feeling frustrated.

“I suggest you should analyse your own thoughts and feelings towards women, even your own critiques…and I will let you be off for two weeks for that,” said the editor.

“Paid or unpaid?” asked Dick immediately.

“Unpaid,” replied the editor.

“Okay, but I am not misogynist, if you want to blame anyone, you should look at the society! Don’t you think we live in a misogynistic society anyway?” he asked angrily.

“Don’t you think we are here to reform the society?” asked the editor.


Hello, you have just read the beginning of the this week’s story. Those of you who are already part of the Magic Book Writing Project know what to to next.

If you wish to join now and become the co-author of next Ka Book, visit Magic Book Writing Project.

She got out of the tube station and turned right. That’s right, she was always told to stand on the right, do right, say right and be right and yes she loved turning rights without knowing why. Who was she anyway, she was told to think. She was in her bloodiest conflict when she accepted it, she was attacked and frightened when she didn’t. Yes she was belittled like every other feminine soul with a hole, she was no one, she was small, she was insignificant, she was nothing. Hence she always wore the highest hills to feel a little significant.

hilly heels 3

She passed by some shops, some appeared and disappeared around her. People seemed to be forbidden to look at each other when they walked on this street and on every other street in London; the city that was in love with itself, the city that sold pride to those who lacked it at the cost of their smiles.

There appeared two men; they saw where she was and what was happening inside her hilly heel;no they could not smile either. Her feet were pulsing in her head now. She looked at them, could not see them but fear them. She began walking faster on her hilly heels.

“Beauty has a high price,” a woman whom she admired exclaimed in her mind. She walked on to the known, feeling pulled by her unknowns.

“No you should not go!” said her mother.

He was there, standing in front of a book shop. She saw him and walked back to the tube station.

“Yes, you should go and have fun,” said the woman whom she admired. Her heart breathed for a few seconds.

She walked back to him.

“You are nothing more than a little hole, no matter what you in this world!” shouted her father.

She hated him, she wanted to go and punch the young man in the face.He was waiting for her in the cold and dry weather. She felt ashamed of what she felt; ashamed of what she wore, ashamed of being there. Her feet pulsed in her head, she was not here and she walked back to the tube station again.

Hello everyone, thank you for your ingenious replies to the last week’s story. You have just read the “Inside Her Hilly Heels” which explores the love-hate relationship between women and their heels. You know what to do next. Complete “Inside Her Hilly Heels” with your unique insight as creatively as you want as part of the Magic Book Writing Project.

If you have not joined the project yet visit Magic Book Writing Project now and be the part irreplaceable part of our collective creativity.

And a Philosopher Goes to a Whore

philosopher and a whore

Endless arguments through which men seemed to be searching the truth had finally tired him in one of the cold British evening in December. It was almost the end of the year and he was melancholic once again.

“It is all nonsense; constant classification, definitions, explanations, all nonsense!” he heard his wife again.

“All you do is to divide people, things, thoughts and censor their emotions! If religions stand between God and humans; you, philosophers, stand between every living being like an invisible membrane to separate them from one another!” shouted she with anger when he returned home after midnight exactly this time last year.

“Not only that! You stand even between them and their real selves! Who do you think you are?” she shouted again appearing in the window of the bar. And he went pink, sitting in the corner of a bar, breathing the noisy and smelly air. He gulped down his fourth pint and sighed bur she continued:

“I read your work and your friends’, no matter how intellectual how smart how superior you think you all think you are, you are still unable to think without your penises, in fact you think in the shadow of your little penises and write with your penises!”

And he finally punched her in the face.

“Just say it, if you don’t love me anymore, say it, stop behaving like a whore!” he shouted. It began snowing outside, just like it did when he had left her bleeding and unconscious on the floor that night.

“I cannot love you when I know what you really do to humans and our humanity!” she barely said when he stormed out, slamming the door.

“That was not rational, was it?” asked his ideal philosopher self on his way, walking at dark snowy night.

“I know but what she said was not acceptable!” he replied.

“You could have explained it to her, you live for explanations remember!” reminded his ideal self.

“Yes but I was horny! I was defeated in an argument and needed a relief!” he finally confessed.

“So she was right then?” boldly asked his ideal self as he turned to the red light district that night.

“I am a philosopher, I am a philosopher, I am a philosopher, I am a philosopher,” he murmured and gulped down another big pint.

Hello everyone! You have just read the fist half of the sixth story. Join the Magic Book Writing Project now to discover, improve and sharpen your creativity.


psychosisMagic Book Writing Project

3:57 Psychosis

3:57! Are you not coming? Come on, jump in! Or we will be going! This is the only 3:57 Train!

Wake up! I woke up! Look around! I looked around! What is the time? 3:57. Get up! I got up! Someone died! Who? You don’t know? No! Then why did you wake up! I don’t know; I just did.

“I am bored and dissatisfied with everything”

Yes, I remember she said that, but I was not there. I did not even know her!

“I am a complete failure as a person I am guilty”

Yes, she said that, too! Oh God!

“I am being punished I would like to kill myself”

Oh no!

“I used to be able to cry but now I am beyond tears

“Yes, but what do you want me to do? She is not here!

“I have lost interest in other people I can’t make decisions”

I wish I was there.

“I can’t eat”


“I can’t sleep”

“I can’t think”

“I cannot overcome my loneliness, my fear, my disgust”

“I am fat”

“I cannot write”

“I cannot love”

“My brother is dying, my lover is dying, I am killing them both”

“I am charging towards my death”

“I am terrified of medication”

“I cannot make love”

“I cannot fuck”

“I cannot be alone”

“I cannot be with others”

“My hips are too big”

Stop it! Stop it! Do not repeat! That was a psychosis! It was a fucking psychosis! Do not repeat it! She could have lived!

Why? Are you scared? No! Then what? Nothing! I knew I was not supposed to go see that scene! I knew! Why, what happened? That’s I don’t know! I have been hearing that train since then! What train! 3:57 Train.

You have just read the first half of the next week’s project as a part of “Magic Book Writing Project”.I dedicated this story to a great author who I had no chance to meet but whose spirit I felt through her work . Please complete it with a sensitive and tender heart.


She woke up with her heart beating in her mouth. She even saw the light, she was ready to depart. She was happy to go far away from where she was and never come back again, but she woke up. She looked around; pictures began falling into her mind. They scared her, they hurt…she did not understand why…why such scenes appeared again after more than 30 years.

There was a man with a gun and he was holding three of them hostage. She was left alone and her mother found a way to escape with her son. She felt what she had felt when she was with her and it made her feel insignificant, small again. She got out of the bed, still trying to understand what had happened to her. She checked her mobile, there was a miss call from her. She pretended that she did not care.

She looked into the mirror; “Despite all the mistakes I made in the past, despite all the bad people I met and let into my life in the past, I love and accept myself…and that is more than enough,” said she to the person she saw there.

a girl on the beach


Magic Book Writing Project

She went to the kitchen; poured water into the cattle and turned it on. She walked out to the balcony to greet the Sun, to greet the trees, birds and clouds. She took a deep breath and thanked the Universe for the new day, but…but what was that? She had not felt that way for a long time. She walked back into the kitchen and the water was boiling. She made her coffee and walked into her study room. She checked her mobile once again. And she called her.

“Hey, good morning! I saw your call just now, I slept early last night,” said she.

“It is okay,” replied she in a motherly tone which she had learned after thousands of mistakes.

“I called Okan; he asked about you,” said she, talking about her nephew whose parents had abandoned him and who was now in the orphanage as a result.

“I talked to him last night. I asked him who had called him and he only remembered his uncle Berkan,” said she excitedly. That was her only child she loved and traumatized all the other kids she had for his sake. She then remembered the dream she had had last night; it now made sense. In fact her dream was some kind of prediction of what she just heard. No nothing had changed. She was the mother who kissed every inch of her sons and hardly touched her daughters. And she was the same woman, still praising her sons and criticizing her.

To read Magic Book Writing Project Magic Book Writing Project‘s fifth story and to join in please visit http://sefikasefika.com/en/category/blog/. The project is open to all of you who want to sharpen your creativity.





Love Must Survive to Keep us Alive

“I cannot do that my sweet darling,” said she lying on the left side of the bed still naked.

“Why?” asked a voice, no one heard but her.

“Because…because…I don’t think I have a right to that to you!” replied she.

“Then do it for me if you cannot do it to me!” said the little voice.

“I cannot!” whispered she.

“Then don’t say that you have no right to do that to me, say that I have no right to do that to you! Don’t lie!” exclaimed the little sperm.

“I do not lie! What the fuck do you think you will be doing here when you come?” asked she, holding the wet condom in the air.

“What the fuck are you doing there without me?” asked the little sperm.


“Who the hell are you talking to?” asked he, as he walked into the bedroom half naked.

“Nobody!” replied she quietly.

“Yes you were…you were talking to someone!” exclaimed he with a paranoid face.

She looked at him, read his thoughts and found no way of explaining herself to him. In fact she was tired of doing that. She was tired of narrowing her mind for the sake of their love. Maybe it was the time for her to accept the fact that, they had never intellectually matched. Maybe it was the time for her to be true to herself. How long am I going to narrow down my imagination for him, she asked herself in her silent and deep stare.

“Are you…are you really?” asked he painfully.

“Yes!” said she and sat up on the bed completely naked.

“I don’t want to know about him! Just dress up and go!” exclaimed he.

“You might regret!” replied she and laughed.

“No!I won’t!” said he and put his black shirt on.

“Here!!” exclaimed she and threw the condom filled with his sperms at him.

“What are you doing?” shouted he.

“That is who I was talking to!”replied she.

He looked at her with confusion. “My sperms!” asked he with riddled eyes.

“No, your rebellious sperm!” replied she and stood up.

“You were talking to my sperms?” asked he. No he did not believe: “That is a good try but since when sperms are able to talk?” asked he and laughed unhappily. He put his jeans on, sprayed some perfume and walked out of the room.

His little light brown puppy followed him, murmuring something in her own language.

“You cannot run away from me, I will be in every condom you will ever see and touch!” said the little sperm.

“What the fuuuuuuccck!” she screamed standing in the middle of the bedroom of her boyfriend Jack.

Jack rushed into the room with short of breath.

“What was that for fuck’s sake?” asked he and stared at her beautiful body. He was no longer himself again. He walked toward her, he began touching her face with his right hand while the left stroked her soft and sexy back.

“What was so good about him?” whispered he, hiding revenge and anger in his voice. He killed all her enthusiasm, desire, love she had for him, for their relationship, for life with that tone. And he was still blind to her sensitive nature through which she could detect and sense tiny little differences in him and in everything around her. It was even more painful for her to tell him about all that; she expected him to be sensitive enough to see real her. She questioned sincerity of his love many times but she was not right.

Please visit  Magic Book Writing Project to read the rest of the story that was completed by a very enthusiastic and incredibly creative participant and co-author of the Magic Book Writing Project.

The Magic Book Writing Project is open to everyone, you are welcome to join now to sharpen your creativity collectively.

The first half of the fifth story will be published later today. Are you ready to complete it by the next week?

good and evil 3

The doorbell rang. It was 3am. Two men broke the silence wildly on the dark streets. One kept beating a drum, the other one blew a shepherd pipe. Everyone had to wake up. They had no other choice.

My mum answered the doorbell. It was her friend who was worried that we might have failed to wake up. She also asked her whether we had managed to prepare food. My mum was always fine when it came to food. That was her main worry after being alive; how couldn’t she be? I looked out the window as they talked in the doorway; it was dark.

My father did not move his little finger. He wouldn’t even if he was awake in his bed. That was how spoilt men were in our town. If they were not treated like a king, they had a right to become the ugliest beast and treat everyone like their subordinates apart from other men. Being a man was a power, being a woman was not only a weakness but something to be ashamed of in our little town that was run by imams. Hence marriage was the only way for women to get rid of that shame. Looking at my mother and her wasted life; it seemed to me that it was a bigger shame to be wife of a man. She was an unknown slave. She was unable to leave her husband; she knew what could happen to a woman if she was alone in this town.

My mum prepared the food and called her husband. He woke up without any sign of appreciation. We had to wait for him before beginning to eat. How could we begin without him, that was almost like a sin. And every sin was filled with fears just like my mum. Wasn’t that a sin? Wasn’t it a sin to fear a woman like her to her core?

Her husband whose sperm I had borrowed looked at her in a way to fear her more when he sat at on his cushion on the floor where my mum placed the foods on the plated in a circle shape. People believed that we had to eat our foods on the floor because that was how Mohammed dined. We still could not have our first bite because the man who I cannot even call father was supposed to do so first.

“Allah-u Akbar!” exclaimed the imam soon after we had some food under the suffocating Godship of my mother’s husband.

“I told you to wake up earlier, you idiot woman! See there is no time to enjoy my tea now! Imam is chanting the azan already!” shouted he.

What was this hellish oppression for? I had to ask myself. He pushed my mother to please himself and went to the bathroom. He washed himself in an Islamic way. Wasn’t her soul polluted in the same way? I asked myself as he came back and began reading Quran.

I looked out the window once again. The Moon was still there in the sky spending some time with the Sun before leaving us. I watched them and I made a plan…

To read the rest of the story visit http://sefikasefika.com/en/category/blog/


 magic book 7

Have you heard of the “Magic Book Writing Project” yet?  It started last week on http://sefikasefika.com/en/ . Half of the first story was released on the first day of the project.The site has received many emails from readers with great completion of the first story from many talented individuals.

How does the project work?

There are two groups in the project.Those who choose to be in the first group are the ones who want to discover their talents in writing by completing a story first part of which is written by Ka. The site replies to every participant with a feedback and publishes the best completion in a week time. That process repeats 20 weeks. On 21st week, authors of best completions become the co-author of a Ka book.

Busiest people usually choose to be in the second group.The unique individuals send their unique stories in one or two paragraph without revealing anyone’s confidential information.

For more information and to read the half of the first story please visit http://sefikasefika.com/en/


“He finally found the answer. Years of agony, hatred, violence, endless fights, fears, fears and fears were now very clear in his mind. Yes, it was dark and that was the exact reason why the answer shone again and again like a thunderstorm. He found it hard to breathe. It was too painful to see the answer. How could he bear that now? He was now old and tired.

It all began when he saw two men with gun while taking his mother to the little medical center of the village on a horseback. Did they see him, he didn’t know. He slowed down, changed his way and began to ride through the little forest. He began to ride fast again. He saw them. They were waiting for him in the end of the forest. Were they going to shoot him? They could be members of the PKK. He was not sure; they could be state’s men, too. No one knew who was who any longer in the village.

broken coffin 3

“Let me go! I am taking my mother to the doctor, she is very ill.” he shouted and begged for mercy.

“Don’t bother!” they replied.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because the doctor is dead!” they shouted back.

“Was that true? Were they from PKK?” he asked himself, he was not sure. Maybe it was the state again. Didn’t they kill his brother assuming that he was a terrorist?

“Who are you?” he had to ask.

“No question little man!” they replied and rode their horses towards him.

“Let your mother die peacefully!” they advised him.

“How funny to hear you talking about peace!” he said.


They immediately began shooting. And he turned around, began riding back home, riding very fast.

They were never going to accept that.

“You think you are a hero huh?” they shouted.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he shouted back.

“You will see that soon little man!” they replied and continued shooting.

They rode and shot!  He lost his mother in the end of the muddy forest road. She fell off the hoarse, she got shot! His horse was not!  Not yet! He looked back but could not stop! He rode, they rode, he rode and they rode. No he was not going to ride home!

His father found his corpse by the lake close to their home hours later.”

My first short story collection “Broken Coffin” is now available on http://www.amazon.com.

Here is the direck link to the book: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01C2MKIEQ?ref_=pe_2427780_160035660

Enjoy the creepy little book “Broken Coffin”.

All comments and reviews are welcomed both here and on amazon.





“I love the way you cry, you do it pretty well.”, said the old man.

She looked puzzled, she had never received such a reaction before. She could not call it a compliment,nor was it an insult.

“Oh,God! Luckily I have such an artful make up on!”, she thought to herself and decided to throw a wide smile at him as an answer. Was that going to stop him?

“I wonder what made you decide to sell tears and sorrow to people?”, he repeated.

“That is my art Sir!”, she replied.

“Couldn’t you choose a better one?”

“It is the best apparently, millions of people love it.”, she said and smiled with a pride.

“That does not mean anything.”, replied the old businessman.

Everybody at the table became quiet all of a sudden.  Why was he attacking her?, was the question in everyone’s eyes.

She thought about leaving the table just how any pop star would do, but somehow she wanted to stay and discover what was going on in the old man’s heart.

The woman on fire...

The woman on fire…

“What do you do Sir?”, she asked. Almost every pair of eye opened wide by this line. She observed the tension but tried not to feel it.

“I sell solutions to the world, in fact I create a new world for people, what do you do?”

“You have watched my performance haven’t you? I sing.”

“Do you really?”

“How do you create a new world if the world is the same old world, Sir?. Hahahaha!

“Just like yourself!”

“He must have drunk too much tonight!”, his business partner, sitting on the left side of the old man, whispered to his wife!

“I think you should take him out of here darling.”, his wife replied.

“Would you please excuse us?”, said he and held the old man’s arm.

“We have to go Mr Freeman,  we are already late.”

“Oh, no no!”, Mr Freeman replied. “We will be all right if we stay for a few more minutes.”, he resisted.

“Please let him stay, it is quite entertaining to have him around!”, the lady pop star interrupted.

“Entertainment is your business you little monkey!”, he exploded!  “Stop making people cry! Stop depressing them first,then laughing at them at the back of the stage! Worst of all, stop making money out of their pain!”

“Don’t you do the same Sir! Don’t you make money out of people’s pain?”

“I create solutions to their pain, I create a rainbow when it rains, I don’t sell them tears and call it art!”

“Exactly,your source is also pain! Plus, they need tears, too!”

They can cry when they want to, you don’t need to stir up their hearts, make them cry and pretend you feel the same pain while you are perfectly happy!

“I do not pretend Sir,that is my art!”

“Do you know what, don’t call yourself a singer!”


“Because, you are a liar!”

“No I am not!”

“Oh yes, you are, you are a sadistic liar! How can you be happy by depressing people? And why should they care about how you felt when your lover, quite rightly, left you years ago? And don’t you think you are bit sick if you are still singing songs about that guy?”

“Don’t you think you are a bit sick Sir, shouting at me like that!”

“Oh God! Oh God!” , screamed a young paparazzi. “That is terrible!” , the other one yelled. ” What is wrong Roxy!”, asked the third one enthusiastically!

“What made you so angry Mr Freeman!” , the other one shouted.

People at the table began to leave but it was almost impossible now, over fifty journalists were around the table.

“Hey Roxy! Tell us what happened!”

“Ask Mr Freeman!”, she exclaimed while trying hard to hold her tears…

“When did you return young man?” asked the man in his 20s.

“Young man?” repeated the man in his 30s.

“Yes, you, you think you are not young?”

“Yes, I do but you are younger, how come you call me a young man?”

“Well, only I know how old I am, but I look 20, you are right. So did you just come last night, or were transferred from the North?”

“No, I returned last night, you were sleeping.”

“No, I was not sleeping, I was with God!”

“Oh, you were with God? Then I must be in the wrong place.”

“Why do you think you are in the wrong place?”

“Because I am a murderer, I murdered a murderer…”

“And they murdered you.”

“Yes, in a way.”

Man in war.

Man in war.

“How did you end up here?”

“I killed myself.”

“You killed yourself and God spends time with you?”

“Yes, God loves me.”

“How is that so?”

“Because God knows that I had never had a chance to know what love was.”


“You really want to know how?”


“Well, I was born where there was a war. I did not know back then but I was born into fear with fear and I grew up with fear.”

“Shouldn’t that have caused you to seek love more intensely than others on the contrary?”

“In a continuous war where I lost my mum when I was ten?”

“Didn’t she love you for ten years?”

“She had the most violent fears, there was fear even in her love.”

“And your dad?”

“I never saw him, he fought in the war, but mum said that was lucky because he was violent to her more than the war.”

“So you killed yourself when you were ten?”

“No I searched for help for ten more years, and killed myself in a refugee camp in the end.”

“And God is okay with that?”

“Yes, God loves me.”

“Then who is guilty of your killing?”

“Only God knows.”

“Did you not ask God?”

“Yes I did, God said love, do not ask. How about you? So you killed a murderer at the cost of becoming a murderer?”



“Because, he was spreading fear by killing many man, woman and children.”

“But you were still punished?”

“Yes, ten years.”

“And you died in prison?”

“No, I died in a war.”


“Because, I was sent to a war to serve for the country instead of killing time in the prison.”

“Yes, you look healthy and strong.Did you have to kill more people in the war?”

“No, I tried not to , but-”

“But they shot you in the heart.”

“Yes, they did.”

“So who is guilty now?”

“Why was it so hard!? Why is it so hard!?”  she screamed one more time on the top of a tall building. People on the ground looked anxious ,puzzled and thrilled all at the same time.

She was dressed up like a clown, painted her face, plaited her hair twice and had a big red nose.

Was she playing a role or was she really going to jump, nobody was able to see any sign of insincerity in either possibility to know. They neither applauded her nor were they able to call for help.

“Answer me, you! The man with big beard, you, the one in black! Is it really that hard to smile?”

“Fuck off! I really don’t care if you die” answered the big tall guy.

“You little pathetic attention seeker! Why don’t you just jump huh! Stop wasting people’s time!

“You go and find your heart! You big pathetic plant!” she replied from top of the building.

“It is you who is a little weak plant! Look how thirsty you have become!” said the big guy and walked away and some followed him quietly.

When a clown screams...

When a clown screams…

“Why was it so hard!?, she screamed once again at the sky! She was exhausted, the buildings, the clouds, the little people were all spinning around. Was she really falling down? Was this the end? Was she going to die without finding the secret and spread it? No, that could not, should not be how her…

“No, it is not hard!” said a voice and caught her from behind. God! That was not the end, she thought to herself and screamed when she…

A woman in her 60s, wearing a white long dress found dead on the ground. No one seemed to know whether it was an accident or suicide yet. Her daughters, her sons and sons in law seemed to be shocked. Since she would never go out at 5am, that was surely a suicide. But why? Apart from her grand kids, everyone had the same fear in their eyes.

“Why was it so hard?”  she whispered while waking up and saw a nurse on her bed side.

“What was it so hard?” the nurse asked.

“Love!”  said and she closed her eyes. Nurse did not ask why.

“She died , she died because…” Second dose of volume must have kicked in and she fell asleep again.

“Because?” repeated nurse.

“Because she was not…” her heart monitor began to alarm, and the nurse pressed the emergency button.

And she saw the image of a little girl on top of that building.

“Give me your red nose, I want to be like you!” exclaimed the little girl.

She smiled and the nurse was surprised…

“I lied!” cried a heart and broke the silence of the night !

“Why?” she then asked, “Why?”

Once again silence ruled the dark. ”Why?” she whispered once again and there heard her stars. And she closed her eyes.

“You did not know that you lied, you were just a little child.” told her a voice and she smiled.  A hand held her hand and took her up to a hill surrounded by an ocean.  She held the hand and they walked, she felt its soul but they did not talk. A rock! A rock began to roll down. She feared, it was going to hit her, she thought. The hand pulled her aside. She wanted to stop there, but the hand turned into a shinning star and joined many other stars, the hill turned into a piece of sky. “Did I not lie?” “No, you didn’t!” replied the brightest star. And once again she smiled.

Her footsteps...

Her footsteps…

“Yes I did! I did lie to you!”  she exclaimed, looking into the mirror while the Sun was greeting the earth. “And I am still lying” she whispered with knots in her throats. She looked deep into the eyes that appeared in the mirror. “What do you want, tell me what is it you want? Please! Tell me what you want and get me out of this prison!” Green forest began to become dark, quiet and rainy. “What is it?” she repeated, but could not find it, she could not hear it.

The Sun began to spread love once again. Earth began to feed and teach the men.The road was long and narrow, did not seem to end. Seagulls were loud again maybe because of their little brain. Man was always hungry, wild and noisy maybe because of his big and empty skull with no master to re-invent. Her footsteps told her not to, seagulls told her not to, men with big beards told her not to, women with small words told her not to.That was not the road, but she followed…

H:“The door was left open.”

L:The door?

H: Yes, it was left open.

L: Oh!“No it was not.”

H:“Yes it was.”

L:“No it was not,it was always open.”

H:“No it was not.”

L:“Yes it was.”

“That is how you wanted  it to seem.”



H:“No I did not. I have come close to it many times before, it was closed. In fact it was locked.”

L:“Was it? Then you were never close to it.”

H:“But I walked passed the same distance today.”

L:“No you didn’t.”

H:“Can I come in now?”

L:“There is no door.

H: “What is this?”

L:There was no distance either.”

H:Why did it take so long?

“Why am I so tired?”

H:“Where are you?”

L:“Where are you?”




H: “Here? Have you always?”

H:” Have you always been here?”

“There is an ongoing engineering work on Jubilee Line.” announced a woman in a highly official tone. A big red  wave of impotent anger above the crowd under the holly ground. It reached the men walking on the ground,they began walking faster,a few of them even collided.

No one said a word, they waited. Eyes escaped from one another. Some pointed them on the lines of a book, shared rich loneliness of an author. Some watched women’s legs pretending to look down thoughtfully. A mouse running around the dark railway looked cheerful, made some laugh and some disgust. None of them wanted to wait for another minute to run. They were not happy when they ran, nor were they so when they stopped.

“Everyone likes you when you die” read the name of a book, in the hands of an Indian looking man who seemed to be trying hard to get into it in that crowd. Surely he wanted to be loved while he was alive, but humans love you when you die. Why?, he asked. Why was it so hard to love? How could something be free and, but too far? Maybe it was not so, maybe, maybe…

Jubilee Line

Jubilee Line

“Smile woman! It does not cost you nothing! Does it?” a rapper looking black guy asked a young woman on the elevator that was going down to the crowd. She looked at him, thought that he was drunk or was still rapping. She began running. Crowd was growing, she, too, began standing because Jubilee line was not running.

Do they really?, she asked to herself  after reading six words on the book with a black cover. Is that the  reason why people kill each other? In order to love? So, do I have to die to be loved? No, no it must be my reasoning, I must be wrong, she re-thought. If so, then what is it they really kill?Another human being or…Or they kill what they make them kill? Is that the reason why they love you when you die?”Princess Diana!”, she could not help to whisper. What does she have to do with this, why did she pop into my mind now?

“Smile woman, smile! It does not cost you nothing!” shouted the rapper guy one more time. He broke the silence, he broke the crowd, he pulled the newspaper covering faces. “Let me see your faces, don’t you hide!”repeated the mad guy and he stopped. He read the same headline. He laughed and pulled the book and threw it at dark railway. He hugged the guy and said:

“Hey Bro! I love you when you are alive! Stop trying to understand the crowd!” No,he was not mad, nor was he drunk.Without a ticket, he was not allowed to join the crowd…

And jubilee line began working, and the crowd running…

It rained all night.Yes it did. It was 6am.Yes it was.A strong longing to see the sea.Yes it was.The streets were wet.Yes they were.Plants were wet.Yes they were. She screamed.Yes, she did.She was too excited.Yes she was.She stopped,asked. She opened the camera bag, turned it on and took some  pictures  of the old wet plant in the garden of strangers. Yes, she did.

A cat was waiting in front of a top shop which was still closed.Yes, it was waiting there because it was still raining. The shop was closed because it was too early.People were going to work.Yes, they were. Most were walking in their sleeps.Yes, they were. Were they dreaming? Of course they were.Were you dreaming?…

Yes to Shark?

Yes to Shark?

The sea did not look blue.Yes, that is true. Ferries carried slaves in suits.Yes, they did. They all looked worried,filled with fear. Yes, they did.He was there. Yes he was. He was good, he was bad, he was a father, he was rap…Yes, yes, yes, he was, fuck him, he is dead.But the smell of the sea brought him back. Yes, that happens, just throw him into the sea, drown him and let the sharks eat him. Something  began  hurting.Yes it did. Will it ever stop? …

It never seemed to be possible to stay here for that long. Yes, it did not. Leaving was the only option which could clear up all that. Yes, it was. And another city would be the same.Yes, it would. Another country with different conditionings, different ways of dreaming, running, running from, running to, running… Yes, yes, yes…But It didn’t. It did for a while and then the same pain began.Yes, it did. Because they were all there. Will they ever go away? Will you ever stay away?

So much noise! This city is beautiful! Yes, it is.But it is too loud.Yes, it is. You are too loud! You are too loud, not the city! You should have been fucked  off before all! Yes,you  should have fucked me ages ago, but I know it all!!!

“Wake up!” a man shouted.

I heard him but I could not move.

“I said wake up!”he repeated more irritatingly this time. But my body, my body was too heavy. I wanted to move but I could not, I tried, he tried, she tried, again and again.

“Are you deaf?” he exclaimed and pushed me with his big heavy hand.

“I hear you but, but, but…”

“But what idiot?” he continued to shout , he breathed in and out, anger was all around.

He banged on the table, my head jumped up. All my body was still numb.

“You dumb! Did you take some drug or what?”

“No, no, but…”

My secret room

My secret room


“But, it is too dark, isn’t it night?”

“No it is not!”

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouuuch!!!” He began pulling my hair and kicking my butt. I shouted, shouted and I cried.

“What do you want from me?”

“Who are you?”

“How would I know?”

“Don’t fuck with me? Who are you?”

“I said I don’t know! Don’t you believe me? I wish I knew who I am but I don’t, I don’t I don’t…”

At that point I broke down.

“So why are you here?” he asked.

“I don’t know, where am I? I don’t even know where I am, it is too dark, where am I?”

“Stop fucking with me!” he pushed me really hard. I fell off the chair, got hit by two walls on my both sides.

“When did you come here?”

“I don’t fucking know, I was here when I opened my eyes.”

“Well, they fucking seem open, don’t they? Hahahahah!!!”

“Stop laughing at me!”

“Who brought you here?”

“A bastard like you!”

He began kicking me really hard, I felt the pain in my lungs.

“What kind of sleep that made you fucking forget everything?”

“How can I know that?”

“Well, I am here and I will beat you until you tell me who you are and why you are here!!!”

“But who are you?” I asked as he pressed my forehead with his thumb.

Who are you? he asked.

Who are you? I asked?

Who are you? the dark room asked…

Who are you? the silence asked and answered.

You are…A ray of light entered and another ray, and another.It got bigger and bigger. The man got smaller and smaller.I woke up and he disappeared.

I was love of the Sun…


Posted: May 17, 2015 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

“You are back?”

“Where have you been?”

“What have you seen?”

“What have you been doing?”



“How have you been?”

“What have you become?”

Tears for One, tears of One.

Are you not going to ask me why?

Are you?

“Love…” “One”

“Now, whirl like you have seen  the Sun for the first time…”

“Did you hear the bell?”  she asked like a little child.

“What bell?” answered so plainly, the old man, the same curtain between  him and the space, a  century between time and his eyes.

“The bell, the bell, that rang at 6am. Did you not hear it?”

“No.I was asleep.”

“Oh I see, so you did not hear it.”

“No, not at all.” He began watching the TV, implying her to go. She looked down and whispered to herself:

“But it was me who rang the bell. I rang the bell!”  She looked at him, he looked at her.

“Good for you!”he replied. There was no way for him to open his doors to anyone, including to this little Korean  lady who was always thirsty enough to drink love and spread it with her smiles. Of course she had her own evil sides. And maybe that was the reason why she woke up at 5am and ran to the Church around the corner.She wanted to free herself from her own  unknown sides. Was that the only reason why she rang the bell?

When Jenny rings the bell...

When Jenny rings the bell…

Was that the only reason why? the man asked with no word airing from his mouth. Why was she so excited ?. he wondered.

She felt some sarcasm and cold wonder in his look which she immediately wanted to break.

“Would you like some herbal tea?” she asked  with a wider smile.

He dropped his lighter, before he answered.

“Yes, please !”  he said. I knew what he was thinking. He had told me once.

In our culture, he said, kindness is a weakness. Was that the reason of that distance?

“Oh, really!” I said trying to sound careless, remembering all my kindness to him. And in our culture, I continued, they say keep one of your eyes closed when you go to a village where everyone is blind.That was to tell people to adapt themselves wherever they go…

But now I cannot stop asking how could anyone see whether I closed my eye if everyone was blind in that village? Why not find a solution to blindness, but pretend to be like them? Who sold me such an idiotic belief? What got him thinking that it was Jenny’s weakness forcing her to make him a tea? Cultures?Clutters?Cultural clutters? Fears!

Jenny rang the bell...

When Jenny is not heard…

I opened the door and walked passed them both. She was in the kitchen, he was dying in the living room in front of the old dusty box he bought before he had lost it all and locked himself up in the four little walls.

“Good morning Jenny!”I said, she asked me whether I also wanted to have a cup of tea.

“No, thank you!”  I replied. “I prefer coffee and I will make it in a minute.”

“Ok!” she said and did not insist.

I walked into the kitchen, she prepared the teas, she smelled them, she loved the way she made them. Her silence was loud, I listened to it.She went to him with the teas. I felt it , I saw it in all her moves, she wanted to tell me what she did minute by minute. She rang the bell, she rang the bell, she rang the bell…

She served him the teas. She talked to him about football, not because she loved it. They talked about food she was going to cook in the evening. And she told him so artfully that how it made her laugh when she heard the announcement in the London underground calling people to mind the gap.

“Mind the gap people, mind the gap!” she imitated and he laughed at it with or without understanding…

We were minding the gap, but Jenny rang the bell, she wanted to say something…

And we did not hear it…

The new year began last night. Neighbors on the top floor made so much noise, but happy noise. Maybe four generations of their family got together. They played traditional music and danced. All of them were happy just like little kids with their mums and favorite toys. I admired them but it also annoyed me.

2014 must have been miserable year for most people, otherwise they would not be so happy that it was finally over. They were going mad outside, throwing fireworks into the air over and over again. To them this is how they were welcoming 2015 but wasn’t that what they did for 2014 just 364 days ago? Poor 2015 will be experiencing the same betrayal only 364 days later. It is hard to get people these days or something must be wrong with me. If I was the one who was missing the happiness, then yes, it was supposed to be me.

fireworks 2

The songs those teenagers played on the wet and dark streets of Istanbul were crying out anger and sorrow, turning each one of them into Mona Lisa of their kind. Rihanna’s songs sounded too fake and too empty for their realities on the other hand. Yes, love was universal and a universal but it had different colour in different cultures. This society had its own values, its own problems, its own needs, its own realities and it had to sing its own songs to give birth to its new self.

It was raining sometimes snowing outside. No year ever gives us the desert first. They all begin bitterly cold. I did not turn the heater on, since I was still transforming myself and not being very productive. Or maybe I was subconsciously punishing myself again. I did not invite anyone nor did I want to be with someone. You were there on the same chair. All your enthusiasm, expectations, hopes for a brighter future, were still in your beautiful brown eyes. You wanted to tell me what you had written last night but you changed your mind. Maybe you thought I was going to criticize you. God forgive! I don’t do that to people anymore. And we finally began talking about art and movies, because we both wanted to show people our interpretations of the world, or to tell them how much life hurt.

I have no appetite these days. Or maybe I am punishing myself without realizing once again for not being as good as I am supposed to be. For not being a proper sister for you, for not being able to escape from my own prison and tell you what you actually mean to me. For not being able to help you flourish just when you needed me, for not being able to touch you at least once, to give you strength and courage. For not being able to open my doors and tell you how much I actually loved you…Happy new year to you. To my only brother.

She had never been that silent for that long. No word, not even a sound.Things must have gone terribly wrong. But!Why did she did not cry out or shout? She did not even try to blame anyone not even partially, not. She did not tell anyone about it,either. She did not call anyone.A guy who was supposedly her boyfriend popped in and blamed her for everything yesterday but… That did not matter! She had never been with him anyway, never really cared about all those intercourses either. He never touched her, she never felt him. He was there, he was not there, she was there, she was not there.
Silence had never been that sublime for her before and that divine. How could divinity blossom in the middle of her sins?, she wondered, but it did, it did not matter whether it was understood. Just like the motherhood. But how could that divinity allow her to make mistakes?, she asked herself over and over again. How could such a miraculous mind of her own be designed to destroy her? Or was it turned into such a destructive device while she was only a little child? Something was never right, something was never right…

Surely it was not her who killed the guy inside the temple. Knife was there, he was there, she was there and evil was in their eyes. Evil was kinder and sweeter, he smiled first. “Come on you can do it!”, he said. Surely, no one would mind! Do it, do it ,do it, do it! Can I really do it?, she exclaimed. “Yes, of course you can. Why do you care about others so much? None of them can ever notice it. Do it, do it, do it!!!” And she did it, she killed him and no one was ever going to notice it.

Was it really that simple? She did not even hide him. She did not even cover his dead face. But everything was there on her face. No one had to see his death. She told them instantly with no word. Now, silence was sublime, silence was evil. Silence was war between her divine and evil sides. Silence was pain, silence was blood, silence was full of screams and cries, silence was knife in her heart, silence was her face she has never faced. And silence was justice, silence was injustice.

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Before we look up and see, before we look down and feel dizzy, before we laugh, before we shout and fight, before we stay, after we leave, before we accept or get accepted, before we love and be loved , we hear three voices echoing in our heart soon after they raise in our head. They compete to rule us, govern us and eventually enslave us. But we always  listen  to the one that offers the least painful option and we defend this voice with the best rationales against other two voices which become louder after we make choices. What are they?

A Naked Philosopher

They are self and morality’s twin kids, who are eternally rivals to each other, good and bad or call them right and wrong. What really are they? Why do they ferociously fight to rule one another to be able to govern us? In order to be able to answer these questions we need to know what governs morality and self.

Self is our existence and it is a very artful rebel that can only bow in front of its will. It is indeed governed by will. How can anything else including morality govern the self unless it is no longer conscious of its existence? There come other selves and their rights. The self recognizes its boundaries in existence of others and tries hard to expand its borders in every opportunity. These borders are the ones which also govern morality. In other words, morality lives in the rights of others.

The self can still live like a rebel as long as it has enough power over others. The most famous and threatening phrase of morality “What if it was you?” only makes powerful self smile sarcastically. “It will never be me!” it answers. Indeed it will never be the powerful self as long as others fearfully recognize its power and believe its most colourful rationales.

What if the self is oppressed y others? That is when morality becomes the sharpest sword of the self. That is when the self raises this sword to make those, who hold the power, recognize its rights and their own immoralities. But it is too weakened to bleed any immoral body. And the morality tells the weak self to destroy the strongest rationale of the powerful self to undress it in front of millions. And that is how human beings turn the life into a continuous war in the name of morality.

But the truth, which is too loud to be ignored, is that the morality is only the mask we, human beings wear, to comfort and satisfy our wild selves. And the only truthful self who is brave enough to walk around naked and say that is the self of a philosopher…

Do we have a power to shape the history or does the history have its own will and uses us as an  instrument? Henrik Ibsen’s great closet drama “Emperor and Galilean” which he subtitles “A World-Historical Play” forces us to look for the answer just when we are going through  such  incredibly historical times of 21st century in which most of us chose to be or maybe forced to be silent and watch the wars of religions that were started ironically in the name of democracy and so-called war on terrorism.

Julian Apostate(Andrew Scott) in Emperor and Galilean at National Theatre,Olivier.

National Theatre responsibly challenges audiences, most of who have no time to look back at history and see its great repetitions, in “Emperor and Galilean” picturing extremely crucial time of the world history in Ibsen’s deepest lines, exactly when it is supposed to. Ben Power’s new version of the play doesn’t let a dust of confusion enter any audience’s mind but forces to absorb passion of the characters who die  and kill for their believes and thoughts on the stage of Olivier where cinematography meets theatre for  three and a half hours.

Modern Drama’s father Ibsen captures turning point of the Roman Empire and of the world history in which Julian Apostate, the last Roman Emperor and Julian the philosopher, tries to keep paganism alive while Christianity is in its birth contractions from Greece to Persia between 351 and 363.

Young Julian (Andrew Scott), whose ill-minded uncle Constantius (Nabil Shaban)killed his parents to become Emperor of Roman Empire,;who has oppressed him and his half brother Gallus(Laurence Spellman) for years, longs to go to Athens with students to become philosopher, to become Second Alexander just like his mother dreamt a night before she had given birth to Julian.His three  friends, Agathon (James AcArdle)-Gregory(Jamie Ballard)-Peter(John Hefferman) ,who Julian grew up with as a Christian, don’t want to go to Athens with him.

While Julian searches the truth and peace in life Gallus looks for prophecy. Gallus becomes Caesar of the East just when he points his sword to his ill uncle whose biggest fear to lose his power.The old emperor redirects Gallus’ anger to King Sapor by promising him his beautiful sister Helena (Genevieve O’Reilly) as a reward if he returns with a victory. While he goes to war leaving his fiancé behind Julian goes to Athens with his three friends to find the truth and peace after telling his uncle that he is travelling to Pergamon.

Maximus(Ian McDiarmid) in Emperor Galilean at National Theatre,Olivier.

However Julian can’t find the truth in Athens. He goes to Ephesus with Peter and Agathon to find philosopher Maximus (Ian McDiarmid) who tells him about the third kingdom. When Julian asks what the third kingdom is, Maximus explains: “The first kingdom is the kingdom born of sin, in the garden, on the tree of knowledge. The second is the kingdom born of death, on the hill, on the tree of the cross. The third will be built on the tree of knowledge and the tree of the cross together.It will unite the two and bring harmony to everything.”

Just when Julian is having a mystic night with Maximus and hears voices of Chain and Judas Iscariot whom he asks about his existence and life and fate Ursulus(Richard Durden) comes to Ephesus to hail him Caesar following Gallus’ death.  Emperor gives Helena to Caesar Julian and sends him a war to Gaul.

From that point on we see how Julian becomes an oppressive Emperor after his uncle’s death and dictates his thoughts to abolish Christianity. He even tortures his best friend Gregory and burns his small church. Julian doesn’t even feel sad when his wife  Helena, who was sickly in love with Christ, dies.

In the end of the play Agathon who sees himself as soldier of Christ stabs his best friend Julian leaving the empire with no leader in a war with Persians. Julian dies in the arms of his loyal friend Peter who says to Julian: “You were a glorious, fragile instrument of the Lord.”

Maximus says: “The third kingdom will come, humanity will reclaim its lost inheritance. Then songs will be sung to you, incense will be burnt. And then you will be remembered.”And the curtains close.

Neither any theatre nor any director has attempted to stage Emperor and Galilean in England since its world premiere in Leipzig in 1896.However National Theatre brought the forgotten epic play of Ibsen to Olivier’s lights just when we were all thirsty for truth like Julian Apostate.The play that is directed by Jonathan Kent will be on at National Theatre until 10 August.

“Do you know Jack the Ripper?

“No, who is he?”

“You don’t know him? He is the most famous rapist! He killed five prostitutes and sent their organs to police and the news agencies with a letter. And this is his area.”

“Really, he lives here where I live?”

“Yes, he used to operate here.”

“Where is he now?”

“He is dead.”

“Oh God! I almost had heart attack.”

A scene from London Road Musical.

My  heart started to pump  fear, anger,disgust into my veins just in a few seconds,as if all my blood was now in my brain, my eyes  were ten times bigger and almost popped out  when my friend told me that the most famoust rapist lived where I live. It was that moment when I visualised every scene of “London Road” automatically which left an acidic taste in my mind last week at National Theatre Cottesloe’s small stage.

Because Steve Wright in Alecky Blythe and Adam Cork’s musical drama “London Road”, who murdered five prostitutes over a month in 2006 in Ipswich and traumatised everybody in London Road where he lived ,was not very different from Jack the Ripper apart from his religious motives.

However it is not Steve Wright who made Alecky Blythe knock every single door in London Road and see the traumatising effects of his murder on the community and record what its members said, it is Blythe’s sensible compassion and her artistic responsibility. While she dares  to show us how murders  of women can bring the disconnected community together she is also frank enough not to hide the same community’s racist approach in  identifying  the murderer before they knew it was Steve Wright.

When Wayne and Graham are in the Starbucks talking about the suspected murderer Wayne says:

“We hoped it was an immigrant from nish-noff land-

Graham: “And if it was an immigrant there will be uproar.”

Wayne: “And they will send the fuckers all back.”

Graham: “I am not like that. I mean –I am sure you are not like that deep down.”

Wayne: “I fucking am. I reckon it is one Polish bastard. We fucking have him.”

While men try to overcome the shocking situation together and at some point get suspicious of each other; women, who don’t dare to go out at night after Wright’s murders, get suspicious of every man in the town and say:”You automatically think it could be him.” When chorus go on and say “Ha ha ha! ,it is hard not to feel their strong fear over the murders in their song which is the main feature of every musical. The community’s fear and anger are too strong to express  as a speech threfore  they sing which might confuse some of the audiences.

However Blythe and Cork break one stereotype in the audiences ‘ minds by turning a shocking story into a musical without losing their artistic sensitivity which is why Blythe said : “London Road is not Mamma Mia.” in an interview with one of the London newspapers.

The musical will be shown at national Theatre until 18 June 2011 for those who dare to break their stereotypes about musicals.

How many men and women have struggled to find the true love or  maintain it since the birth of capitalism in 17th century? How many of them painfully questioned their lives when they had to sacrifice their love for money and become another victim of surreptitiously violent capitalism?

There wouldn’t be any better time to show American socialist playwright Clifford Odets’ play “Rocket to the Moon” at National Theatre while not only the UK but whole globe was still recovering from “The Greatest  Depression” of 2007  that was greater than the one Odets witnessed in 1929 and got depressed and lonely himself. The play, that had been staged many times since when it was written in 1938,met British audiences on 23rd March at National Theatre, Lyttelton and will be seen by millions more until 21st June.

Belle(Keeley Hawes) and Ben( Joseph Millson ) in the rehearsal of ” Rocket to the Moon”.

The two hours fifteen minutes long  play questions whether love can exist in capitalism ,that takes many humanitarian values including love away  from men and women and creates money oriented individuals and societies.

Successful dentist Ben Starks (Joseph Millson) lives in misery and controlled by his bossy wife Belle Stark (Keeley Hawes) who is a housewife suffering from pain of her tragic past. Belle forces Ben to have another child,as they lost their son three years ago, to be able to control him better especially after very attractive secretary Cleo(Jessica Raine)’s employment  in Ben’s office.

19 years old Cleo, who dreams to be a dancer, wears very heavy make-up and is wiser than she seems. She says to Ben that she comes from very interesting family, her mother is an opera singer, she doesn’t actually need the low paid job like secretary until Ben asks her to tell the truth not a fable. The truth is she is not loved and she is lonely and she is looking for a true love which makes her a big threat to Belle and all the men in the office rivals to each other. Her beauty and thirst for love exposes every character’s, including Belle’s old father Mr Prince (Nicholas Woodeson) , suppressed desire for love.

The driector Angus Jackson and Cleo(Jessica Raine) in the rehearsal of “Rocket to the Moon”.

“When did you look at another woman last?” asks his father in law Mr Prince to Ben. Why don’t you suddenly ride away, on air plane or a boat? Take a rocket to the Moon! Explode!”says and encourages Ben to have an affair with Cleo as a man who sacrificed his acting career for a miserable marriage and was pushed into business by his wife. He is the character who brings humour to the play. He is wise and painfully funny.

Another victim of capitalism is Ben’s very talented dentist friend Phil Cooper (Peter Sullivan) who shares Ben’s office but can’t pay the rent and gets insulted by Belle. Phil is depressed and finds it hard to fit in the society.”Life is a war!” he exclaims and criticizes all the wrong doings of the society in a scene he appears with Ben. However he also secretly fancies Cleo.

Ben’s close friend Frenchy(Sebastian Armesto), who is also a dentist  and has an office in the same building, is scared of marriage and only likes the beginning of love and finds it hard to maintain it. “Man can’t be a banker and lover!” he says to Ben who actually exemplifies it well.

The most tragic character of the play is rich businessman Willy Wax (Tim Steed) who has lost his belief in love long time ago ,who gets rejected by Cleo despite the amount of money he has.

Odets surprises audiences when Mr Prince tells that he is in love with Cleo and he will fight to his last breath to get her even after knowing that Ben loves Cleo,too. The last scene is the confrontation between Ben and Mr Prince for Cleo. After a long debate and pathetic offers for love, Cleo realises that none of the men can give her what she is looking for even though she really loves Ben. She leaves them alone  in their semingly wealthy lives with their crying hearts.

No one can ever  imagine any cast who could perform Odet’s play better than Millson,Hawes,Raine and their team did.“Rocket of the Moon” is directed by Angus Jackson on the stage that is perfectly designed by Anthony Ward.

Audiences will be looking forward to seeing  Odet’s  other plays like “Waiting for Lefty”  as almost all of them have unknowingly become a little bit leftist  after being violated by capitalism for many years .

Freedom was on sale in the vanity street’s overly lit shops and young women were choosing the colour and the style of their freedom , with many others around them before young Saturday got inflamed .The music was extremely loud, distractive, suggestive, and daring and was getting infused into young bloods and minds with no permission. It was setting millions of colourful birds free in their currency.

Every look was a little explosion flamed with their deepest frustration and confusion. These women,their eyes had the picture of their weekly captivity. They were all thirsty for a sip of freedom that they couldn’t even define. Were they ever going to taste it?

A woman statute in a glass cubicle.

The answer was ironically standing in the middle of the giant shop. A colourless sad looking young woman’s statute was sat in the corner of the glass cubicle and wrapped with yesterdays’ newspapers. Her eyes were closed just like her doors, her way was blocked and her window was covered with the same old papers. Her hands were free but her mind was handcuffed. Wasn’t that the picture of these young women’s caged souls that they were trying to find in new clothes, new bag and new shoes? Wasn’t that the biggest sarcasm of all times?

A woman in high heels and shinny leggings walked in the shop and passed by the glass box. Her hair was as red as her bleeding heart and her lips were coloured with the blood of murdered fox whose skin was now keeping  her body warm. But that wasn’t enough. She was looking for another one to extend her freedom that was now on sale. And she was supposed to hurry, not think even for a minute, but hurry. Everything was thought and everything was ready. All she needed to do was to hurry until her purse was empty. But was that going to stop her heart from bleeding?

She picked a few of the hung items and went to the fitting room to try them on her marketed body. “Any good?” ,asked the staff with a standardized smile on her face when she got out of FITTING ROOM. Where or what were all those women trying to fit in, in those little rooms?

“Hmm, I am not sure, I want something, something like …Oh I don’t know.”, she replied. Yes, she really didn’t know what was taken away from her .And those clothes were not going to bring that back. She felt it but she couldn’t describe it. They were not good enough to heal the hole in her soul which was bigger than the one she stylishly had on her leggings just below her million times sexualised and commercialised bum. Was she ever going to recover?

“They all look lost, don’t they?” asked the woman, surrounded with misinformation of old newspapers in the  glass cubicle, to her mad looking friend.

“You sound like you are recovering .But, yes for the first time you are right. They don’t seem to know what they are looking for, why they are in such a sneaky place like this.”, replied the mad one.“Look at their face, they have no expression any longer, they are all frozen, just like how you looked before you ended up here.”

“Be careful we might end up in a bloody dark glass. Don’t forget we are not allowed to talk, they might turn us into human again. God, that was painful! ”

“Oh, I don’t think you will ever recover. But at least you could have chosen to be frozen in a better mood. Sometimes it feels like a psychiatry ward in here.”

“And you always look mad, why did you choose that?”

“It was less painful my dear and it still is less painful!”

“When we were human looking for freedom, when we didn’t know that our freedom was murdered and sold us in those colourful big shops, bars, clubs and flights to farthest countries. When we didn’t know our freedom was limited with our bank account, how else did you try to taste the freedom?”

“Well, you really confuse me now. You sometimes manage to make sense with your malicious knowledge. But when I was human, I and most women were infected with the same thought. We really believed that our freedom was in between our legs and we all tried to taste it in sex. But that was only a sip of real freedom.”

“What if they realise that they have no real freedom and want to come  here and be a statue like us?”

“Oh, shut up, that will take them ages.”

“Come here my child ,

I have a heart for you.

Come here my child,

I have my tears for you…

‘You know what rape is?’ The face  is a mask of hatred-eyes closed to mine, his soldier’s breath stinking. ‘You think A second soldier lunges at me, pinning me to the floor. ‘We’ll show you what rape is, you black dog…’”

Three of them took turns to rape me, one after the other. They raped me until I lost consciousness. When I came to my senses I was alone, I wished I was dead.

The second day they came for me again. They raped me until I fainted. ‘You know what we have decided to do with you ?We are going to let you live because we know you’d prefer to die.’”

Darfurian Dr Halima Bashir has won Anna Politkovskaya Award 2010.

This is what Halima Bashir has had to go through simply because of her fight for human rights in Darfur. Darfur, says Bashir in her book “Tears of Desert,” is a word  soaked in suffering and blood now.

Halima Bashir is the first  woman in her village who has become a doctor at the age of 24.However being an intelligent black woman in Sudan , where  Arabs  enslave Africans, deeply troubled her. Treating the girls who were raped by Arab gangs  at the age of eight ,stitching them with no anaesthetic  in a rural clinic and standing up for their rights brought her  three days gang-rape. Every tear made her even stronger however. She has never given up , even  her heart died inside maybe thousand times after seeing Darfurians  killed, raped, ruined.

Doctor Halima Bashir fled Sudan and survived but what about the rest of Darfurians? Are we all going to watch them suffering?

Bashir’s endless battle to protect victims of War in Sudan , which she tells us in details in Tears of Dessert, brought her Raw in War’s  Anna Politkovskaya Award 2010  on 7 October. The ceremony  presented  by Jon Snow, took place at Frontline Club in Paddington. However Dr  Bashir ,who now lives in London ,could not attend the night to accept  the award due to recent threats she received .Audiences  met Bashir with a short interview  filmed hours before the event.

Anna Politkovskaya Award 2009 winner Leila Alikarami had to leave the 2010 award on the table as Dr Halima Bashir could not attend the ceremony presented by Jon Snow.

7 October  was fourth anniversary of Anna Politkovskaya ‘s assassination, who exposed  victimization of Chechens by  Russian and Moscow  backed Chechen officials. Politkovskaya’s murder has not yet been brought to justice and is still being questioned by millions of Russians but not yet by any  authority in Russia. Unfortunately Politkoskaya is not  the only woman  murdered while searching the truth and protecting the victims in conflict . Natalia Estemirova , who  is the first recipient of the award  ,was killed on 15 July 2009  while writing the next chapter of the same  battle  after Politkoskaya .

Afghan woman Malalai Joya  took it over from Estemirova  in 2008.Iranian lawyer and human right activist Leila Alikarami  and finally Bashir  have followed and showed  what can be done to improve women human rights. All of them  have been awarded with a big comma and they won’t be putting a full stop until  truth shines, human rights come to women’s lives ,peace arrives and freedom spreads.

One might wonder why all these recipients are women?

According to Raw in War  violence against women in War increases every day and it is history’s greatest silence . Rape has been used as a weapon against women in Wars. Women human rights defenders like Bashir  are being persecuted ,imprisoned and killed for speaking out on behalf of the victims.

Raw in War ,founded by Marian Katzarova ,in 2006 supports  and resources those  women who are victimized in war and those who defend women human rights in conflicts .

For more information visit:www.rawinwar.org

Islamic Ideology of Iran killed Neda Agha Soltan  on 20 June 2009 however she has  remained as a symbol of freedom  in millions of people’s mind in Iran and in many other countries. Amnesty International UK  screened the documentary movie  of Neda’s life on 05.06.2010  on the anniversary of her death at  the Human Rights Action Centre.

Neda has become a symbol of freedom soon after her death.

HBO production  documentary which is directed by Anthony Thomas will meet audiences at Frontline Club on 09.06.2010 at 7.00pm.”Channel4 has also promised to show the documentary some time in July.” ,said Thomas.

Young  Iranian undercover journalist Saeed Kamali Dehgan  has secretly  interviewed Neda’s  mother ,father and sister for the documentary  ,to show  why she died and what she  stood for in life.Ahmadinejad Government banned Neda’s family to talk to any publication after her death.

Neda’s doctor and her music teacher, who  were with her when she was shot , tell us every moment of  Neda’s death in the movie.

“She hated  control when she was only 3 years old. She was the first girl in the school who refused to wear scarf.” ,says Neda’s  tearful mum.

“She used to tell me that ‘Women in Iran can not live like a human .’” ,says  her brother who has not shaved his beard and mustache and had hair cut since Neda’s death according to Iranian traditions.

“Women are supposed to be invisible in Iran. Women’s bodies are controlled ,their dignity and freedom  are taken from them.” , says Iranian author .

The documentary also  enlightens  us  about fundamental problems of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad‘s regime by interviewing  many other Iranian  scientists ,authors, spokesperson of International Human Rights Community and Department of  State .

Director Thomas and Iranian  journalist Dehgan answered audiences’ questions about their work on documentary after showing it at the Human Rights Action Centre.

What exactly happened that millions of Iranians poored to the streets on 13.06.2009?Iran held presidential election on 12.06.2009.The next morning  the Islamic Republic News Agency announced that Ahmadinejad had won the election with 62% votes cast who had been in power since 2005.The European Union, the UK and the US and many other western countries express their concerns about authenticity of the results.

While Iranians were expecting Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei to make a statement to change the direction of the election ,he urged the nation to unite behind Ahmadinejad even after five years of his dictatorship in Iran.

The moment Neda was shot at the protest on 2o June 2009.

Iraninans were not happy,they did not want Ahmedinejad’s dictatorship for another five years.On the following day millions of them were on the street  to fight for their votes to be heard  and bring  oppositions party leader Mir-Hossein Mousavi ‘s  into power  who received only 34% of the votes.They stayed on  the street to refuse the election result for seven days.

However, Iranian military force covered all the streets on 20 June 2009  to end ongoing protests. That was not  enough to keep Neda  and many other fearless Iranians  in their homes. It was blood, violence ,screams  everywhere.Many died,some injured but Ahmedinejad remained in power.

5000 people arrested ,115 convicted prisoners  were executed after 20 June 2009 but demonstrations did not stop.80 more  protests have been recorded since then.

Since the election Iranian Government have arrested and detained more than 30 journalists and photographers.