Posts Tagged ‘father’

My Sister

Posted: October 19, 2017 in Uncategorized
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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.

 

 

 

 

 

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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

 

 

 

 

 

 


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.

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?


She looked around as if she wanted make sure that they were all safe and accepted where they just entered and sat. I caught her mothering eyes that were maybe expectedly full of self sacrifice, endless hard work and worries. But she smiled just like a mother, I sent her some understanding and admiration in my smile. She stood up, looked around once again with confidence and countless responsibilities on her shoulders. Her children’s hunger and husband’s irresponsible manner took her to Italian waiter in the smell of strong coffee mixed with Vivaldi‘s notes.Her little daughter instinctively followed her.

When we have inner war...

He must have found it too much to smile at his own son. How could he incredibly manage to do that? The son’s eyes were childishly begging for attention maybe more for compassion of his father. How could he break this invisible barrier between him and his father which was as tall as the Berlin Wall? He tried a few jokes first. It didn’t work. He pushed his own chair back and nearly fell, that wasn’t good enough. Surely there was a way to make him feel his father once more…

Her suspicion made by tasteless experiences travelled from the queue ,where she was standing ,to their table, where her son was still struggling to play with his judge looking father, through her glasses hand in hand with her distrust to present that was wounded by the past.  She managed to bring food and drinks of four in one tray just like how she kept her family together for years. After all she was a mother.

She faded their hunger, she warmed their hearts with her stubborn smiles, now it was time to plant beautiful thoughts in kids’ minds. She took them upstairs to get some books but he didn’t bother to move. A man in his late 40s didn’t seem to love anything apart from his cruel self. But what was wrong with her poor self? Was it an irreversible mistake? Why did she have to be with
him? Or did they fail to preserve their love as they changed? Was it that crisis that they were struggling to cope with at their middle age?

He had a break from himself and started to look around in their absence .I so much wanted make him feel ignored, make him feel nothing, but surely time was going to take her revenge. I saw him watching women around him while I was breathing with Seneca. He caught my eyes, I sent him some insult and some shame, and that was my revenge.

They came back with colourful books in their hands and with a little noisy smiles on their faces. She looked at me a little differently this time. I felt her fears, but I know it wasn’t me who she feared ,it wasn’t my eyes that briskly escaped from Seneca’s vague  silhouette on the page and brought the darkest fears to  her face mirroring her inner war. Yes, that wasn’t my eyes that was her inner war. And I sadly knew that millions of other women were sent to the same war…


Every time I remember my father ,I hold my back  ,but can not hold back  my tears  ,touch my wet cheeks  and feel the pain deep inside .Every time he comes to  my dreams,he  hits me ,sometimes even stabs me and I wake up screaming. I wish I had a father to remember this Sunday .All I remember is violence.

There was a world where I had a father.

I wish he  helped me with my homework or  took me to a park and bought me an ice cream.My meamories with my father are full of  slaps,punches,kicks,shouts  and all my tears and screams.It was impossible to talk to him ,it was my  dream  to hug and have a laugh with him which never came true.He always got angry and lost his control over little things. The word dad had only one meaning  when I was a kid .Violence!

Even so  I always tried  to do things to make him feel proud of me.  I was one of the best students  in all my classes  until the end of my high school years which did not mean anything to him. Iwish   he paid attention and  appreciated my success.I now know that  that made me a dreamer  and a good poet as I had to create my own world ,where I was happy  and  had a good father like other kids, and write about it.

However  my dream world was not enough to escape from his violence.  I had to leave my family after high school graduation and I  never  went back .That was the time when I last saw my dad .I had many words to say but  I kept them in my poetry book. I am sure he had more words than I did ,but none of us told any. Somehow I knew he did not really want to hurt me.It was something else which caused all that ruin that none of us was able to  explain.

I buried him  on my journey to university not to remember all those traumatic memories. Years have passed we did not talk .We both went through good and bad times but we never talked.I am now grown up  and  he is old but we still don’t talk .I still create verses  with the  wreckages of my ruined childhood  and keep all the screams and pain of   those silent years in my poetry book   .

“Your dad was never loved.” ,said my mum ,”He does not know how to love ,even  he feels it ,he can not show .Violence is what he experienced instead of love when he was a child.”,she added when she told me about his childhood . She was right,my dad was in his own prison,he was not  able to show love even he wanted to ,which made him angry.Violence was  my dad’s desperation to show his love and to escape from that prison.

He is now ill and not able to talk  or recognize anybody.I wish I had a father to remember this Sunday. Those who have a good father ,feel lucky and hug him whenever you can, make some time for him in your busy life, make him feel special just like he made you when you were a kid. Talk to him. Say ,you love him while you still can .