An Untitled Short Story

This short story is a creative writing experiment based on research relative to Turkey. The project began after reading a series of interesting articles in an Italian newspaper, and is designed to give an alternative perspective of a country currently scarred by bombs and political unrest. 

Chapter One

The bells chimed a rhythmic melody that the wind carried over terracotta rooftops to announce the hour to busy citizens below. It was a quarter to four and people could be seen dashing across the cobblestones below to find their way back to work after their afternoon “pausa”. Pigeons darted away from the noisy bell towers and turned toward outdoor tables that still held the remains of people’s midday meals. The hum of bustling feet and flapping wings created a special kind of silence that permeated through the soundtrack of my afternoon.

The paper beside my steaming cup of tea was dated ‘Mercoledì 24 febbraio 2016’. Despite the early date, a brisk breeze gently glided through my open window, brushing aside my curtains with a sense of spring.

I set aside the added ‘fashion’ or ‘moda’ section of the paper, surprised at not seeing ‘SPORT’ written in big red letters across the top. I then opened the main paper to page 2 – I never read the front page, repetition annoys me so i would rather skip to the full content. I skim the headlines and turn the pages in search of international news. The delicate pages ruffle between my fingertips as i gently fold them into place. It does not take long for me to find satisfying headlines on page 5: ‘Renzi: l’ok per i droni americano verrà <<caso per caso>>’, ‘Renzi: The ‘OK’ for American Drone Strikes will come “Case by Case”’.

My eyes quickly skim across the black shapes resting in four symmetrical columns across the page. The words of Fabrizio Caccia imprinting on my mind one letter at a time, each one dripping with conflict and disaster. The article is spotted with prominent names and titles like that of Italian Prime Minister, Matteo Renzi; American Commander and Chief, Barack Obama; and the increasingly infamous ISIS. the image below presents a map of the coast of Libya, dotted with small white outlines of American F15s and French fighters that recently targeted locations such as Sabratha and Sirte, known for being home to an ISIS training camp and an armory, respectively. Satisfied with reading that the newest Italian drones are not being used to kill civilians, I turn the page…

and again…

before I find the large gray letters: T-U-R-C-H-I-A – Turkey.

---

My name is Derin. My country? Türkiye. My city? Ankara.

They say every city sounds the same. That the familiar buzz of round rubber and the echo of voices found near clinking glasses is the soundtrack of global society. They say that once you have seen one, you have seen them all. They say that tarmac streets grow old and grey, wrinkled with the cracks of time and use, no matter which language they use to tell their stories. I don’t believe what they say; Turkey is unique, Ankara is unparalleled.

Not every Türk will speak so highly of Ankara, a political capital, the heart of independence; but it is my home. I grew up racing through Genclik Park. I learned history from the Hittites to the Romans, from the Byzantine’s to the Ottomans by simply walking from one side of the city to the other. I am accustomed to the view of the casual site of the Ankara Citadel as it sits in contrast to the modern towering landmarks of commerce and government.  I am in love with the site of traditional Anatolian houses in a neighborhood full of restaurants and cafes that grace the streets with the perfume of Turkish coffee and tea.

I study English at Ankara Üniversitesi. My dream is to become a writer, a poet, someone who’s thoughts can be heard, can be remembered. As a child I dreamed of being a journalist for Hürriyet – not the biggest news agency, by any means, but perfect for someone with my particular interest in mind. Working for Hürriyet would have given me the perfect chance to make money for my writing while simultaneously making my way into Turkish literary history. However, as I grew older, I realized that a country whose constant battle between western secularism and islamism would never go beyond conflict in my lifetime. Now, I am learning English. I may not be able to put my soul to paper in my country, but perhaps I can fly far, far from here to write for an Englishman or an American who is willing to read my mind.

Sometimes I feel like all I have is my silence. The silence of a woman.

Bejan Matur, a Turkish poet, once referenced the strength of a woman’s silent disapproval in How Abraham Abandoned Me, a powerful piece which inspires me to say: 

But if I could make life silent,
Make it only a series of looks
Create a world hellbent
On changing the books
I would escape the chaos
Escape the bombs, bullets, bigotry
The military, misogynist mystery
The destruction, dissolution, dissent
The ever evolving egomaniac extent
For which I would become famous.
A lowly women in silence
From the world exempt.

But enough about my dreams of silent acceptance, of Kurds and Turks living in peace with both a European and a Syrian border. Enough about my simple thoughts of change and secular religion. Yeterli! 

Enough pain!
Enough Sorrow!
Enough pity!
Yeterli!
Until tomorrow…

As you may be able to tell, Türkiye is held within the center of my heart. We may not have the breathtaking, luxurious churches of Rome, but we do have the Kocatepe Camii. Every chance I get, I take the hour walk from my university to stand before the beautiful entrance off of Olgunlar Cadde. It is hard to take my eyes off of the Mosque’s elegant architectural brilliance but, as I pass beside the seven stone pots whose pink and yellow ornaments always seem to find a breeze through which to dance, I cannot help but look down to catch their joy and rhythm as I prepare to climb the last small set of stairs and ascend into the avlu. From the marble courtyard, I am able to take in the beauty of the four minarets; though they were constructed less than fifty years ago, they still remain an architectural marvel.

Every time I enter and remove my shoes, I am reminded of the controversy between Islam and secularism that has sparked great descent within Turkish society since the days of Ataturk. I usually arrive just in time for the sunset, Akşam, call to prayer; as it rings through the city in Turkish, I imagine the days when it used to sound out in a flowing Arabic melody. There are women in my family who remember the closing of medrese, Muslim schools, and the banning of the veils. However, I feel relief as I feel the carpet beneath my feet, offering comfort and seemingly whispering “it is not over, but I am here to show that, one day, it will be…”

 

Results of a Genocide: An Enemy of the State

“Reproduce this information, circulate it by any means at your disposal: [by hand, by machine, by mimeograph, orally. Send copies to your friends: nine out of ten are waiting for them.] Millions want to be informed. Terror is based on lack of communication. Break the isolation. Feel again the moral satisfaction of an act of freedom. Defeat the terror. Circulate this information.” – Rodolfo Walsh

 

What is one to do: when a band of military dictators decides a civilization’s curfew and prohibits the meeting of even small groups; when music is played loudly in the main plazas with the sole purpose of hiding the screams of those tortured and murdered within nearby political buildings? How should one react when more than 30,000 civilians seem to disappear overnight? Teachers, children, neighbors? It is easy for a man to say that he would react to his child’s disappearance and murder in the same way that Liam Neeson responded to the trafficking of his daughter in the film Taken; but how would a non-fictional character, a real human being, respond when confronted by a government, military force? Sometimes, the best response is to write with the hope that your words may someday reach future generations, in a free world, to make those generations recognize the blessings of freedom and the importance of human rights and dignity. Those who paint with words become the artists of an era, a record of truth, and a voice for a censured people; one of these voices once went by the name: Rodolfo Walsh.

Love and Life

Rodolfo Walsh was born into an Irish conservative family in Argentina. Writing was not his first love, but it was his greatest talent. He published his first novel at the age of 20; it was a mystery novel titled Variaciones en rojo [Red Variations] that presented a writing style dissimilar to that which can be observed through his later works revolving around revolutionary efforts. Walsh also wrote about hunters in the countryside and even a story in homage to Edgar Allen Poe; his life seemed to be what society may describe as normal. It was not until 1953 that Walsh began to live within his first novel. As a self-proclaimed detective, he began to investigate the case of the shooting of Jose Leon Suarez. His political ideals swung from the right to the left. Through his investigations, Walsh was able to discover that the shooting had been a single aspect of a large organized crime arranged by the State and he was forced into hiding under the name Francisco Feyre.

Under the name of Francisco Feyre, Walsh was able to leave Argentina to work in Cuba, in order to briefly escape his torturous relationship with literature. Walsh met and aided a fellow Argentinian intellectual, Ernesto “Che” Guevarra, while becoming the revolutionary author and journalist who today is so well known. He found liberty in Cuba through revolutionary activism and his relationships with the ladies of the night. In reference to his love affairs, he once stated “Yes, I feel guilty of this grand act of liberation…”

Despite his military, and other, activities, Walsh was never able to escape his literary inclinations; after a short time, he became the founder of la Prensa Latina [the Latin Press] newspaper. Upon the end of the Cuban revolution, with Argentina no longer under the dictatorship of various military leaders, Rodolfo Walsh decided to return to Argentina. He was not yet prone to writing facts rather than emotion, his mind was not yet completely callused.

His final year:

Maria Victoria Walsh was a member of an Argentine political organization against La Dictadura [the Argentine name for their most recent dictatorship]. When confronted by the Argentine Army, more than a hundred men and a tank on the ground below, she and other members of the Montonero organization found themselves on a rooftop with no means of escaping the consequences of their revolutionary work. The final words to precede her suicide, on her twenty-sixth birthday, were “You’re not killing us, we’re choosing to die”. On September 28^th, 1976, Rodolfo Walsh lost one of his two daughters. His response to the bullet that met his daughter’s temple are the words found in a message titled Letter to My Friends and another titled Letter to Vicki.

Not seven months after the death of Maria Victoria, Rodolfo Walsh found himself on foot, at a crossroad in Buenos Aires. Machinegun fire met his body shortly after he placed his Open Letter from a Writer to the Military Junta in a nearby mailbox. His last act of resistance was to fire his pistol and injure a member of the secret police that had been ordered to hunt him down. Walsh’s bullet ensured that he would not be taken alive.

His last letter was dated March 24, 1977; the first anniversary of la Dictadura.

Walsh, a man who served as a writer and journalist for nearly thirty years, began his Open Letter from a Writer to the Military Junta by stating that “Censorship of the press, the persecution of intellectuals, the raid on my home in Tigre, the murder of dear friends, and the loss of a daughter who died fighting you, are some of the events that compel me to express myself in this clandestine way”.  For a year, Walsh seemed to know only the terrors of la Dictadura. He wrote about the mutilated bodies that washed up on Uruguayan shores, the death squads that invaded homes and the prisoners with broken feet who were accused of attempting to escape “justice”.

Today, Rodolfo Walsh is revered not for his revolutionary work but for his documentation of a reality that, for years, was hidden from the world. Many journalists were murdered during la Dictadura but not many were able to document historic events which are now forgotten, even though the effects of these events are still felt. Rodolfo Walsh is considered a hero, a representation of the modern journalist, a man who did not let fear keep him from documenting a reality whose face would otherwise only live through a single generation of memories. Walsh’s final letter was signed: “with no hope of being heard, with the certainty of being persecuted, but faithful to the commitment I made a long time ago to bear witness during difficult times”. If only someone could speak with Walsh today to let him know that he was heard and that his commitment has brought an understanding which would otherwise not be known.

When a writer perseveres through persecution, he does not write in vain.

A Morning in Perugia (Written September 2014)

What was once an ancient Etruscan city, which guarded the top of a mountain from the valleys below, is now the bustling city of Perugia. The wings of the Grifo Perugino, the Perugian Griffin, now spread well beyond the ancient walls. Il Grifo hovers over the Perugina Chocolate Factory just the same as it perches in full view of the Palazzo dei Priori.

“What is Perugia to you?” you may ask.

For me, life in Perugia revolves around its historic center, il centro storico. In fact, one of my favorite locations in the city rests in the corner of Piazza Italia. This northwestern corner is occupied by KRIC’s (gelateria Veneta), a café – ice-cream shop. In the morning, this shop comes to life at 7AM. At this time, once a week, I find myself walking through their open doors and announcing my presence with a jovial “buongiorno!” My salutation is always met with a pair of smiles as I ask for my morning latte macchiato. As the espresso machine clicks, the gentle sound of the coffee stream fills the air. Once the warm milk replaces the empty space in my cup, I am free to find my seat. With my morning coffee in one hand and the daily newspaper in the other, I find my place in the shining, metal, outdoor seats.

That first sip of coffee is more heavenly than Dante’s Paradiso. As that first drop of milk, delicately balanced with Italian espresso, glides down my throat to warm me from the inside out, I find myself observing the people of Perugia while skimming through the bold black and white that rests on the paper before me.

From my morning post, I am able to see the Prefettura as its westernmost side peeks at me from around the many pine trees that fill the piazza. The sun reflects off the ancient beige walls. The shine off the walls makes it impossible to guess that those stones once supported the wealthy ceiling of a pope’s sixteenth century castle. Across from the Prefettura, sit the gently faded pink and orange walls of the Palazzo della Regione.  Intricate white architecture borders the fine wooden windows and provides excellent contrast for the European, Italian and Umbrian flags that decorate the second floor terraces that face the streets below.

The man to my right begins to smoke a hand-rolled cigarette as he reviews notifications on his smartphone. The subtle mix of modernity and history fill every corner of Perugia’s historic center.

I am now half way through my morning coffee and I have managed to choose which of today’s news articles I will finish reading before I go.

A young girl hops by. Her right hand is held by her mother while her left arm sways to a rhythm known only to her. The girl’s mother is straight faced and her brown hair falls freely around her shoulders. She is the opposite of her daughter, dressed in pink and grey, who skips along the stone pavement, attempting not to let her small white shoes step on a crack.

A man dressed in brown kakis and a navy blue sweater scurries by in the opposite direction and quickly hops onto the nearest bus. Buses line the piazza, prepared for the morning rush. The air is no longer as fresh as it was in the early morning. An elder business man finds a place in the chair behind me and the bitter smell of nicotine fills the air once more.

I return the newspaper to its place atop the table beside me. Now I am informed that yet another American journalist has been beheaded nevertheless the problems I read about seem so far away. I feel as though I am sitting in the old world and, somehow, fragments of the new world escape to the old through the papers I read. The periodical black and white reveals just enough that I am able to decide when it is time to go home to the distant new world.

My coffee is finished. It is time to seek out the gentle whisper of the fountain in Piazza IV Novembre.

Letters from the Grave (originally published in 2014)

For the Reader:

The following collection of letters is meant to embody the lives of those who lie beneath unmarked graves.  These people, to us, have no names, no history and no legacy; but in reality, they too had hopes, dreams and a story to share. They too feared death while both loving and hating life. Their struggles and their joys were as real as our own.

These reflections share that, even in life “the last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first” – Blaise Pascal. The difference between the writers of these letters and you and I who read them, is that they already know “what to put first” while we are still searching.

 _________________________

Dear ______________,

You do not know me. To you, I am a stone in the ground that once met a chisel; that chisel named me 42. A number has nothing to do with who I am. In fact, I am terrible with numbers. I was a well behaved youth, respectful of my elders, but no matter how I tried, it took me twice as long to learn to count as it took any other child.

Since I could not understand numbers, my father decided that school was not for me. At the age of twelve, I learned to tend the fields and the sheep but my true passion was painting. I could blend yellow, red and blue to bring the most perfect sunrise to life on a canvas. My mother once asked me to paint an image of the blessed Madonna over the entrance to our home so as to beg for her sacred protection. In the fields, I constantly reflected on the beauty of the various shades of maturity that the grapes underwent. With every spare Lira I could earn, I purchased paints and brushes, papers and canvas. I believed that my life was meant to paint the earth.

Although I was never rich, my childhood was pleasant. My mother had a way of making bread and cheese into a meal for kings. I helped her in every way I could and joined her for church every Sunday. My father was often absent for work but that was fine with me since he viewed me as a distracted child who struggled with the labour of men. Oftentimes, he would send me to simply watch the sheep graze, which was my favourite employment, since it allowed time to admire the clouds sketched gracefully across the heavens and the jagged mountain tips dipped in snow. These images were my favourite to reproduce.

One morning, I was particularly distracted by one of the most beautiful sunrises I had ever witnessed. It had rained the night before and as the first rays of sunrise reflected off the water droplets, colour came to life in every corner. Delicate rainbows seemed to glow and leap delightfully from every tender leaf. Every tree, every bush and every flower was graced with the impressive perfume of a fresh, spring rain and everything seemed full of a new life. I was stupefied by the beauty of the dawn, infatuated with its elegance, and immediately sat upon the nearest stone hoping to withdraw my canvas and transfer the life of daylight onto its rough form.

Unbeknownst to me, a snake had sought shelter beneath the stone upon which I had chosen to relax. I never saw the snake, but rather, I felt it. I had frightened the creature when I perched upon the slightly unstable stone and the stone had rolled atop the snake yet allowed its mouth to angrily shoot out toward my wrist as I reached, with my right hand, for the canvas that rested in my sack beside my lunch. The pain struck me instantly and then I felt shock. I immediately pulled my wrist up towards my chest and gripped it tightly with my left hand. My wrist began to throb. I scrambled, doggedly to my feet, sweat dripping from my forehead, as I nervously and anxiously started to walk in the direction of home. I knew I needed help.  I made it no more than fifteen meters before I fell to the ground. Due to my weakened right arm, I was not able to properly catch myself and my head bounced off one of the larger rocks that caught me. My head did not hurt me but I noticed blood that began to paint the dirt around me. I stood once more but, again, could only walk a short distance before tripping on an old evergreen branch.

I do not know for how long I endured the pattern of tripping and standing, shuffling and crawling, but, eventually, I could no longer manage the struggle. I lay on the grass, still too far from home for my screams to be heard. I began to contemplate the idea of death. Death had always been a terrifying subject simply because it was unknown. Nevertheless, my mind did not want to be afraid. The pain had become so strong in my right arm that I could barely see. The wound was becoming part of me as I was becoming part of the earth, the earth which was coloured by my blood and stained by my sweat.

In church I had been taught about heaven, a place of unquestionable beauty. As my vision went white, I forgot the miseries of the earth and the discomforts of poverty. I visualized painting for la Madonna, painting her figure at rest beside one of the windows of heaven. Through that window she would see my mother’s beautiful chestnut, brown hair wrapped in a black frame, her charcoal eyes no longer able to produce tears as she graces my small, solemn grave with a single, spring flower wrapped with my painting supplies. I fantasized decorating the white walls of the home of Saint Peter with life-like images of his favourite journeys and conceptualized the illustrations that Saint Michael would one day use to inspire the South. The pictures I realized became more and more beautiful by the second until I could no longer feel pain, I could only feel joy and peace, the sweet symmetry of eternity.

My friend, this letter is meant not to fill you with sadness, but rather to give you hope. Death may hurt for a moment but it does not deserve the fear that we so often associate with it. Death is liberation; it is the provider of new dreams, it is an art in and of itself that opens your eyes to see the world for what it truly is: an ever changing canvas. I spent my short life seeking to capture moments on paper, trying to trap them and covet them when I should have embraced them in their evolution. If I had known this before, I would have shared my art with those outside my family; I would have tried to teach them the beauty of the exciting dynamic in which we lived.

There are those who lust after the here and now, they hoard it to themselves. Upon their death, they are buried beneath a lively, decorated stone, but a stone nonetheless; they are not content with anything less elaborate. I, however, am overjoyed to now be named 42. The simplicity of my headstone marks the balance between the complexity of my life and the harmony I found after death; both of which could never be described in a single image. I no longer dream of painting, but rather of being painted. Someday, my stone will disappear in the earth in the same way that my body did and I will finally become a natural part of the most sophisticated work of art which I have ever been blessed enough to admire.

Sincerely,

A single shade of one of many colours which has, over time, painted the earth

My old blog 

Away from the banister and into the Lamp

I cling to the banister as though it were my last link to life. She can’t make me go! I won’t go! In my desperation, I feel her strong hands take hold of me and pull me from my safe place. I feel my body hit the floor and she quickly drags me towards the door.

I am thrust into the corner and I try to diminish my anxiety by envisioning my safe place. I already miss the banister whose soft mahogany wood has always been both dry and cold. I yearn to once again lay near the carpeted stairs that are warm and as comforting as soft white sand on a beach. I miss the dim light of the evening under which I spent many nights ordering my thoughts while the rest of the house drifted in and out of the world of dreams. I am not ready. I am scared. Today could be my last day.

The door opens and I can hear the pounding of rain against the pavement. Each drop makes me cringe. A gust of spring wind blows over the nearest lawn chair and I am stiffened with fear. I refuse to open up for her. She doesn’t care about me. To her, I am the same as everyone else of my kind.

Once again, I am at the mercy of her small hands as she pulls me outside. I must give in to her demands or I will be bashed against the pavement.

I feel cold drops of water begin to run along my body. Her hand is now my only source of warmth and comfort. Perhaps, this will not be the end. She will protect me in order to protect herself.

She walks down the two steps leading to the pavement and begins to skip along the street. I count the cracks in the pavement in order to calm my thoughts. A clear mind can return to the safe place – one mistake and I will never again brush up against the lovely wooden handrail.

She turns a corner and I feel a gust of wind rush beneath me, lifting me upward. I hear her shout in surprise as water splashes over her blonde curls. She quickly tugs me back into place before continuing on her way.

The sky is getting darker now. I hear a rumble of thunder in the distance. Luckily, right when I fear that all hope is lost, a large brick building comes into sight. Hundreds of children are gathered around the entrance to this building and, one at a time, they begin to enter through the building’s large double-doors. I made it! Perhaps the storm will pass while we are within the building and I can make it safely home.

Suddenly, I hear the honking of a truck and a large splash as an oncoming vehicle swerves to miss me. Her hands grip me tightly as she jumps towards the wall of the building to avoid being soaked by the dirty street water. In this moment, all of my fears are realized as I find myself being thrust under a gutter.

The water pressure is more than I can handle! I try and try but I cannot hold myself together under such a constant stream. It pushes me and I push back, but my energy is not enough; my joints were not built to handle such pressure. Within seconds, my limbs cave; once one is broken in half, the rest fall through some sort of domino affect. I watch my life flash before my eyes and feel my body hit the floor as she jumps away from me in disgust. I see her look up and then down at me before running towards the double doors with her hands covering her face.

I knew this would happen! I had watched her make careless decisions all winter, causing destruction at every turn. Now, it was my turn to suffer the wrath of her apathy. My only joy is imagining that those thick golden curls and those long black eyelashes were now misshapen, sagging masses after exposure to the stream of roof water.

I shiver and roll around on the ground. I am broken and useless. Who would want something like me?

I hear voices approaching. Maybe they will put me out of my misery.

“Hey Andy! What’s that there?” one says.

I hear the splashes of little footsteps rushing in my direction. I recognize the voices as those that belong to the twin boys who sometimes walk in front of my home on Saturday afternoons. Please, oh please don’t torture me!

“I think its an umbrella,” says the other.

“It looks like a pretty sad umbrella if you ask me”.

Suddenly, I feel the roof water repent of its incessant pounding and I once again hear the voice of the one called Andy.

“I bet I could fix this!”

The first voice lets out a laugh, “And how would you do that? Can’t you see that it was weak to begin with? Even if you fix it, it won’t be strong enough to hold up against more than a light drizzle, much less a gust of wind.”

“You might be right, but look at it! Julie just repainted her room and I think it is that exact same color. Mom said she wanted to buy a new lamp for the room but I bet I could make one!”

The first voice laughs again. “I would like to see you try!”

I feel myself being swung through the air and then being stuffed into a backpack. It is dark and smelly. I am cold and wet. Without a choice, I am at the mercy of Andy.

– Two weeks later –

I hear a light giggle and the pitter patter of little feet as she comes charging up the carpeted stairs. The bedroom door swings open and I feel warmth spreed through me as she flicks the light switch on the wall. With a small thump, she throws herself onto her bed and attempts to hide under the covers.

“Are you coming daddy?” she asks, in a sweet voice that echoes down the hall until it is met with “I am on my way sweetheart!”.

This time, bigger footsteps come bounding up the stairs.

“Hmmm…I wonder where my jewel could be?” He says as he looks around the room, pretending not to notice the giggling lump under the bed sheets.

“I wonder if she is…” Uproarious laughter interrupts him as his hands swiftly, but gently, run over the bed covers until she appears pink with laughter. Julie is perfect. Her brown hair falls over her shoulders and her tiny hands are always looking to create.

“Look daddy! I made a flower in school today,” she says in excitement as she holds up a paper covered in multicolored finger paint.

“It is almost as beautiful as you,” he replies with a smile as he leans forward to kiss her forehead. He then fluffs her pillow and tucks her under the bed covers. “Good night my jewel. I love you lots and I hope you have good dreams”

Once he makes his way back to the door, he turns the light off. I hear his footsteps make their way back down stairs and I listen to her shift in bed until her breathes become heavy with sleep.

Finally, even without my safe place, I feel at peace.