I was sitting in the garden a couple of days ago, beginning or end of summer? I was startled. A dizzy spell I think. I tried to remember what I did yesterday and the day before that… I pulled myself together. It turned out it was the middle of summer.
I’m
in the fertile land of Anatolia, at the westernmost point of the country, pearl
of the Aegean, the favorite spot of Izmir, land of sand, sea and thermal
springs. In other words, I’m in far-famed Çeşme. In the middle of summer in this fabulous
resort where by day waves meet the sun and by night the moonlight flickers on
the sea under twinkling stars. Incredible! Though I’ve been here two months
already. It’s hard to believe. Another summer will follow and once again
sweep everything away.
It’s
August once more. It’s fig season heat
again. The earth smells of the sun once
again. The almonds have again split
open. The crickets are chirping away
again. The four seasons lemon tree is
overflowing with fruit… The purples,
violets, lavenders and burgundies have transported me to past years. Years and years ago. I travelled back to the eighties. To the old Çeşme and Alaçatı… I keep thinking about Alaçatı which for the
past few years has sat at the top of the tabloid agenda in the summer
months. As I stroll along its noisy,
criss-crossed side streets. As I try to
walk with the crowds through the narrow streets where the terraces of cafés and
restaurants cover the sidewalks, where countless objects are on display in the
windows of jewellers, souvenir shops, art galleries and antique shops; slowly
moving from one shop to the next as though we are shackled, as if we carry a
huge burden on our backs, jostling, bumping into one another, trying to make
our way as though we are moving in a corridor…
As I witness the Zeitgeist of destruction proper to Alaçatı seeping
through the drain gratings, gutters and cracks under the blazing lights that
cast the night away and a few feet above haphazardly… My heart breaks!
It
is difficult and trying to talk about experiences of more than forty
years. Life is a jumble in itself. It sweeps one away, tosses and tangles while
you try to hold on to the thread. It is
not easy to sort out this jumble called life…
Relating the past is no easy task!
How
do we recall memories? What is a
memory? Does anyone know? Is everything we remember, every period of
time we call a memory really what we have lived? Or are they our yearnings and dreams? A day comes when we live on in memory. Only in memory. A day comes when those who keep the memories
alive also pass away. The memories pass
away too. Nobody remembers them
anymore. They all pass away one
day. There is no memory left, nor a soul
who cherishes the memories…
A
tiny house. A miniature front yard with
potted plants. Women sitting on chairs
on their doorsteps discuss the day’s doings.
These women do everything well.
Healthy or unhealthy, they beaver away quietly and humbly. We used to witness the images of virtue,
wisdom and habit hanging in the air. They
were equipped with all the skills a peasant needs. Like all peasants they were idle and
punctual. They were tidy. They were carefree and cautious. They had learned not to ask, to keep quiet and
not to claim as children.
The
streets exhaled the smell of laundry, the smell of the early morning, the smell
of prayers. The wooden door leaning
against the wall would be expanded, swollen, bulging. The paint flaking off. Standing there for years and years. Neither discarded, nor fixed. It would tell of past suffering and
privation. Did the fact that it grew
more useless every day hurt them as it hurt me?
So
many images intact in my memory. Only
yesterday, only a moment ago
The
chuckling, lisping kid telling something.
An ageless woman. Her hands and
fingers trembling. Perched on the bed,
for there are no chairs in the room. The
house has only two rooms: a small one and a bigger one. Connected by a winding wooden staircase. Finger-thick walls seperating it from the
neighbors’ rooms. A bed, a larder
cupboard with wire mesh. Flanked by
houses on both sides. Curtains pulled
back a little, heads small and big sticking out.
The
houses would be crowded on Sundays. The
men in faded pyjamas sprawled in front of the windows on ottomans, leaning on
cushions with lace-edged covers, large prayer beads in hand, sipping coffee,
yawning lazily. Teapots simmering on
stoves, tea sipped from small glasses.
On the mat at the doorsill shoes of all sizes.
A
man back from work fixing the chicken coop.
A woman’s voice rings out, calling her kid in.
Children
scuttling to and fro. A small cat slowly
going down the stone steps. The smell of
melons drift by. You catch sight of the table
close to the floor, set in the center of the room. Green beans in a soup plate on a large round
copper tray, slices of bread scattered around, on the floor, half of a
melon. In one corner of the room folded
mattresses and blankets are stacked on a biggish chest and covered with a white
sheet.
People
stooped, working in sown fields. On the
windowsills overlooking the street aubergine and pale lilac colored pansies,
both saffron-centered. Morning glories
climbing on to the balconies. Their
leaves green and heart-shaped. The
purple and lavender flowers would open at daybreak. The old lady, her hair covered with a scarf
would squeeze out the narrow doorway to the yard first thing in the morning,
never starting her day before checking if her small phonograph funnel flowers
have opened or not. Flowers watered
every single day, doing whatever it takes to have them bloom. A young woman. Her face thin and pale. She wouldn’t see you. She would be unaware that you were watching
her. Then she would start washing the China
roses, one by one, petal by petal, caressingly.
In
these long side streets, on the dusty red brick, mother-in-law, cousin and all
the other girls would sweep the front of the houses, pail and broom in
hand. Their dexterity, their skill and
their grace would be reflected in the embellishment of the street, they would
work enthusiastically, devotedly. You
would feel their hopes in themselves, in mankind and the future of mankind
unfurling. Suddenly the speaker of the
mosque would start hissing and an excitement would spread to the houses. How time flied by!
On
the sidewalks potted plants of all sizes.
The streets were adorned with geraniums, begonias and bush basils. Flowers and plants would be carried to window
fronts all summer. All summer long. Was cultivating flowers a habit? It was a heart-felt passion of course. The ramblers on the neighbor’s wall were also
one of the joys of summer. You would
delight in the rubber figs grown into trees and the blooming violets. Cherry laurels, bay trees with its silvery
glittering leaves, olives of course, weeping willows. The air smelled of geraniums, of earth and
grass.
The
blossoming cherry tree would meet you. A
tree grown in the garden with great pains had settled in the house like a piece
of furniture. The smell of the rooms was
so delicious, so nourishing! Tzatziki,
feta cheese, well also baba ghanoush spiced with garlic. And the smell of bread fresh from the
oven. Apricots picked in the orchard and
kept in the larder cupboard. In addition
the smells of plums, strawberries and sour cherries were skillfully distilled
into the homemade compotes and jams.
Only
yesterday, only a moment ago
The
Alaçatı of old was a place where otherworldly pleasures were displayed. The neighbourhoods were sites of
innocence. Politics was unheard of in
mosques. The world rotated around the
radio. It was a place of relaxation, of
breathing the aromas in the air around, of noticing the passing away of each
expired hour of the afternoon, where the smells of dinner being cooked wafted
through the whole neighbourhood in the decreasing heat as evening drew close,
where peaceful hours followed each other.
It was a serene atmosphere with clusters of purple and red flowers covering
the low walls. You would feel the
brightness of the sunlight of hot days.
And the crickets of course… How could you forget them? They would give a small concert to guests
with their performance of summertime chamber music. The cricket contains the essence of summer
days. And last but not least, that big
piece of sky forever making itself felt upon our heads.
Everyone
in Alaçatı knew so well everyone else, every human and every animal! So much so that if the old granny chanced
upon a dog that she didn’t know she would think and think about it, spending
all her reasoning and time on this incomprehensible phenomenon. So many life stories behind the shutters
standing ajar.
We
city people tried in vain to decipher the language of this life in disconnected
phrases, attitudes, voices and gazes.
You would seize an unspoken expression in the eyes, especially the
eyes. They called us summertimers. They knew that we came at the beginning of
summer and went back to the city at the beginning of fall. Back to the city’s proliferating apartment
houses and equally multiplying TV aerials...
Back to the bustling crowds. To
the streams of cars. The buildings that
tire the sight. The criss-cross streets,
the lines of cars, the public squares and the bridges, the chaotic, indifferent
lights of the city… Back to concrete
stretching endlessly. Back to a handful
of poor scrawny trees.
Once
again I have travelled to years and years ago with a sad remembrance. To what we call the past. No matter how hard we try not to drift apart,
to stay connected, everything drifts off, wanders away, disappears from
sight. Isn’t this movement, this evolution
the principle of existence?
I
haven’t broken my ties with fragment of memories of forty years ago. Who knows what details, what subtleties and sensitivities
have escaped my attention. A verse from
Metin Altınok’s Eskimek (Growing Old)
springs to mind. How well we remember the past,with our own inventions… Do we embellish the past in memories as
time passes?
Nothing
is left from those old days. The Alaçatı
of a few years back has joined the world of reverie. Does Alaçatı feel helpless, abused, stripped
of its values, stark naked? Unfairly
treated, robbed, exploited, not able to trust the once intimate streets? I have no way of knowing. What we call the old days is a funny thing.
There are a thousand memories quivering in those old days. What does years mean in fact? The past is
both remote and close to us. A time
interval that was lived. A past time
interval that we felt strongly, deeply, thoroughly. Living with us, in us, a part of us.
Only
yesterday, only a moment ago
Raşel
Rakella Asal
August
5, 2011
Translated by Roza Hakmen
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