Be proud, work, trust

When the evening call to prayer, which would also call for the Tarawih prayer, approached, no one was left from the crowd that had filled the tea house after iftar. The vast majority had gone to the mosque to avoid staying out in the winter cold and to find a place to stand in prayer inside. This meant that after a quick ten or fifteen-minute iftar with food from home, I had reached the end of a breathless rush that I had been carrying on alone for nearly an hour and a half. I had just gone to the stove to put in some kindling so the place wouldn't get cold and then headed to the counter to take a tea break when 'Crazy Apo' walked in. 

'Crazy Apo' was the person whom Ayhan Abi, in his list of 'crazies' starting from Elazığ, completed with the title 'The Master of the Crazies'—the 'Rose of the Neighborhood,' Crazy Ayhan. Since I had known about this list for a long time, he was someone I respected even without having seen him. 

Until that day, I had only seen him twice, both times in a similar fashion, walking along the sidewalk with very orderly steps. When I saw him, a sense of shyness, even a slight fear, had been added to my respect. He was a man in his forties, I guessed, of medium height, thin but agile-looking, with stern facial expressions. He was a man who wore jeans, which I wasn't very used to seeing on someone of that age, and furthermore, he was clean-shaven. But the most interesting thing was the wide bandage that wrapped around his forehead several times. 

It was likely this bandage, added to his orderly steps and stern facial expression, that created my feeling of fear. An image of a dangerous man who could get into trouble, both figuratively and literally... A scary enough image for a teenager still in high school.

When he came to the tea house, his head was still bandaged. He sat at the very end of the large table next to the stove, where the 'music set' with car speakers—custom-built by Ali the Furniture Maker—sat on top of the trays, and in the cabinet below were kilos of first-class contraband tea brought from Syria by Memmet from Urfa. I couldn't catch his first sentences. My attention was on the bandage on his head. Although it was wrapped similarly to the previous ones, the bandage on his head wasn't a medical gauze, but a headscarf with spaced floral patterns on a white background. 

The first thing I heard him ask was, 'Do you have Maraş snuff?' It is a powder found in small transparent bags that creates numbness in the front of the mouth when placed under the tongue and is sold freely at almost every kiosk for the price of two or three glasses of tea. I said no, but after putting a glass of tea in front of him, partly because we considered it a duty to please the 'crazies,' partly out of respect, and partly out of fear, I went to the nearest kiosk to buy a pack of Maraş snuff. While going, I convinced myself that what I had seen on his head before was a medical bandage. If that was the case, and now it was a headscarf, he must not be a man who constantly gets into trouble, but someone who had made it a habit to wrap something around his head for some reason. There might not have been that much to fear after all.

When I returned, he hadn't even taken a sip of his tea. I handed it over, and he took the pack. At that moment, the muezzin began to recite the evening call to prayer. I was standing next to the stove, focused on Crazy Apo with all my senses. He listened to the call to prayer in awe, looking ahead. As soon as the call to prayer ended, without changing his position, he said, 'Our Lord has commanded as follows!' and recited five or six verses that I thought were in Arabic, as if they belonged to a surah. I had completed the Quran twice by that day, but I was not a hafiz. I didn't know Arabic either. However, I had no doubt that what came out of the mouth of this man, who held the title of 'master' for reasons I didn't know how he deserved, served the 'i'lâ-yi kelimetullah' (exaltation of the word of God); I was experiencing one of the rare cold sweats of my life. Even a 'crazy' person was aware of the call to prayer, his call to worship, but I, although it would disrupt my work, had not done something that could be risked, had not responded to the call, closed the tea house, and gone to pray. 

Before I could even pull myself together, he said, 'Our Lord has also commanded as follows!' I was not at all ready for the weight of the words to come. With slow movements, he turned to the table, to one of the flat trays on the table. He took the tray in his hand like a tambourine and accompanied the first strike he made on the tray with these words in its melody: 'Le le le Sakine, why did you go for tobacco...'

**

I am at a train station where I will make an inner-city transfer to get from one job to another. I am sitting on a bench on the platform. I have already started to experience the tension of the upcoming encounter with the beggar who is pestering those waiting for the train two benches away. I am in a foreign country where I cannot express myself as 'me' because I have just started learning the language, where I have not sufficiently grasped the rhythm of life and social rules, and where I do not know my legal limits regarding how much I can physically protect myself. This seems to be one of the most suitable places to use a famous metaphor of a period: All conditions are ready for a person to feel like a 'potted plant'!

Since I encounter beggars every day and many times, I know that it is very difficult to get away from this without my mood being ruined. Giving a little loose change will not be enough to get rid of the beggar; it will bring other requests and demands, and my tension coefficient will increase even more. I am not in a place where I can change my path. Running quickly to the other end of the platform to ensure the beggar pesters others before me and hoping that the train arrives by the time it is my turn seems like an alternative. But escape is not the solution. Even if no one there will ever see me again, I will be the first to remember my escape, and I will harm my own self. That is why I must fight and cope with the problem.

The beggar stopped in front of me. He expressed his request for money by looking into my eyes. I crossed my legs and looked into his eyes for a while in silence. When he repeated his request, I gave the beggar a speech entirely in Turkish, very confidently, without using any insulting expressions, but perhaps unconsciously choosing words containing plenty of hard voiceless consonants. I explained nicely that he was bothering me with this behavior and that he had no right to ruin my mood. The beggar's eyes widened. He said he didn't understand. Continuing in Turkish again, I stated without even blinking that his not understanding was his own problem and that he could not occupy me with his own problems.

He suddenly turned and headed for the benches after me. I followed him by shifting my eyes. He turned back and looked at me a few times. I clearly felt not fear, but hesitation in his walk and gaze. So much so that he tried to increase the distance between us, and thanks to me, those sitting on the bench after me did not have to deal with the beggar's pestering.

**

I am at an event that week of a commendable community that has been carried out on a voluntary basis for years with tremendous energy in a small city in Anatolia. After watching a feature film that hadn't been in theaters for long with a large crowd in the hall, we are listening to a talk about the film by the well-known director of the film and a lead actor who showed the courtesy of being there. The director, who reflects the dream of an equal and free country and leaves no doubt about it, frequently speaks of 'Turkey's cinema.' At one point, he emphasizes that he specifically does not use the expression 'Turkish cinema.' From his continuing words, it is understood that he sees 'Turk' as a race that covers only a segment in Turkey.

After the talk ended, the director, the relevant lead actor, and some other actors who had accompanied them took their places at the long, pre-arranged conversation table in a very modest manner. The atmosphere is warm and sincere. Still, it is not possible to have a healthy conversation from one end of the table to the other due to its length.

At one point, the opening of the Armenian border was discussed. Naturally, this development, which would allow for the development of cultural relations with a neighboring country, was welcomed. Then some objections also came. One of the people at the table expressed the concern that if the border were opened, the 'barbaric Turks' would ruin Armenia as well. Cinema could not belong to the Turks, but barbarism belonged to the Turks.

**

We fear what we do not know. Like Crazy Apo's bandage. To the extent of the breadth of our lack of knowledge that would serve to use our minds, we surrender ourselves rapidly to a warmth that we believe is protective and will wrap us up, with a feeling of insecurity. Even if only for a moment, just like Crazy Apo's words.

It is impossible not to be amazed by the vastness of the universe. And to reach all its knowledge. Therefore, to have an absolute feeling of trust. Whether we are aware of it or not, we carry the heavy burden of the ten thousand years of human history we know and the millions of years we do not know. We always need warmth. But not to the extent of taking the easy way out in the face of dangers that we can avoid by using our minds, melting ourselves in hot fires, and leaving ourselves to the 'flow.'

Perhaps in its most beautiful form, in solidarity, in sharing. In a circle of friends, in a conversation at a long table. But, again, but, even while dreaming of an equal and free country and world, not to the extent of surrender to the temporary warmth of small communities we have created with fictional narratives that have weak contact with reality and weak ability to create what is desired. Especially not in the discipleship carried out with the urge to be in and stay in the popular and secular community that has created its own small power area, in the repeated memorizations, in the essentialism that is opposed in language but constantly fallen into in practice.

Sometimes we can approach madness romantically and see it as attractive. A little bit because of the warmth we need. A little bit as a rebellion against the order we live in. Like Volkan Konak, who leaves beauties behind, declaring himself the grandson of 'Crazy Ibrahim' in the face of those who see themselves as the grandson of Fatih because they are 'men of order.' However, leaving aside the issue of madness, there is nothing out of order about Sultan Ibrahim and his reign.

To be able to go out of order together, we need our minds, not madness. The minds of people who are more than half working for minimum wage, a vast majority of whom are crushed under hunger and poverty, and whose relationship with nature is broken piece by piece every day with countless visible and invisible restrictions and stimuli. The minds of people who have almost no contact with what they produce. The minds of those who see themselves as princes and princesses; those who raise their children that way. The minds of young people who call each other 'king.' The minds of those who are ready and waiting to advertise the clothes they wear with huge logos. The minds of the broad masses who grew up with the story of the candle that Hz. Omar used for his private affairs but started saying 'there is no saving from reputation' when they grew up. The minds of those who carry the pain in the soul of the one who left his body in a hotel in Sivas on July 2nd.

'There is a monument in Güven Park

Did you see it

From a stone like this, all crooked

Did you know it

It says on that monument, my brother

‘Be proud, work, trust’

*

‘We are proud because we are Turks, my brother

Hunger doesn't know the Turk

We say let's work, let's work

Call and call, it doesn't come

Even if we work, even if we trust, my brother

Even if we are proud, wouldn't it be?'

What to say about the intellectual sensitivity of the poet, Hasan Hüseyin Korkmazgil! If his soul accepts, I have an objection that will not hurt him, but will even elevate him further: Well, my brother, if hunger doesn't know the Turk, wouldn't it be if the Turk, who has the desire to live together and the identity he carries in his pocket, knew hunger, the order that creates hunger? Wouldn't it be if he were proud not just because his name is Turk, but because he is a Turk who fought a War of Independence against imperialists, a Turk who founded the Republic, a Turk who fought for his labor on June 15-16, a Turk who planted his flag in Taksim Square during Gezi? Wouldn't it be if he worked for more, saying these are not enough, let's continue the struggle, not for capitalists? Wouldn't it be if he trusted himself as he learned, as he was proud, as he worked? Wouldn't it be if he had a trust that would take its place in the glorious page of history, not seeing himself superior to other nations, nor below them?