Fatherless World…What a Fatherless World
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.
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 his son’s crimes.
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
What a fatherless world…fatherless…fatherless…fatherless…fatherless…fatherless…fatherless…fatherless…what a fatherless world, I whisper and weep…What a fatherless world…