Spring

 

 

Hikaye/Story: MURAT UYURKULAK

 

I’ve just returned from a short Aegean trip. I must confess, spring becomes the Aegean. Every shade of green is on view. White blossoms on branches bear the promise of future red and gold fruit... The sky is a calm and gentle blue... In other words, all the sights of the Aegean that are certain to inflame homesickness in a local boy who’s moved away a long time ago.

Except, that is, for one thing. Spring used to arrive not only on the land, but also on the face of the Aegean. Faces would smile, lines would soften, tongues would sing and eyes sparkle. This time it appeared to me to be entirely different. Aegean faces are long, the lines are set and the eyes gloomy...

And then their sentences, so harsh. Not a sign of the optimism that spring would bring. They’re on edge. On edge and angry... The festival of nature that plays in the west of the country leaves them unmoved because their eyes are turned to the east. They regard the east and easterners quite unkindly, to a degree I’ve never witnessed to date.

This is quite frightening... When familiar sentences depart, their places taken by twisted, poisoned and mutated words. To hear every Aegean say, “The easterners arrived and unsettled us.” This is frightening. Spring has not augured well for my homeland this time. A short Aegean trip was enough to unsettle me for the first time. Yes, it’s true, spring becomes the Aegean well; yet this time it’s given me no pleasure at all.

Why do we write? For our fellow man, naturally. You wouldn’t, for example, write for the sea bream. Sea breams are illiterate. Those that can read and write wouldn’t end up as food anyway. Why do we write? Perhaps because we see a different light within words. Perhaps because we feel words to be capable of expressing something other than the obvious. Perhaps because we hope to be able to, however briefly, take letters, those sounds that have been made meaningless due to overuse and abuse, and miraculously string them together. What would be the point of writing unless we claimed to say something entirely new to our fellow man? I’m of the view that we, the residents of this true paradise on earth, are in for a great deal of trouble unless we’re prepared to string letters, words and sentences together in a completely novel manner, eliminating their oft-repeated forms. For a start, the word ‘homeland’ must be related to the seasons, to the trees, flowers and mountains. We must find the connection between ‘homeland’ and flower buds, rain and the sun and not blood.

The word ‘nation’ must no longer imply that heavy cylinder that is our bane, that flattens us all and stuffs us into a sack. The word ‘nation’ must bear some relation to love, sharing, liberty and company.

Peace must be far more than a given name, a junction or lyrics to some song. Peace must be what we feel in our bones, perceive with our eyes and mouths, something that we can taste.

The east must be far more than some far-off village over there. We must go and see. We must learn the language of the east when we go there. We must learn to respect its language and not condemn it to muteness.

Let’s re-establish everything, yes, everything. Every word must have an alternative pronunciation; let’s seek it out and voice it. Look at how wonderfully sweet the spring that followed an equally mild winter is. Yes, I know, global warming, a mild winter doesn’t bode well, honeybees are disappearing, and we don’t know if we’ll all survive into next winter. But this apocalyptic climate mustn’t wrench us away from our west or east. Us western folk had always known how to live like brothers despite all the unfairness, despite all our ignorance of villages we’d never seen or people we’ve left tongueless.

So are we to destroy that holy word, that wonderful word, ‘brother’, with our own hands? Would happiness ever visit those who are so blind to springs past and future or easterners past and future?

Jean Baudrillard died recently.

I’d like to end with a quote, one of his countless cutting statements on life and the world:

“Were all directions to be the west, from where would the sun rise?”