For me, our first house has always felt like a mother. I was born at home, not in a hospital. Maybe the people in the neighbourhood where I was born were like me, but as my life went on and I moved from place to place, I never met anyone else who was born at home. Not even my peers—or even people older than me. That’s why the house, the first one I remember, felt like a second being that brought me to life. Like a mother made of brick and stone. I don’t know what it means to be born in a hospital, but when you’re born in a house, you feel like the last of your kind. You miss it the way you would miss a mother. You want to touch it, embrace it, be near it. I sleep peacefully on its open roof, watching the stars. My parents’ house is still there, my second mother. I want to go back there now and then because it feels like the source of my existence. A cocoon, really.
Sometimes I watch cat videos. These little creatures get so tense when they visit the vet. Their routines are disrupted, and they’re thrown into an unfamiliar, unsettling world. After enduring the sting of the vet’s needle, they rush back into their carriers as soon as they’re released. How strange it is—those boxes that uproot them from their homes and bring them face-to-face with pain become their safe havens. Maybe it’s because they hold onto the hope of returning home, where they can curl up in the corner of a couch, wrap their tails around themselves like a blanket, and sleep in peace.
I feel the same way whenever I’m shaken. I want to go back to that first place—the mathematical origin of my life. And for some reason, I always want to take the bus, enduring that nine-hour journey, from Ankara. Maybe because the bus was the first thing that ever took me away from home. Planes don’t offer the same sense of satisfaction of reunion.
Perhaps it’s because flying forces me to confront a different reality. It’s not the fear of crashing; it’s the way planes reveal the foolishness of our minds, making us realize that what hangs above isn’t just an image but the endless vastness of infinity. Up there, you’re utterly without reference, and you feel it as much as you think it. It’s unsettling, even erasing the grounding feeling of “home.”
Waking up on the bus as the city stirs, after nine hours of cramped, half-asleep, half-awake discomfort, I catch sight of Mesopotamia’s red soil and feel a rush of excitement. I stretch, shake off the stiffness from my body, and let myself melt into the city. Then I step into our passageway and call out, “Anne!”—to both my home and my mother—for the key.
I can’t describe the comfort that comes from repeating the same routines throughout my life. Doing something over and over again, within a rhythm, feels grounding. Like calling out to my mother from the passageway, just as I did as a child. Then hearing her ask, “Who is it?” and answering, “It’s me.” Looking up, I see her hand reaching through the bars with the key, warning me, “I’m dropping it!” before letting it fall. That handful of keys hitting the ground, the sound they make, fills me with a strange excitement.
Time slips away in that moment. It feels as if, across an endless past, I’ve always picked up those keys—as if my entire existence has been about that one action. Reclaiming them feels like reclaiming myself.
Then, her voice: “Go drink your soup first, then come in.”
Sometimes, we delay certain encounters—especially in moments when they feel closest. Just when excitement fills our entire being, we want to linger in that suspended state for a while. Maybe it’s because, even if we don’t want to admit it, we know that once we open that door, everything will start to slip away, like melting ice flowing through our fingers, impossible to grasp again. It’s like the vizier’s ring hovering on the surface of the water in the story. We sense that after this moment, the magic will dissolve. But we don’t want to acknowledge this knowing. We refuse to admit it to ourselves. When Dostoevsky said there are things we can’t confess even to ourselves, was he speaking of this, too? Yes, instead of reuniting with my home or my mother in that moment, I choose another experience—a timeless one. I go to the soup shop I’ve visited for years. I sit down for a bowl of lentil soup. I might unlock the door, glance inside, take in the faint smell of dampness from the tap below. I leave my suitcase inside, step back, and head down the road for my soup before fully stepping in.
I’ve had friends who could touch people through their connection with plants. They planted the idea of being cheerful, of forming a more aesthetic bond with life, within me, within their homes, gardens, and neighborhood plots. Plants, I think, are joyful beings. They act according to the moment, perfectly suited to the time and place. Aren’t they the kind of beings philosophers—Spinoza, in particular—would envy? They are simply what they are.
Oh yes, my dear Yağmur once made a website for her thesis. Years later, I came across it again. On one of the pages, I saw Ozu. Baran Oğuz, Oz, Ozu—eheh. Some people think Ozu’s name (my dear feline companion) is a product of narcissism. Some have even said it outright. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have built so many courts in my mind to judge myself through others. But few people know it came from admiration. My dear Yasujiro Ozu.
Anyway, on the website, there’s a photo. In it, there’s Ozu and a plant beside him. Beneath it is a text. It talks about Nazım—a plant. I had named it, I remembered. “How beautifully Yağmur wrote this,” I thought, reading the text in my mind with the voice of Yağmur. Eheh. But as I kept reading, I finally realized something I hadn’t noticed before. The letter was written by me, long ago. Yet at that moment, I was so sure it was written by Yağmur.
How delightful it is to fool yourself from the past, to make yourself laugh! Such a playful state of madness…
Nazım was a plant left at my doorstep. A remnant of two lovers. I am neither one nor the other. They were my friends. The most painful moments of love. How fragile and simple a thing it is this plant was. But during love, it’s like a sharp sword. It’s hard to explain what a plant, abandoned at your door, can make a person feel. I named it Nazım, perhaps because of that sense of homelessness. For a while, I lived with my Nazım.
Ah, these trees, these plants… How they can be perfectly timed with everything… It’s as if they are fully aware of their existence. Instead of spiders, I think plants would make more sense to Spinoza. How beautifully they bloom in the spring… And not just that—they greet death in the fall with such grace. And in winter, they can be eerily, painfully, and annoyingly melancholic. They’re not always chasing after being good.
Life as it is… Life as it is lived…
This soup shop always makes me feel that way. It’s been the same person since my childhood. A tiny shop. One soup. Life begins with the morning call to prayer, and by that time, the soup is ready. People come. There’s a line at the door. Everyone follows an unchanging protocol that has lasted for years. You wait in line. You sit on a stool in front of a long counter, so close to the wall that it barely fits a plate. No one speaks. The stool empties out. Until one of the people waiting comes in, the old plate is taken away by the apprentice, and the counter is wiped down. The way the plate is taken, the arrival of the rag, the skill in wiping the counter, even if it’s done by a child, is performed with such a confirming expression, as if the person doing it has been doing it for thousands of years—an artist completing the act. That gaze, free of any hint of weariness. I always think that the simplicity of evoking this feeling in someone lies in the belief that creates this simplicity. Simplicity requires faith. It’s as if there is no desire except to be there, to perform that act in that moment. he has accepted this existence. Without a trace of doubt.
When passing by, people silently make their choice, whether it’s “mixed” or “normal.” They wait quietly. While people perform their rituals in the mosque, here, eating becomes a ritual as well. With the peace that this ritual brings, the meal is eaten. Afterward, one rises and quietly pays for the single item on the menu, without even needing to ask for the bill, and steps out. This little shop closes before noon. There’s an indescribable pleasure that these rituals provide. I’ve always thought of this old man as a plant, opening at certain hours of the day to offer you peace. A person who has been doing only this for years, tirelessly, without complaint. A true part of nature.
Walter Benjamin’s concept of the aura that he said is lost—well, it’s actually right here, in the heart of the city.
After completing my ritual at the soup shop, I return home slowly, feeling even more at peace. On the way, I glance at my first school, the one without a canteen. I don’t think it’s changed much since 2024. Back then, they were using the security booth in the garden like a canteen. It’s strange. Gaziantep has grown, and there are places everywhere that remind me of those canteens I saw in Istanbul. But this neighborhood still hasn’t gotten one.
I continue on, saddened by the changes to the old fairground. Now, there are hotels and shopping malls in that once-beautiful space. If I pass by the coffeehouse and see my uncle, I’ll stop for a cup of tea with him. He’ll tell me what’s been going on in the neighborhood, who’s doing what, the latest gossip. He’ll present records from his imaginary courts and offer his opinions on who’s right and who’s wrong. He’ll explain some of his actions, trying to justify them, in an effort to legalize the regrets he still carries inside.
One of the most interesting things I’ve encountered over the years is how, when telling these stories, he doesn’t need my confirmation. He’ll just say “hee,” making a sound of affirmation as if he’s already validated it for himself. My uncle Hanifi was the same way. He would tell stories, then approve them himself.
Perhaps by silently listening to my uncle, I’m helping him get the outcome he wants in his little courtroom. At some point, I stop really listening to him while he speaks. In truth, the reason I remain silent and seem to validate his claims is because I’m remembering the mornings when I would run out to play on the very land where a building now rises. I’ve carved into my memory the times when my grandfather would return from prayer and sit in the café. Back then, I would run alone, looking for little things in the empty lot, playing with the dirt, the grass, the insects, just like a kitten. During those days, we could only drink soda in August and September.
What I was searching for in that garden wasn’t a treasure buried under the soil, a tectonic shift, or a research project on stones. It wasn’t even about gaining experience for the vegetables and fruits I would later grow on my balcony. It was a childlike thought: to offer my grandfather a reason to buy me a soda when he saw me sitting there in the garden. Once, when he saw me, he bought me a soda, and I repeated the same things I did that day, hoping to recreate that moment, to make it happen again. It usually worked. I’d drink that fizzy soda first thing in the morning. When we sense that something is about to end, we want to experience the pleasure it brings without limits, no matter how much it might hurt us. We don’t care what harm it might cause our health in the future.
I didn’t care if that soda or the sugar would harm my stomach or health later on. I needed to drink that soda as much as I could because my grandfather would soon be returning to Germany. Just as I was lost in these memories, my uncle would be proven right, and he would release me. But these moments of freedom always ended with a warning: “Son, that beard doesn’t suit us; you’d better shave it off…”
Then, I make my way back toward the house’s front door. Crossing that first threshold always brings a sharp shift. Stepping into the passageway, I’m immediately greeted by a narrow corridor and an entirely different world. It’s like moving from an infinite flow to an infinite stillness. At the end of the passageway stands the first house—the house behind that door was originally built by my great-grandfather on my mother’s side. Over time, his children began building their own homes around it, with doors in the passageway leading to those houses.
For some reason, there’s always been a sense of difference between the house my grandfather built after moving to Germany, located to my left, and the original home of my great-grandfather across from it. Walking toward the door feels, inexplicably, like walking the path toward a temple in an ancient city. The emotion is similar. Every time I walk toward that door, a peculiar feeling stirs within me. It’s not even a massive door, nor is there some vast space behind it.
As a child, I would always approach the door, first peeking through the gaps along its edges. For some reason, I’d extend my nose to catch the scent of the air coming through those cracks. Rather than knocking and waiting for someone to open it, I’d climb to the top of the door for a better view. What awaited me at the top always depended on the time and purpose of my climb.
There were times I climbed to call my distant cousin, Rukiye, to play. We’d gather with other kids and head up to the roof of the house. There, we’d pick unripe grapes from the vine—goruk, we called them—and make terleme. We’d place the grapes on a plate, sprinkle mint and red pepper on top, cover them with another plate, and shake them vigorously. The shaking made the grapes sweat, and then we’d eat them, savoring their tangy, sour taste.
When I was even younger, I’d go there for my aunt’s crescent cookies. Ah! Perhaps that’s why I always feel the urge to catch a whiff of the air coming through that door. She would call out to me, “Come here, Yamaneko!” (I’m using “Yamaneko” as a stand-in for my old nickname, which I’d rather not mention.) I’d race into the kitchen after her.
I remember a time before refrigerators, when there was an old wooden cabinet with a mesh door. I’d eagerly take one of those cookies, pluck off the single pistachio sitting on top, and set it aside. I felt that pistachio was an unnecessary interruption—a visual distraction between me and the perfect cookie. Then, I’d sneak off to some corner to eat it in secret.
Someone should study the ways people eat their food. Maybe it was my excitement about the cookies, my habit of running there just to grab one, and the way I’d hide away to eat them that earned me that nickname. On the other hand, “Yamaneko” might’ve been just as fitting because of my eating style. If it came down to a choice, I’d definitely prefer “Yamaneko” over being called “miserable” or something worse!
Behind that door lies an old Antep house, though a very simple and inexpensive version of one. Once you step inside, there’s an open courtyard we call Hayat—a term that means “life”. In the Hayat, there’s always a tree and a water source. That imagery has stayed with me because I remember hearing that, in Sumerian mythology, these two elements symbolize the union of two gods.
But it wasn’t just the tree and water. My father would often talk about a third presence: the karayılan (the black snake). He said that, in the old days, these snakes lived in harmony with people in such houses. They wouldn’t harm anyone, my father insisted. In fact, they were even helpful—they’d catch and eat the mice. To my childhood mind, these snakes were almost like a type of cat, playing the same role of household protector, just with scales instead of fur.
I never ventured into the rooms on the rooftop, though. I had a fear that the “cardın”—a big mouse, almost a small rodent monster in my imagination—might show up. But even as a child, I felt there was an unspoken balance in the house: the snake stayed in its own space, the cardın rarely came out of its room, and I stuck to my safe zones. None of us intruded on each other’s territories. It was like an unspoken truce, a delicate ecosystem that seemed ancient and mysterious, yet oddly comforting.
This house always had someone from the family living in it, which meant I could always perform my little rituals. But one day, something shifted. When I arrived early one morning, the door didn’t feel as inviting as before. There was an eerie silence. Alongside the tranquility of the corridor, there was something that seemed to want to remain silent—an unsettling presence that lingered in its stillness. It looked abandoned. I thought to myself, I’ll go upstairs, rest, and come back to clean later.
The first section of the staircase, the one leading to the upper floors, has always made me uneasy. Even now, I feel the same instinct to rush through it. That door at the bottom of the stairs—the one leading to the cellar—felt like the gateway to some endless labyrinth, like the entrance to the Minotaur’s lair. When I was younger, I imagined it as the gates of hell itself. I dreaded stepping down there.
If I had to retrieve something, I would mentally arm myself with every prayer I knew—or even ones I didn’t—and imagine myself dodging unseen monsters waiting to grab me. My mission was to reach the light switch as quickly as possible. Once the light was on, I’d grab what I needed and rush back before the beasts lurking in the shadows of that cellar could emerge. Sometimes, though, it felt as if a monster added one extra step to the staircase just to trip me. I’d fall, breathless with fear, but eventually scramble up to the higher floor, slamming the metaphorical lid of the labyrinth shut behind me.
At the top of the stairs, I’d pause in front of my grandfather’s room, thinking about the day he’d return and I’d bask in the blessings of what I’d imagined to be his paradise. But now, that room fills me only with profound disappointment. I often wonder if it would have been better to never have entered it. For years, my expectations grew. When I finally opened the door to that tiny, boxy room, something shifted irreversibly. The emotions and imagined worlds tied to it vanished in an instant.
Now, that room is just a storage space I avoid—a place I don’t want to confront. A once-protective magic has been replaced by frosted glass and a locked door, fragile defenses against the disillusionment that comes with crossing a boundary. That magic, like my grandfather’s authority, crumbled with the slightest intrusion, like so many regimes before it.
Yet, on the second floor, my mother’s Hayat—that aura of effortless care and gentleness—still remains untouched, waiting to welcome me with the same unyielding warmth it always had.
The stairs were covered with frosted glass, adhering to the principle of external seclusion. Yet this was not enough; since these windows opened to the corridor, very little light would enter. However, this lack of light was precisely what rendered certain encounters magical. Perhaps this is why, while I would eagerly turn on the lights on the first floor, I preferred the darkness on the floor where I would meet my mother. As I climbed the stairs in the dark, seeing her illuminated from behind, as the light transitioned from the balcony to the corridor and fell softly on her hair, always felt like a magical encounter.
That light didn’t just illuminate my mother; it wrapped the entire house and everything within it in emotion. Against the darkness of the stairwell, it became a light that not only illuminated but clothed objects with feelings.
At the door, I would greet my mother warmly, and then, tired from the journey, I would immediately find a place to lie down. In my own home, there would always be countless excuses to do nothing, but wherever my mother was, there was always something that needed doing. And as usual, my mother would be busy with one of those things while I talked to her.
Our conversations would gradually transform into her monologue. Her voice, the small noises of the house, the fluttering of the curtains, the sound of children playing in the street filtering in through the window—all of it would come together into a soothing blanket. Hugging my mother felt less like a physical embrace and more like shedding my outer skin for a while, letting myself be enveloped by her voice, the house, and its rhythms.And as always, I would drift off to sleep.