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Zobar and Başa

It’s been so long since the drums and pipes fell silent in Hatice Sultan. Yesterday my Zobar and me, we went to take a look at our old neighbourhood. There’s no one left. Even Uncle Aziz has moved to Taşoluk... Zeynep, Gülfidan, Ertan Abi, every last one...

Aunt Emine had been the first one to leave. She moved to Izmir, to live with her daughter. Hers was the first house to be demolished. Then it was the turn of Gülbahar. Turned out onto the street in the middle of winter with two children, her house pulled down in the early hours, regardless of her tears.

Mustafa Abi turned out to be stubborn. He’s still in Neslişah with his wife and daughter, but the old coffee house’s closed down. Had he not owned his house he’d have been cooped up in Taşoluk a long time ago, like so many tenants. No one knows how long he’ll hold out. Some bloke or other comes over every day, asking him to sell his house.

Mother Milay and Coro moved to Edirne. When Mother Milay insisted she’d never live in Taşoluk, they took Yilo, Lola and the grave of Dobru and moved early one mornin’. I cried buckets over them. After all, we’d come to know them as our mother and father ever since I was five and Zobar seven. They’d taken care of us ever since they snatched us out of the clutch of the Grim Reaper back in Romania, so how could I not cry? My sweet Tinke kept licking my tears as I cried... ‘Come with us, we won’t move if you don’t come with us,’ they said; especially Mother Milay who insisted we go, pleading for days – ‘don’t make me leave my heart back here’ – but we didn’t want to. We liked Istanbul; ‘besides, we’ve grown up, we can look after ourselves,’ we said.

Soon, my Zobar, Cingo, Tinke and me, the whole gang, we’re gonna collect paper. In Taksim. We’ve been going up to Taksim ever since we moved to Dolapdere. But because I had a miscarriage, I can’t walk far. That’s how things are for now: It occurred to me afterwards that Mother Milay knew I was pregnant when we got married, ‘Are you pregnant or what, girl?’ she’d asked, but I’d paid no attention: She doesn’t miss a trick, does she?

Thank God the weather is fine. Cingo’s not fussed but Tinke’s over the moon. Her tail goes pat, pat, pat non-stop now she’s seen the sun.

My Zobar’s been so absent-minded ever since we moved here. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s been eating his heart out, I know. He dug his heels in so we wouldn’t leave the neighbourhood, you know – ‘we’ll find a way to stay,’ he’d said to me, so he’s tried everything he could lately just so he could keep his word. You crazy boy, did you really think I’d keep my hopes up just because you said so? How were we to stay when the landlord had already sold our house? All the neighbourhood had taken off; how could we have stayed? Don’t I miss my house in Hatice Sultan too? Don’t I just? In fact, from time to time, I can’t help but cry. That’s when my Zobar takes me into his huge arms and says, ‘Don’t cry my beautiful Başa, we’ll go back to our Sulukule some day, we will for sure, you’ll see.’ But I know: Sulukule now belongs to others.

This morning, I realized that crying’s no help either. I whispe­red in my Zobar’s ear ‘Come, almond eyes, let ourselves be our homeland.’