Esra Aygin
I had never
seen her face… Yet, I spent my childhood in her garden…
I climbed
her giant bay leaf tree until my knees bled, watched her violets bloom every
spring, stuffed my face with sweet oranges I picked from her trees.
I entered
through the beautiful wrought iron doors of her house every morning, rolled on
her mosaic tile floors, played chase in her corridors, and watched the quiet
street through her wide window every afternoon.
I learnt my
first letters in her mother’s bedroom; I sang my first songs, laughed until my
face turned purple, and cried tears of childhood fits under her roof. Yet I had
never met her…
I admired
and occasionally plucked her cyclamens called “rabbit ears” in Turkish, which tirelessly
grew in the garden and the stone walls of her house every winter.
Yesterday,
I met a woman in a random café in a random city in Cyprus.
She was a
refugee, like my parents. Like the hundreds of thousands of Cypriots – Greek
and Turkish - who left their lives, their childhood, their youth, their souls in
a town far away.
She started
telling me about her house in that far-away town
She told me
about the wrought iron door, the mosaic tile floors, the giant bay leaf tree, violets
that bloomed every spring, the sweet oranges, the tireless cyclamen… And my
childhood memories rolled down my cheeks.
She was 13
when she left her house and became a refugee. I was four when I walked into my
new nursery as the child of refugees.
“I spent my
childhood in your garden,” I said.
“My garden
was beautiful,” she responded serenely.
“I am sorry
for your pain and longing.”
“I believe
you.”
We hugged
and cried. She was the 13-year-old girl, and I was the 4-year-old kid… As
innocent, as naïve, as unquestioning all over again.
I went back
to my childhood nursery today… her house. It was abandoned and lonely… I walked
into her garden. The garden I spent my childhood in... Her garden… Now, I know
her…
I picked
some sweet oranges for her and stroked the lazy neighbourhood cats wandering in
the garden. They are probably the only true owners of these streets, gardens,
houses... Cats are lucky. Cats cannot be refugees.
* ... dedicated to one of the hundreds of thousands of Turkish Cypriot and Greek Cypriot refugees in Cyprus...
Dear Ezra your words are so touching that they made me cry. Being a refugee myself I can feel your pain. Thank you for feeling and expressing my pain so beautifully.
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