[Harun Tokak] My father

June is a very sad month for me. This is the month when my dreams and stories remain unfinished. I learned one night in June that when a man loses his father everything remains incomplete. It was a hot summer night in 1995. I was on my way to the pain center. On the way, the mother said, “Baby! Your father, when he was young, worked for a year in a rich family in the village for a tamarind dress. The words “We have grown up orphans, what poverty we have seen” were like a black shirt woven in pain on the back of my soul.

My father was the man whose dreams were unfulfilled. One day a green fire fell on him. He was going to make a garden in a gram field. It had a strange taste when digging and cultivating the soil. “There will be an apple here.” He will say “Yellow, hard, juicy golden, red and red starkings, the most beautiful and delicious apples, amasias, red cherries, honey-yellow plums …” He floats with water, grass, stones and soil. Field and say, “Scented bugs will feast here.” He was saying. That dream of my father also remained unfulfilled. He worked day and night digging wells to irrigate fruit seedlings. In addition, it must be due to the intensity of their work that all the seedlings have dried up.

One day, “Let’s leave the village now.” “We’re not going to be long or short here,” he said. Bought land on one end of town. We have dug the foundation. We carried stones with my mother and brother, we mixed mortar, my father laid the foundation. Then the house remained unfinished. Tall houses were built all around. Our house had been standing at subbasement level for several years. Its walls never rose.

My father could not leave the village. The dream of the city also remained unfulfilled. His voice was beautiful, as was my father’s face. He read the Qur’an very well. He sang many burning songs. She had such a burning voice … We would get up from bed in another room and listen to my father’s song. He sang mostly unfinished love songs. Such as Keram and Asli, Laila and Majnun. I first learned the sad story of an unfinished life from my father. After telling the story of Keram and Asli, he would sing Keram and Asli in a burnt voice. Now those folk songs are unfinished.

When he visited the village one summer, he said, “Boy, the condition of our mosque is not good at all, it doesn’t seem possible to repair it. It’s best to break it down and rebuild it, but we don’t know where to start I will gather some people in the village house so that we can talk. “The humble meeting that night in the village house was a part of building a great and beautiful mosque. My father watered the building concrete and straightened the nails so that it would not be lost. No.

After working until Thursday afternoon, he did not feel very well and came home. My mother is sitting in the doorway with the women next door. “You sit down. I will perform ablution and go to the mosque.” Says and goes inside. When the call to prayer is not heard, mother says, let me see. And what will he see, my father is lying on the ground like a flat tree of seventy years. His ablutions are also incomplete. That June night I learned that my father’s absence burned people like a fire. Until that day, I did not see separation, death or suffering in our small village.

In my childhood, when the clovers were green, expatriates would come to the village. We called them German. The village rejoiced. The latest model cars will add dust and smoke to the country’s roads. We would run behind those cars so we could touch them. If it fell on the grape, the expatriate would fall in the way of the expatriate again. Water was poured behind them, tears were shed. He has tried to alleviate the pain of living abroad with pictures hanging on the walls of those who have remained hidden.

Then one day bad news will come. The village is on fire. Fire will rise from all the houses at once. As soon as the janaza came, the fire would start again in the village. The necks of the children will be bent, and the bride who has not dried the henna will be widowed. I knew then that something was left unfinished. But even then the fire burned where it fell. I was on fire when I heard the news of my father’s death, but I could not find any water to put it out.

In the spiral of an unfinished dream, with a fire in my heart, I am walking in the center of pain in my own city. The lonely currents and steep hills were left behind by daylight. The minaret of the mosque was first seen across the last hill. Then slowly a whole village spread across the valley like a complete painting. The mountains that once sang in my voice, filled with the sound of pipes, and the mountains that opened their hearts to the sun every morning, were before me in all their glory. When those beautiful days of the past came and sat in the magical garden of my dreams, the sad sound of salar spread from the valley to the mountains. It was my brother’s voice… he was praying my father’s prayer… when he was born, the call to prayer was in his ear. Wasn’t life like the time between Azan and Salat? Sala’s voice stopped suddenly. Like a half-broken flag hanging over our village.

After the janaza at the mosque, whose construction was unfinished, after the Friday prayers, the father was running towards the graveyard to swim on his shoulder. A large crowd was silently taking my father away.

For the last time in his life, he passed by a narrow road, in front of his house. He flew like a bird to the wings of the crowd, to return to its nest. The crowd reached the road by splitting the threshing into two parts.

An unbearable pain came upon me. We walked along the threshing floor, where we threshed in the morning air and plowed into the sun.

My dad, who worked on the Calico shirt for a year, is now on his last ride in his white shirt.

My father did not have enough money to travel from the village to the city. I lost my first teacher, from whom I learned how to read the Qur’an, how to pray, how to pray at night, the biography of the prophets, the heroism of the companions, the virtue of work.

We entered the cemetery. When a large crowd was saying goodbye to him, another large crowd greeted him Uncle Aziz, who used to recite Azan in his burning voice every morning, but Kara Mustafa, who always prayed in the mosque every morning because it was not summer or winter, and the people of the Qur’an were lying on the floor. Peace was there, rich and poor, young and old, good and bad, crushed by the call of time. My grandparents, uncles and many others who contributed a lot to our education.

The villagers were talking among themselves. “Master Suleiman is gone. How do we complete the mosque now? They were right. The mosque was also left unfinished. The soil, the shovel and every word of the Qur’an made my father a little more isolated from us. Near the grave, my brother left me to thank those who came from afar.

“Dear father! You have left everything in your life unfinished. The orchards were left unfinished. The town house was left unfinished. You wanted to perform ablution, but you left it unfinished. You wanted to build a mosque, you left it unfinished …” I cried. These words were meant to motivate people whose hearts are as generous as the summer sun. A businessman in Ankara said, “Even if Uncle Suleiman dies, the flag will not be on the ground.” Gathered, but on that June day I realized that everything in this world has remained incomplete.

Heat was falling from the sky like a waterfall. Three brothers were praying on my father’s fresh earth. When I stood next to my father, who had closed his eyes in the scorching heat of the mountains, I remembered the useless life of Mostafa Kutlu. It is as if colorful flowers are raining down on my father. When do these crocuses open? Where did this spring come from? The lamb was playing in the field. The girls were chewing. Here the sound of birds chirping and the sound of the fountain of the well coming from the plain of the gram are walking towards the fresh grass.

Pink and white peach flowers, plums with milk foam, apricots, sour cherries, cherry blossoms, blonde dogwood flowers, yellow-yellow golden, rose-cheek starkings, red on one side and honey yellow amass on the other …

Burnt songs of unrequited love and the voices of Lahuti Qur’an blended with each other. My dad slowly disappeared among the flowers falling from the sky in a spring garden which surprised those who saw it. A while ago a flower fell on the floor of the threshing floor. June is my month when my dreams and stories are unfinished. I learned that June night that when a man loses his father everything remains incomplete. That day I learned that the world is an unfinished world. Our story is unfinished. Just like the headshot on my dad’s wall. Today that unfinished blood is flowing inside me like a wound.

Now I wonder who has left this world to fulfill their dreams. We will complete our father’s unfinished stories, and our children will complete our unfinished stories. Their story is followed. Half finished but our dreams and dreams; Our fathers are the architects of our values ​​that make us who we are.

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