“Still Fearful, . . .”

Still Fearful, but . . .

An ezan* carries my soul to Sinop, my picturesque town by the Turkish Black Sea. This call to prayer sounds like a plea, sent to me by my loved ones who lived and died there. Their absences are for me too difficult of a loss to bear.

Vividly alive in my mind today are my late uncle’s stories of yore; how everything was previously. The one about the mosque, in particular, emerges in full clarity. I know that modest structure by heart. It denoted Sinop’s civilized past. Today, mosques and places for leisure attendance anywhere tend not to go hand in hand, mind you! Yet, a now-famed café had found its home at this one’s feet long ago. People gathered there to eat, drink, and play games. Neither outsiders nor the townsfolk thought that doing so was a shame.

Most of my loved ones from Turkey are now gone. While I survived, I lack the survival-know-how. The last stronghold of my Sinopian family lives no longer. My father’s hope to make a home there for myself has vanished with his demise. My inheritance, a flat eyeing the tranquil sea, has become someone else’s precious prize.

I struggle for my existence on a borrowed land with much demand. Having borrowed my loved ones’ butterfly-wings, I am trying hard to thrive on my own. All along, I opt to leave my cocoon not too soon. Still spry, my spirit flies far and above. In times of despair, an ezan* carries my soul to Sinop, my picturesque town by the Turkish Black Sea. The call to prayer sounds like a plea.

(* “Ezan” is a call to Muslim prayer)