Originally posted by: DefLeppard
Selvi's fault lines :
1.Trial for possession of information which has direct relevance to Sezai's murder2.Trial for hindering the procedure by prosecutor due point 1.3.Trial for with holding her true identity.4.Being a lawyer ( what a paradox), she is bound to license to BAR.She being tried for 11 year old case is a little weak one. Simply because1.She was juvenile.2.She was forced by others involved in crime
The last Engin's story from Kafasina Gore. Thanks to EAUFC for translation.
Hasan, the Son of Ahmet.
by Engin Akyrek
Hasan, the son of Ahmet...Don't mind his dark and thin face, the energy emanating from his eyes can brighten an entire city. Hasan is a 9 year old son of a family who immigrated from the most eastern part of Turkey to its most western part.
My meeting with Hasan was not like meeting kids blocking your way to sell a selpak(1) on the streets. He had stood tall before me like a career boy who came for a job interview. Even though our first meeting was standoffish, he was among the regulars of my table whenever I wanted to have some tea. He wouldn't answer a question with a question but he would use his answers built with his own sentences like a question. You would never see in his eyes or hear in his voice about the sufferings of his family. He wouldn't talk much but he would create a velvety softness between one's face and conscience when he talked. Hasan's 9 years life, of which 6 years are in Kars and last 3 years are in Istanbul, had already passed the decimal numbers.
Whenever he saw me, he would quietly approach my table and he would walk on his tiptoes as if there was something fragile if I were with other people. Elegance has no age and is not always in one's eyes or voice. On the contrary, it may appear on Hasan, the son of Ahmet, when least expected.
"Hasan, what do you want to be in the future?"
He had left the selpak on the table and said, as if he had never heard this question before, "I don't know. But, I am going to be something good."
"Good?"
"I don't know. Something good."
He had wanted to be neither a doctor nor a pilot but I had understood him. The thing he couldn't expressed very well was just to be a good person. Maybe, this was what I wanted him to be. As a good person, he could also be a doctor or a pilot; as long as he was a good person.
"You are here until late hours. How do you go back home?" When I asked this question after we got to know each other, he had showed me a huge crowd of children around us.
"We live in Umraniye. There is neither a bus nor a dolmus(*) at night. So, we (kids) who sell selpak or flowers get together and share a cab. We pay 10 liras per person. Since the cab driver is our neighbor, he gives us a little bit discount."
"That's cool."
"Well, it is not that cool if I can't sell a lot of selpaks."
You may find listening to or talking about one's sufferings precious at that moment but Hasan's story, his father's unemployment, their move from their village in Kars to Istanbul, and his mother's illness should have remained or was able to remain as the most secret story of the world.
"Do you like Istanbul?"
Even though he liked Istanbul, there was always a dusty village road on the most distant corners of his heart while he was talking about Kars and the village he was born. When someone got angry with him or yelled at him, I would see him quickly going and coming back on that village road stuck in between his mind and his heart.
Hasan, the son of Ahmet, had become one of my best friends. Sometimes, I would go for some tea just to be able to talk with him, do our daily chat, and commit the sin of a childish gossip. When he got angry with someone, he wouldn't curse like other kids did and would ashamedly save those vulgar curses stuck between his mouth and his tongue to himself. When sense of shame enters one's soul, it wiggles around like a worm in an apple and, touching the seed, to our core, it would become one of our organs. Sense of shame was a beautiful feeling no matter what and I guess it mostly belonged to Hasan, the son of Ahmet. Even though he would blush or he wouldn't be able to dare by gazing steadily, good things would always become him.
We had a friendship that lasted 1.5 years. I had seen him last on September. We had met on a rainy day, had a very brief chat and manly said goodbye like two best friends shaking hands. I had never seen him again after that rainy day. I had asked Hasan to everybody from simit sellers to flower sellers. Did something happen to him? I hadn't heard about his brothers either. Since he didn't like to be asked questions, the only thing I knew about him was that he lived in Umraniye. In humongous Istanbul, that placed called Umraniye could sometimes become bigger than Istanbul itself suddenly. I had visited all the taxi stops in Umraniye and asked them whether they had a cab who carried kids selling flowers or selpaks every night. In one of these taxi stops whose count I forgot, someone had told me that there was one cab who took these children home every night. I had gone to that taxi stop, found the driver and listen to the end of Hasan's story from him. Feeling uneasy at first, but after seeing my determination on my face, without understanding what's going on, the driver had said:
"Brother, I take them to their home as my last ride every night. I live in the upper neighborhood."
"Where is Hasan? Have you seen him?"
"Is he the one with dark and thin face? He has a brother, too."
"Yes, he has a brother."
"They moved back to their village."
"Kars?"
"I don't know that much, brother."
Our Hasan, the son of Ahmet, had returned to his village. Had his story ended here or had he gone back to write a new story? I would miss his stories and our chats.
Even though I felt sad, maybe he would find his asphalt road on those dusty village roads. When I got back home and ended Hasan's story that night, poisonous moths had swarmed my heart after hearing the following news on TV. Children whose name we didn't know had burned to death in a dormitory somewhere in mid-Turkey. Sentences had lost their meaning, my words, with the effect of what I saw, had created crying waterfalls inside me. When I turned the TV off, I conceived a new story; Hasan's story. Maybe, Hasan had felt some things.
... because the best stories were the ones rewritten again.
(1) Selpak: A generic brand name used for facial tissues (like Kleenex)
(2) Dolmus: A shared cab that carries more than one people (it literally means "filled").
@Vids : Thanks a million for sharing the translation of his story!
Originally posted by: DefLeppard
The last Engin's story from Kafasina Gore. Thanks to EAUFC for translation.
Hasan, the Son of Ahmet.
by Engin Akyrek
Hasan, the son of Ahmet...Don't mind his dark and thin face, the energy emanating from his eyes can brighten an entire city. Hasan is a 9 year old son of a family who immigrated from the most eastern part of Turkey to its most western part.
My meeting with Hasan was not like meeting kids blocking your way to sell a selpak(1) on the streets. He had stood tall before me like a career boy who came for a job interview. Even though our first meeting was standoffish, he was among the regulars of my table whenever I wanted to have some tea. He wouldn't answer a question with a question but he would use his answers built with his own sentences like a question. You would never see in his eyes or hear in his voice about the sufferings of his family. He wouldn't talk much but he would create a velvety softness between one's face and conscience when he talked. Hasan's 9 years life, of which 6 years are in Kars and last 3 years are in Istanbul, had already passed the decimal numbers.
Whenever he saw me, he would quietly approach my table and he would walk on his tiptoes as if there was something fragile if I were with other people. Elegance has no age and is not always in one's eyes or voice. On the contrary, it may appear on Hasan, the son of Ahmet, when least expected.
"Hasan, what do you want to be in the future?"
He had left the selpak on the table and said, as if he had never heard this question before, "I don't know. But, I am going to be something good."
"Good?"
"I don't know. Something good."
He had wanted to be neither a doctor nor a pilot but I had understood him. The thing he couldn't expressed very well was just to be a good person. Maybe, this was what I wanted him to be. As a good person, he could also be a doctor or a pilot; as long as he was a good person.
"You are here until late hours. How do you go back home?" When I asked this question after we got to know each other, he had showed me a huge crowd of children around us.
"We live in Umraniye. There is neither a bus nor a dolmus(*) at night. So, we (kids) who sell selpak or flowers get together and share a cab. We pay 10 liras per person. Since the cab driver is our neighbor, he gives us a little bit discount."
"That's cool."
"Well, it is not that cool if I can't sell a lot of selpaks."
You may find listening to or talking about one's sufferings precious at that moment but Hasan's story, his father's unemployment, their move from their village in Kars to Istanbul, and his mother's illness should have remained or was able to remain as the most secret story of the world.
"Do you like Istanbul?"
Even though he liked Istanbul, there was always a dusty village road on the most distant corners of his heart while he was talking about Kars and the village he was born. When someone got angry with him or yelled at him, I would see him quickly going and coming back on that village road stuck in between his mind and his heart.
Hasan, the son of Ahmet, had become one of my best friends. Sometimes, I would go for some tea just to be able to talk with him, do our daily chat, and commit the sin of a childish gossip. When he got angry with someone, he wouldn't curse like other kids did and would ashamedly save those vulgar curses stuck between his mouth and his tongue to himself. When sense of shame enters one's soul, it wiggles around like a worm in an apple and, touching the seed, to our core, it would become one of our organs. Sense of shame was a beautiful feeling no matter what and I guess it mostly belonged to Hasan, the son of Ahmet. Even though he would blush or he wouldn't be able to dare by gazing steadily, good things would always become him.
We had a friendship that lasted 1.5 years. I had seen him last on September. We had met on a rainy day, had a very brief chat and manly said goodbye like two best friends shaking hands. I had never seen him again after that rainy day. I had asked Hasan to everybody from simit sellers to flower sellers. Did something happen to him? I hadn't heard about his brothers either. Since he didn't like to be asked questions, the only thing I knew about him was that he lived in Umraniye. In humongous Istanbul, that placed called Umraniye could sometimes become bigger than Istanbul itself suddenly. I had visited all the taxi stops in Umraniye and asked them whether they had a cab who carried kids selling flowers or selpaks every night. In one of these taxi stops whose count I forgot, someone had told me that there was one cab who took these children home every night. I had gone to that taxi stop, found the driver and listen to the end of Hasan's story from him. Feeling uneasy at first, but after seeing my determination on my face, without understanding what's going on, the driver had said:
"Brother, I take them to their home as my last ride every night. I live in the upper neighborhood."
"Where is Hasan? Have you seen him?"
"Is he the one with dark and thin face? He has a brother, too."
"Yes, he has a brother."
"They moved back to their village."
"Kars?"
"I don't know that much, brother."
Our Hasan, the son of Ahmet, had returned to his village. Had his story ended here or had he gone back to write a new story? I would miss his stories and our chats.
Even though I felt sad, maybe he would find his asphalt road on those dusty village roads. When I got back home and ended Hasan's story that night, poisonous moths had swarmed my heart after hearing the following news on TV. Children whose name we didn't know had burned to death in a dormitory somewhere in mid-Turkey. Sentences had lost their meaning, my words, with the effect of what I saw, had created crying waterfalls inside me. When I turned the TV off, I conceived a new story; Hasan's story. Maybe, Hasan had felt some things.
... because the best stories were the ones rewritten again.
(1) Selpak: A generic brand name used for facial tissues (like Kleenex)
(2) Dolmus: A shared cab that carries more than one people (it literally means "filled").
As the title suggests, the essay establishes itself in describing the character of a young boy called Hasan who is one amongst the large number of kids selling Selpak (tissue brand in Turkey) at the street corners or signal stops. Engin accidently meets Hasan while having his tea, hears to his stories, his routine, his struggle and soon develops an unexplained bonding with Engin during the course of 1.5 years or so. Like always men don't speak in exact words to explain their emotions, a 9 year old and 35 year old man seem to have found their equilibrium in their friendship.
Engin's liking to Hasan, turns into affection and respect soon.
Once Engin realizes that Hasan is no longer seen at his usual place, he begins to frantically search for the kid. With limited options he does make a brave trip to Umraniye to enquire on him. Result is negative. Hasan has vanished into thin air?
A disappointed Engin walks back home to find on TV that some children were burnt somewhere in Turkey. So does he resign to the fate that Hasan is one of them?
The foundation of the lofty super structure is laid out. Did we also use a few Selpak tissues on hearing the ghastly end of Hasan. Yes I did.
Haven't we seen many such street urchins pressing you hard for a quick buy of either flowers, pens, tissues (here it's not so popular) etc.? Haven't we always wished that these kids got better life; basics such as food, clothing and shelter. Education comes a lot later!! Coming from a country which boasts of the largest slum of the world, I can vividly visualize every narration of Hasan's life.
So what is the super structure which Engin trying to build? Is my master architect wanting to build a competitor to Burj Khalifa? Does Zaha Hadid legacy continue? (Yeah I am biased, because I love woman power )
The title is the giver of the story. Why did Engin choose a Hasan over a Hakan (is usual mystery friend)? Let's get back to the drawing board now.
Hasan in Arabic, Urdu, Turkish means handsome.
Hasan is an epitome of self-respect, good etiquette, humility, elegance, well -composed of his emotions et al. Engin takes great pain to describe all the nuances of Hasan, so beautifully.
Now that is the word for Hasan - BEAUTIFUL.
The opening sentences say "Hasan, the son of Ahmet...Don't mind his dark and thin face, the energy emanating from his eyes can brighten an entire city" Can we count the times we have judged people around us based on appearances? Yeah the 10 fingers aren't enough I guess
In his brave attempt to his readers, Engin delivers the "beauty is ONLY skin deep" -External attractiveness has no relation to goodness or essential quality.
This maxim was first stated by Sir ThomasOverbury in his poem "A Wife" (1613):
"All the carnall beauty of my wife is but skin-deep."
Why did Engin lose Hasan? That's another twist in the staircase to the last floor of the super structure called BEAUTY.
The sudden disappearance of Hasan (beauty) is the mad pursuit of the majority mortal humans to look pretty. Haven't we seen pharma/ FMCG companies, doctors and beauticians promising for a perfect complexion, smile, hair, eyes, nose, breasts etc.
Historically my country prefers to constantly chase the complexion index...whiter the better (not ever fair) Sic. Is it a cost saver to white wash our homes? LOL
I guess the latest worldwide fad is to have A4 size(page) measure waist line. I did mock at my printer's tray...I was way out of range. Give me A2 or A1 sheet please. Uh! Obnoxiously crazy isn't it?
A determined Engin looks for Hasan at most possible places to return home empty handed. Did he hear the news of the group of children being burnt in a dormitory? Yes.
That burn is a metaphor of people spending huge sums of money on the cosmetic procedures, using costly beauty products etc. Oh the laser does burn our skin. Hmmm
Now do we understand the difference between pretty and beauty?
While it took a good amount of reading (did it three times) this essay, I began to look for the usual clues/hints which Engin throws liberally. (At least a seasoned pair of eyes can detect it).
But this one, is surely a winner for many reasons. It reaches out to readers at many levels. Does Engin talk about
It's truly a humanitarian effort by Engin to evangelize the essence of living with as a pure soul, excelling to be good irrespective of the returns and finally a mock at all those people who think that pretty is beauty. *wicked*
The message is as subtle as ever, let continue to live with the way God has created us. Make our energies focused on developing a good/healthy mind. Simply because Beauty is only skin deep.
Oh...my calendar pop's up to show that my next appointment for the gold facial is this Sunday afternoon!! Do I cancel it now???
Love you Engin for a beautiful mind you are born with. Thank you sharing a teeny bit our mind space.
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