Finest Rough Words
My shield and my weapon
Mustafa, a brand consultant, asked me: How would you present yourself if we go together to a party and I introduce you to some friends of mine?
As a writer, I said. Okay, he answered. But what do you write about? Everything, I replied. No. You are always writing about the same issues, he answered back.
Yes. My words circle around identity, conflicts, having an immigrant background in a Western society, hip hop, beauty, art, Turkey, where my parents were born—a beautiful but shattered country which is also part of my story.
But this is only what he is reading, the only texts I am publishing. There are so many notes and stories I am writing —about love, about disappointments, about family, about freedom and force, about life, that I am not sharing with you — not yet.
Before writing, first, I listen. I listen to the heroin-addicted young woman at Frankfurt's train station, who tells me that people treat addicted homeless people as second-class citizens. An hour before, I heard the words of my nail stylist from Ukraine, who said that before the war, she would never have imagined coming to Germany. In the beginning, it was very hard, she said. She works for a Ukrainian-based nail studio and tells me that Russians come too, to get their nails done by Ukrainian women. But we don't talk about politics, she said and smiled, not sure if this is a good thing or bad. I listened to the Simit seller in Taksim Square in Istanbul during the Gezi Park Protests back in 2013, who was voting for the ruling AKP party: “Yes, maybe they are stealing, but every politician is stealing; at least they are working.” And I have listened to the billionaire in a 5-star hotel in London and her daughter, who belong to one of Turkey's richest families. I listened to the daughter, who was trying to divert attention away from her mother, an old, but bright, positive, and shining woman. I listened to my uncle in Oman, while walking on a beautiful beach in Muscat, showing me a huge white building. Look, this is the villa of the Emir of Qatar, sometimes he plays with young boys on the beach with the ball. Without security. And I listened to my aunt in Dubai, who migrated to a desert in the 90s, pointing to a Sheraton Hotel. When I started working here, this was the only hotel in this area. Everything else: Just desert. While we were looking at the skyscrapers of Dubai. As a teenager, I listened to my grandmother, telling me about the problems with all of her seven children, it seemed it was about heritage, but I know it was more than that. I listened to my cousin, who was raised in Neukölln, Berlin, who told me about his youth with Germany's most known “Clan-members,” guys who are accused of being involved in organized crime. I listened to my driving school instructor, who votes for the AfD, that he has no problem with the refugees, but with the politicians who fail to establish an effective migration policy. I have listened to my friend, who was interested in a married rich handsome guy, who did anything to impress her, unsure of what he was aiming for. And I am listening to my neighbor, who is devastated about the death of her mother, who was living with her. I avoid going into her bedroom, I just can't. Not yet.
I also listen to songs. Lots of songs. Folklore, Gospel, American, French and Turkish Hip Hop, Jazz, I love Jazz, House, and so many more. Turkish, Kurdish, English, German, Arabic, Spanish—anything that I can listen to. And even when I do not understand the meaning, I am listening to myself because then I am talking inside of me. And there is one artist I have been listening to for several years. To his pain, to his joy.
But the most intense words come out of me when I am listening to myself.
To my feelings.
Often, very often, they are intense. They are crushing me, they are chocking me. And words save me. Finest rough words.
Words build a wall for me, to which I am leaning when I feel nothing can hold me. Sometimes I hide myself from my own words, sometimes I use them as a weapon and a shield. A shield against the cruel world. A weapon for a kind world.
While I am listening, I am already writing. Putting the feelings, the meanings, the perspectives, the pain, the hope, the sobriety, the maturity, the agitation, the disappointment, the uncertainty in our world together, brick by brick, building a wall, building a house. I choose my words wisely, I know how sharp they can be, cutting a paper, I know how heavy they can be, taking away your breath.
I am writing about the same issues, publicly. But it changes. Because life changes. The pain changes. The joy changes. So are changing. But the significance of the words for me and my life remain.
Words are my biggest fear and my greatest angels. They are fine. They are rough. They hit me in my deepest heart, they pull me up from my greatest pain. I am grateful. For fine rough words.