To the Roots.

Finding myself in the bittersweet pain of craving my roots

I was driving in an Uber from Frankfurt City to the south of the town, watching the lights of the skyscrapers, spellbound by the reflections of myself or anything from me in these buildings. I was searching for any backscattering of my inner world. But what I found was emptiness. So powerful that I am compelled to search for more. But so powerless to give me what I was looking for.

I was hiking in Nike sneakers around a pilgrimage place called “Duzgun Baba” in Tunceli, Anatolia. I was watching the high velvetish and rocky mountains. No lights, no glitter, and no glamour. Just sadness. And I acknowledged the veracity. This is the reality, this is life, this is my reality, this is my life. I can recognize my life in the form of the mountain, its ups and downs, where the top of the mountain does not compete with or, worse, suppress the beauty and importance of the foot of the mountain.

Most of the time, I forget that I am a daughter of immigrants. I do not think about my ethnic or religious identity in my everyday life. Not even feeling German all the time.

And no city I have seen on this planet takes away the feeling of being a stranger more than Frankfurt, with its diversity of people. Frankfurt lets me forget where I come from.

Frankfurt is my home.

But is there another feeling beyond longing or belonging?

Sometimes I feel lost watching the skyline. Lost while thousands of people pass by as I walk in the city. I can feel lost between the high buildings. Lost while standing in front of traffic lights. I can feel lost while waiting for my S-Bahn in the dark metro station. Lost, buying my oat milk latte, smiling at the cashier.

But in the mountains, I find myself.

Finding myself while watching water running through the rocks at high speed, cold as ice, clear as diamonds, and when I put my bare feet into the water, there is a second of pain. It is like a mother screaming with joy seeing her child after a long time, accusing with words such as “Where have you been?” Finding myself while imagining that the mountains, the trees, the water, the birds, the bears hidden in the woods, and the sad big eyes of the elderly ladies in the villages are accusing me softly: “Where have you been?” I miss Dersim, and I know, or at least I believe I know, my roots miss me too. Finding myself in the bittersweet pain of craving my roots.

They let me go as they let my grandfather go, they let my father go, they even let my mother go. They accept me, although I have changed, my language, my clothing, my mission. My roots do not judge me. My roots are the mountains, the trees, the water, the birds, the hidden bears, and the elderly women with the big, sad eyes.

And even when I leave them behind to go back to the crowded and loud streets of Frankfurt, watching the high buildings by day and by night, filling in the emptiness with the love and respect of my roots, they let me go, again and again. Knowing I will come back. Again and again. To my roots.