Turkey, Pt.3 Türkiye
June, 2023
There is a strange park in the city of Kayseri, an industrial wasteland in the dead centre of Anatolia. Crossing the first expansive carpark before the stadium, red roses bloom and underneath them, horny, young secular Turks make-out embracing, rolling around on top of one another, out-of-sight on the parchment-dry slopes that give way to shoddily-laid bitumen. Carloads of bored and restless teenage men park there, either undertaking slapdash repairs under their hoods or with their wheels on hoists; shish pipes bubble atop picnic blankets, unimaginably loud music pumpin’ from open car doors.
Past the colossal statue of a heroic player immortalized in bronze, there is a much larger carpark permitting burn-outs; ghost-stained tyre rings criss-cross the surface of the earth. Here, I look left and right and left and right like some eager Wimbledon enthusiast: I do not want to die here in this carpark in Kayseri. There is a small tea tent that hosts more uninterested and unfriendly-looking men. Sometimes the large garbage container is on fire, sometimes only the acrid, melted run-off speaks of recently extinguished fury.
Past the colossal statue of a heroic player immortalized in bronze, there is a much larger carpark permitting burn-outs; ghost-stained tyre rings criss-cross the surface of the earth. Here, I look left and right and left and right like some eager Wimbledon enthusiast: I do not want to die here in this carpark in Kayseri. There is a small tea tent that hosts more uninterested and unfriendly-looking men. Sometimes the large garbage container is on fire, sometimes only the acrid, melted run-off speaks of recently extinguished fury.
Vans, beat-up and caked in grime, line the foremost parking spaces next to the occasional polished Mercedes. The vans contain families of Turks spilling out onto the ground; they sit on cardboard boxes or tattered rugs and cook on gas-bottle-fires; they wash their pans in the drinking fountain; their dying clothes do not move in the stale heat of late midday, draped over the pull-up and dip bars of the incompatible, state-of-the-art gym equipment.
‘Today no dips’, I muse to myself. ‘Squats!’
I begin my workout. On cue the squad arrives: hoards of children, I don’t even know from which corners they appear, but all flock to me like ducks to a bowl of peas. They are the children of Syrian refugees.
‘Where are you from?’, I ask during out first encounter.
‘Suriyah! Suriyah!’
In my daily workouts over the course of a month, I never see one adult with them. I can only assume the elders are working, scraping together a living and forced to leave their children somewhere during the day. Once, I ask one of them where his parents are and he holds up his hand and tells me ‘Five o’clock’. I am often at this park much later than five o’clock and the children are still there
‘Today no dips’, I muse to myself. ‘Squats!’
I begin my workout. On cue the squad arrives: hoards of children, I don’t even know from which corners they appear, but all flock to me like ducks to a bowl of peas. They are the children of Syrian refugees.
‘Where are you from?’, I ask during out first encounter.
‘Suriyah! Suriyah!’
In my daily workouts over the course of a month, I never see one adult with them. I can only assume the elders are working, scraping together a living and forced to leave their children somewhere during the day. Once, I ask one of them where his parents are and he holds up his hand and tells me ‘Five o’clock’. I am often at this park much later than five o’clock and the children are still there
‘Abe! Abe!’ (‘Brother! ‘Brother!’), they shout!
I match their enthusiasm and wave and glee back.
There is a girl as cute as button, with massive, brown eyes and little teeth that are always visible in a splendid smile; she has the same cheekiness as my little niece in Australia and I have a natural soft spot for her. There is another girl with blazingly intelligent, almond-shaped eyes; her thick hair is evolved for the desert sun and falls in a braid down her back. There is a boy who is serene and hangs back, no shoes on his feet. There is another boy who already hates the world, he kicks and punches the metal of the bars and curses in Arabic. Some days the kids are scrubbed clean, other days they look as though they have been sleeping under a bridge.
I do push-ups. Three of the boys match my effort, observing my technique and following meticulously along. There is no personal space with children, of course. They are wonderfully irreverent and always refreshing.
I match their enthusiasm and wave and glee back.
There is a girl as cute as button, with massive, brown eyes and little teeth that are always visible in a splendid smile; she has the same cheekiness as my little niece in Australia and I have a natural soft spot for her. There is another girl with blazingly intelligent, almond-shaped eyes; her thick hair is evolved for the desert sun and falls in a braid down her back. There is a boy who is serene and hangs back, no shoes on his feet. There is another boy who already hates the world, he kicks and punches the metal of the bars and curses in Arabic. Some days the kids are scrubbed clean, other days they look as though they have been sleeping under a bridge.
I do push-ups. Three of the boys match my effort, observing my technique and following meticulously along. There is no personal space with children, of course. They are wonderfully irreverent and always refreshing.
To my right, the jovial mood suddenly turns very ugly: I hear harsh shouting and turn and see two boys beating and kicking the living shit out of each other. I run over and put myself between them, pulling one of them up from the ground.
‘What has happened here!?’
A boy on the sideline speaks.
‘His Mother…he say bad thing!’
The smaller boy in the conflict has big, fat tears tracking marks in the dirt on his cheeks. He is furious. The boy he is fighting is older and does not hesitate to kick him with equine force again in the lower gut even as I stand there. The smaller boy lunges for him, howling. I hold him back and delegate. I tell the serene boy who always hangs back:
‘You, take him over there, now!’
He obediently pulls the raging youngster away from the melee along with a few others who jump in to help.
Turning back to the smaller boy, I drop to his height and try and restrain his little flailing arms; he punches me in turn and I grab his wrists and pull him into me, embracing him. Firmly and rhythmically, I tap his back with my open palm and softly stroke the back of his head.
‘Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh. It’s okay. It’s okay mate’.
He heaves into me, putting his head in the nape of my neck and crying, crying, crying.
‘What has happened here!?’
A boy on the sideline speaks.
‘His Mother…he say bad thing!’
The smaller boy in the conflict has big, fat tears tracking marks in the dirt on his cheeks. He is furious. The boy he is fighting is older and does not hesitate to kick him with equine force again in the lower gut even as I stand there. The smaller boy lunges for him, howling. I hold him back and delegate. I tell the serene boy who always hangs back:
‘You, take him over there, now!’
He obediently pulls the raging youngster away from the melee along with a few others who jump in to help.
Turning back to the smaller boy, I drop to his height and try and restrain his little flailing arms; he punches me in turn and I grab his wrists and pull him into me, embracing him. Firmly and rhythmically, I tap his back with my open palm and softly stroke the back of his head.
‘Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh. It’s okay. It’s okay mate’.
He heaves into me, putting his head in the nape of my neck and crying, crying, crying.
His hands cling to me, pinching the flesh of my arms in rage and sorrow. The sound of the park fades to nothingness as we huddle there together.
what seems like an eternity later we detach. He is calmer. I smile at the other kids and they all rush in to break the fight circle, laughing and running around like headless chickens again, splitting off in all directions as though nothing has happene. I walk back dazed to continue my workout.
Not five minutes have passed when the same commotion rings out, this time from the very far corner of the burn-out carpark. I cannot see what is happening but see the crowd rushing back towards the fitness equipment.
‘What’s happened now!?’
Not five minutes have passed when the same commotion rings out, this time from the very far corner of the burn-out carpark. I cannot see what is happening but see the crowd rushing back towards the fitness equipment.
‘What’s happened now!?’
But it speaks for itself. The small boy walks with his head back to stem a torrent of blood spouting from his nose. He catches my eyes sideways as he walks past: I am haunted still by his look; hopeless, blank, a silent plea for mercy from his life. No child should ever have such a look in their eyes.
I take him to the large stone water fountain where the gypsies fill up their gallon bottles. The rabble follows at my heels and I instruct him to put his face under the stream; cold water splashes and he swats away the snot and blood that ooze out.
‘Good. More!’
I take him to the large stone water fountain where the gypsies fill up their gallon bottles. The rabble follows at my heels and I instruct him to put his face under the stream; cold water splashes and he swats away the snot and blood that ooze out.
‘Good. More!’
He puts his face under the stream again and comes up for air gasping. The blood has gone, there is no open wound.
‘Are you okay?’
He nods.
I turn to the serene boy who always hangs back.
‘You make sure those two stay away from each other! Do you understand me?’
‘Yes Abe’
‘You look after him, okay?’
‘Yes. I will Abe!’. I see how solemnly he stands to his duty and I turn to the small boy once more and cradle his face in my hands.
‘You’ll be okay buddy. No more fighting okay. Fighting is terrible.’
He nods. Some of the other kids laugh.
I surrender my workout today and make to leave.
‘Bye bye Abe!’, they scream after me.
‘Bye bye!’
︎
Some days later I am working out again. The boy appears with a couple of his buds. He is beaming today, his bright eyes almost masked by his fringe which needs a good pair of scissors to it. The girls are off somewhere and us boys hang out together. They follow along doing push-ups and I try a little Maltese with them, a fellow semitic language which they understand. It is a very pleasant day with a powder blue sky. Mount Erciyes makes a rare appearance, gloriously appearing out of the smog of the city.
When I am leaving, they follow me. I am getting closer and closer to a very busy road which I do not want them near.
‘Go back. I’ll see you next time!’
Slowly they lessen their pace, begin meandering aimlessly back to the park. I turn away when I see them almost gone. Then I hear the little voice of the boy call out…
‘Abe! Abe!’
I turn back.
‘I love you!’
I am speechless. Then I manage to choke out:
‘I love you too!’
︎
Oh God, have mercy on your children in this dark and desolate jungle.
