My name is Ceren. I was once a little girl growing up in the silence of the mountains, always looking off into the distance with quiet, searching eyes. My hair was always kept short—jet black and straight. My father, Ali, never let it grow. "You'll get lice," he'd say. I never argued. In our home, my father's word was like a law written on stone.
I never had expensive things. No toys, no fancy clothes. But I had dreams. I was a quiet child, but my heart spoke loudly. I was growing up inside myself, trying not to be a burden. Because pride, in our world, wasn't something taught—it was something lived.
At school, I was the quietest one. Always the same bag, same shoes. One day, a classmate looked at my pencil case and said, "What even is this?" I just smiled, didn't answer. Because what they didn't know was—inside that little case, I didn't just carry pens. I carried my dreams.
I loved learning. Letters and numbers became my secret escape. My teacher would sometimes stare at my notebook silently. Every carefully written word carried the weight of a childhood hidden in silence, and a love buried deep.
But my real school was our home.
During certain seasons, we would head up to the highlands with our flocks of sheep. We'd live in tents on the mountainside. Each of my uncles had their own tent with their families. My grandmother's tent, made of goat hair, was the most special. Ours was simpler—just a tarp—but it was filled with priceless things:
My mother Ayşe's gentle voice, my brother Şahin's laughter, my sister Senem's busy hands… and my father. His stern face hid a tired kind of love.
We'd collect dried dung left behind by old herds to light our cooking fires. We had a donkey, and sometimes I'd ride it up the mountain to collect fresh water from a spring. The first time I rode, I tipped over all the water cans. I'll never forget the shame I felt that day. My grandmother didn't scold me, but her eyes said, "It's alright."
The big pots would boil over fire. My mother and aunts would milk the sheep. My grandmother turned it into cheese and yogurt. She packed the cheese in animal hides. It was the most delicious thing I've ever tasted.
We'd race baby lambs with our cousins. We'd wander the hills and pick little fruits called "alıç," and sometimes wild mountain pears.
Then, the season would end, and we'd return to the village.
Our home stood in a wide courtyard surrounded by orange groves. A small stream ran below. It was almost like paradise.
But peace doesn't last forever.
One day, my father and uncle had a terrible fight. My cousins turned against us. My father, in a rage, grabbed his shotgun. He didn't hurt anyone, but the tension broke something inside us.
Police came and took him away. He returned shortly after, but everything had changed.
So, he made a decision.
We moved—just a mile or so away, near the foot of the mountain. My father cleared the land with his own hands and built a two-room house out of concrete blocks. He built animal pens.
We started everything from scratch.
We grew with the farm.
My parents ran a deli in the city. I took care of the farm. Senem handled the house. Life was finally working. We were earning. There was peace.
Then came him—my father's trusted friend. They went into business together, but when debts piled up, the man disappeared.
My father, Ali, was left alone. With creditors, pressure, and family tension.
One morning, without a word, he hugged me. It was the first time. We just stood there.
I didn't understand it then.
But now I do.
It was goodbye.
That evening, we came home and looked for the old Nokia phone we always used to call my parents. It was gone. He had returned during the day, taken a few things, and left.
Forever.
That morning's hug was his final gift.
I cried all night.
Within a week, we sold everything—everything except our car.
My grandfather came and drove us to Gaziantep.
My childhood stayed behind in those mountains.
And I, the little girl with short black hair, quiet but proud, left it all behind—never to return.