The day I first set foot in Gaziantep, it was my cousins who opened the car door. But instead of saying "Welcome," the first words I heard were, "How would we describe the late Ali?" I was shocked. While our world had completely fallen apart, they were making jokes. My eyes were swollen from crying for days, and yet all I could do was remain silent in the face of their cruelty.
We stayed at my grandmother's house. The next day, my grandfather took me to enroll in the local middle school. By some twist of fate, I ended up in the same class as that cousin. I was excellent in my studies—he, however, was not. On my very first day, there was a math exam. I got a perfect score. Suddenly, all attention turned to me. The teachers praised me constantly. My male cousin, consumed by jealousy, refused to speak to me. Even at home, people constantly compared us. And even though I never said anything, they began to harbor resentment against me.
Sometimes we got along and played together like nothing had happened. Other times, things turned sour again. My mother, Ayşe, wanted nothing more than for us to focus on school. That's all we did—study. But in such a crowded house, it wasn't easy. Eventually, my mother couldn't bear it anymore and decided we should move out. We rented a small house nearby. We cut back on expenses—sometimes on food—but we endured.
I suffered from stomach issues. The pain often left me curled up in agony, but I didn't want to burden my mother, so I stayed silent. My uncle often mocked me for being thin and weak, comparing me to my overweight cousins and putting me down. One day I had eaten too much, and my stomach couldn't handle it. I vomited all night. My grandmother said my "belly must have dropped," and took me to a woman's house. The woman rubbed soap on my stomach and moved her hand over it. It hurt, but I was just a little girl—I said nothing. The pain went away for a while, but soon returned.
We lived in Gaziantep for five months. I spent most nights crying. There was no word from my father. I missed him terribly, and I worried about my mother. The stress, the sadness—it was eating away at my health. Still, I tried to do well in school.
Then one day, the phone rang. My mother handed it to me and asked me to step into another room. When I held the phone to my ear, I heard my father's voice. Something inside me bloomed again. I was so happy. Hope rushed through me like sunlight. My father said he was coming to get us. We just had to wait. I did. And on report card day, he came. I saw him from afar and ran into his arms.
Even our landlord came out to greet him. Her chicks were fed by my little brother, Şahin. She said, "If you leave too, I'll be all alone here." But the next morning, we packed up and left.
It was a long, exhausting journey. We entered Konya, though I remembered nothing—I'd fallen asleep most of the way. On the road to Kadınhanı, my uncle picked us up. Yes, my uncle again. My father, Ali, had brought us to a village in Konya where he had partnered with his brother again. They had bought sheep together and were raising them.
It was raining the day we arrived—just like the day we left for Gaziantep. Maybe we brought blessings, or maybe the skies wept for us.
We arrived in a mess, our lives in chaos. We stepped into a courtyard—this place felt unfamiliar, yet strangely known. It was my great-grandfather's house, where my grandfather had spent his childhood. Built from stone and earth, surrounded by greenery. My male cousins were there too. My father and the boys took care of the flock. I stayed at home, continuing my studies, just to pass the time. But even this didn't go unnoticed. My uncle would scoff, "My boys are up in the mountains herding sheep, and Ali's daughters just lay around at home."
One day, I heard there were summer prep courses at the village school. I enrolled with my father. Another new environment. In fact, it was there I had some of my worst school memories. I was in my final year of middle school, preparing for high school entrance exams. The people didn't like me—I was different to them.
There was a large Kurdish population in the village. I'd never really thought about ethnic differences before—I always believed we were all the same. But here, I was taught otherwise. In school, there were very few Turkish students, and I seemed to be the only one not fully assimilated into their way of life.
It was the first time I had ever encountered people who didn't like Atatürk. I was in shock. I thought everyone in Turkey loved him. But here, people openly spoke against him. I never allowed such disrespect in my presence, and because of that, many saw me as an enemy.
Still, I was a successful student. Teachers appreciated my efforts. The principal took particular interest in me and often called me to his office to check on my progress. I wanted to go to a science high school so badly and worked hard for it. I was also cheerful and energetic. The principal would sometimes invite me to play badminton, which I loved and was good at. Even this made the other students jealous.
My brother Şahin was also very talented—especially in football and basketball. Even boys my age were jealous of him and tried to bully him. I never allowed it. I protected him.
One day, a chubby boy from my class tried to beat up my brother. I stepped in and slapped him. He kicked me in the stomach. I collapsed from the pain. As he lifted a stone to hit me, a primary school teacher stopped him. My cheek was bruised from the punch. I went home with tears in my eyes. When my father found out, he immediately went to the principal and reported the boy. The boy was going to be suspended, but his father begged for mercy. In the end, nothing happened to him, and I was left with the bruises.
By then, it was just our nuclear family living together. At the end of the summer, my uncle and his family returned to Adana, selling the sheep without giving us a penny. My father wanted to leave too, but stayed for our sake.
I passed the scholarship exam, but couldn't attend a top high school. The exam system had changed, and I got stuck in between. I ended up in a regular school—my third choice. Still, I made new friends. One of them, Ebru, became my closest friend.
My first year of high school was full of conflicts. People in Konya were very different from what I was used to. They acted as though their opinions were the only truth. Eventually, I stopped arguing. I withdrew into myself and focused on my studies.
By April, my father gathered us again and said, "I'm going." He had found a job in Çeşme—working in the butchery of a hotel. At first, my mother resisted, but eventually agreed. And just like before, he left.
Once again, on report card day, he returned—to take us away. We packed everything up and left. Once again, we were setting sail toward a new life.
This time, we were going to Çeşme.