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I see them, two short women walking down Istiklal Caddesi, crowded with a New Year's crowd. One is limping and leaning on her walking stick, the other is supporting her. They stop to watch two small boys go running past, one chasing the other. "Life is strange," one says to the other. She puts up one hand. "This is you, right?" Then she makes a fist with the other. "And this is life." The fist smacks into the hand. "It hits you – without warning, without mercy." The hand falls and reopens. "And then just as you are getting up, wondering where that came from," SMACK! "It hits you again." Smack! Smack! "And again. And again.". She pauses. A deep breath. "They killed me. They killed my friends, they demolished us as if with bulldozers. How can I accept that? How can I believe the things they are saying now, when it's the same things they condemned us for saying twenty-five years ago?" Thick glasses, nervous smile, face lined with deep furrows. My thoughts, immersed in tipsy merrymaking just a minute ago, are silent. Istanbul, January 1999 |
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Copyleft notice: Copyright (C) 1999-2005 Mustafa Ünlü. This information is free; you can redistribute it and/or modify it under the terms of the GNU General Public License as published by the Free Software Foundation; either version 2 of the License, or (at your option) any later version. |