"If someone would ask what I miss the most from home, I would tell them I missed the smell of my mother and my brother. And the voice of the man I loved."
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Silan sammen med sin mor og bror inden flugten. Privat foto.
By Silan Deniz Teyhani, volunteer in Trampoline House's journalism group Trampoline Times'
I have been living in a camp in Denmark for about four and a half months. The day that I arrived at the camp is a day I will never forget. It was the first week of February and it was white all around. The snowflakes and wind made such beautiful sounds that I almost forgot where I was. I can still smell the snow… I was wearing a green floral print dress and snow fell on my neck and on my dear friend’s scarf. I had sought asylum. Now I was being taken into a room with my luggage in my hand, filled with my memories.
As I entered the room, I thought of my room in Mersin that I had left behind. There were posters decorating the walls, books, my toys that had never left me alone, and all the memories. A teardrop fell from my eye. I took a deep breath and felt the cold creep inside me. As a woman who had grown up in Mersin, I was feeling exceptionally cold. I went inside the room and placed my luggage down. I wondered if there was Internet, because I wanted to call my mother right away.
When I called, our relationship became deeper when I said, “mother” and heard her say, “my daughter”. My mother had not only been my mother; she had also been my sister, my confidant, my friend, my father, and even my comrade. I suddenly realized I missed her a lot. I tried to stand upright, but just wished I could go back to those days when I rested my head on her knees and she would caress my hair, telling me the story of Lilith. My mother would always tell me, “You will be a strong woman”. Yet, for the first time in my 25 years of life, I felt like I was standing upright and being defeated at the same time. You might wonder how such conflicting emotions could exist at once.
I then tried to sleep. After two hours had passed, there was a knock on the door and a new woman was brought into the room. I learned she was from Syria, and just like me, she was cold and scared. She looked at me and smiled. I asked her if she was hungry and she replied that she was cold. I gave her a kalpak that I took out from my luggage. Even though we kept quiet, our eyes told each other our stories. You know how they say, the eyes are the mirrors of the soul; and people know each other from their sorrows. We hugged each other and fell asleep keeping an eye on one another.
I gave my written statement the next morning. At lunch, I heard a woman ask her friend to bring her a knife in Turkish and I passed mine to her. I asked her if she was from Turkey and she replied, “No, I am Azeri”. I was so happy to find someone who could understand me. But shortly after, the wind went out of my sails as I was transferred to a different camp that same day.
The thing I will never forget from this new camp was the smell from the toilet. And there was no Internet. I could not eat. I looked at my plate and started crying. Looking back, I realize how much I cried those days. A woman approached me and touched my shoulder, asking in English if I was okay. I told her I was and thanked her. Her smile was so warm, making my chilly spirit also warm up for a moment. We would soon become friends. I wanted to write the next day and I scribbled a few things down.
Now, I am looking over my life and myself. I suppose it is a sort of a self-criticism. I live someplace very far from my country. A popular motto at home is ‘you will never walk alone’. If someone would ask what I miss the most from home, I would tell them I missed the smell of my mother and my brother. And the voice of the man I loved.
I think about the days when I would get mad at my mother, when I would get tense and take it out on her. I think now how absurd that was, Right now, I wish I could taste her haricot beans the way she prepared them. I wish I could hear my brother ask me, “What’s up Deno?”. I would like to go two years back - the best year of my life.
I think about the man I loved, his voice is in my ears as he read Adnan Yücel out loud as always; “A woman that drinks rakı is beautiful” he said and I burst into laughter. He told me ”How beautiful you laugh, never be afraid of life”. I was still laughing as he left. Because leaving is sometimes also a part of love.
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