Fatih

The charcoal-scented narrow streets of Fatih* know me.

The dignified avenues, still holding onto their identity, know me, too.

Look! The midwife from our local clinic will soon arrive in a station-type ambulance car.

Our old neighbor downstairs, the grocer, has just returned from Hajj. As he daydreams, he absentmindedly strokes his beard, now beginning to turn gray.

The gas truck repeats the same song again and again…

Kids, who are not aware of the fact that they belong to the last generation with the opportunity to play outside, cheerfully play games on the street.

Fathers burdened by poverty walk home with coal bags in their hands — but their sorrows are heavier than what they carry.

With hands roughened by labor, women wash diapers in cold water — unaware of formula milk, supplements, or the comfort of disposables.

They all remember me.

The fragrant basil pots on stairway steps, the red washbasins where children are bathed, the garden walls of the Fatih Mosque, the rising aroma of food from Atpazarı, the street vendor at Horhor selling plastic swords — and the same silent agony reflected in every pair of eyes…

I remember every one of them.

Am I the only one who doesn’t forget them?

I do not know.

But I know for sure, they are the only ones who don’t forget about me.

Every single night, as I lay my head on the pillow, they come to visit — and they never let me sleep.

* Fatih is the capital district of Istanbul, Türkiye, which has many historic sites and a rich cultural background.