other|matters

1. Sanliurfa, July 14

He runs in front of me, dark-haired, wearing red. For half of a moment, I know him. My student, Muhammad, is here. To our right, the pool churns with bodies, wet and black. The ashes from Nimrod’s fire settled here, or so the Turks believe. Each flake became a fish; each fish is overfed. In groups of two they are beautiful. In tens, they are dense. In hundreds, grotesque. In front of the man selling pellets of food, I can no longer see water between the confusion of fins. They are like flies on a chicken bone, like snakes, spawning.

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Image credit: www.urbanpeacock.com/images/

You know how sometimes you send out a link in an e-mail thinking it may interest your friends, and then receive an unexpected page-long response?

That happened recently when I sent out a link to an article in the race/culture journal ColorLines on the “shame and pride” of lotas and, by extension, our community’s traditional bathroom practices.

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There are three types of people in the world.

1- Those who know math.

2- The other guy.

“If you’re bored, it’s because you are boring.”

Who defines who is boring and who is interesting? Are some individuals interesting to all persons? Are some individuals boring to all people? Are you - with reference to the quote above - bored only because you are a boring person?

Konya, 7 July

I listen to Sevde’s breathing change as she falls asleep. Our beds form an L, such that without moving, I can study her face. Thirteen years old and wrapped up in pink, she rests on her right side. I am glad that her restlessness has ceased, even if, by falling asleep, she has left me. Of everything I want for her, perhaps foremost is peace. Outside of our window, Konya is quiet; along houses built of cinder blocks, nothing living stirs. This is not a city of strays.

It is our second and last night together. On the eve of my departure, I find myself tense. “Why do you have to go?” Osman asked after pouring the tea. “Sueda, Sevde, Nihal and Fatma all want to know. They do not understand.” The question stretched between us, quivering, like a sheet hung in the breeze. Try as I might, I found nothing to say. Dear God, forgive me.

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