The Great Blue / For Hasan Polat…

"If I am left thus among stones and pits / Solitary, despised, defenceless / And if my destiny is thus blackened / I swear, I vow, I promise / My sigh will not be left unanswered on this earth" / Enver Gökçe

It was years ago. The New Year was drawing near. The streets, avenues, and marketplaces were bustling with people; gifts, parcels, and Christmas trees were shining brightly. When December and the festive season arrived, people would naturally wonder if it was going to snow; for children in big cities, snow was a joy, as was watching it fall while sitting inside a warm home during the celebrations. To me, however, the very thought always felt cold. I could have loved the snow, but first, every inequality in the world had to be dismantled. Little did I know that year that I was about to receive one of the most precious gifts of my life. A massive envelope arrived in the post. Brimming with excitement, wondering what on earth it could be, I opened the package. From the Tekirdağ F-type prison, friends who had been yearning for the "Great Blue" for years, whose faces I had never once seen, were wishing me a happy New Year with three poetry books and a letter. In truth, I had been corresponding with one of these friends for the past few years; the person who introduced us has now drifted into the muddy waters of the past, yet a profound connection had formed between us. Life was strange and beautiful like that. Among the books that arrived, I already knew Enver Gökçe, but it was then that I first discovered Cemile Çakır and Süreyya Berfe.

"If one day everything should come to an end / If my mind, my heart, and my poetry grow old / If I remember nothing of what I have lived through / If the fire in my flesh, the flame under my skin should leave me / If I do not know where you are / And if nobody else knows either / I will surely wake in the quietest of mornings / Who knows what will cross my mind / Will rooms, houses, cities feel too narrow? / Will past days, papers, books feel too narrow? / Will time feel too narrow? I do not know. / I will get up and lie down on a couch / When I wake, I will say 'The world, humanity, and life' / Looking out the window at a tree / At a bakery, a greengrocer, an all-night coffeehouse / At a child pulling the duvet over their head in play / At a young girl making her father tell her a story / At a woman who withheld nothing while she lived / Looking at all of this, I will say 'The world, humanity, and life' / 'Whatever happens, happens because I loved you.'" / Süreyya Berfe

Only those who truly loved "the world, humanity, and life" could endure and resist decades behind bars, I used to think to myself. They undoubtedly felt the chill of those cells, those ice-cold walls, most acutely during the winter months; it was highly probable that winter was the hardest season of all. Besides, they had written it in a letter: they said it was very cold there... and I had frozen too. I understood even back then that "the light had turned its back on us". Though the sun rose every single day, it remained a place of darkness. One only truly understood the tyranny, the cruelty, and the malice when looking deeply into human nature—and you didn't need to be locked up inside to see it; looking closely was enough.

Every time I received a letter from the inside, as I read through the pages of paper they wrote, my heart would fill with a feeling that it was they who were giving me hope against life, encouraging me to live. It was extraordinary. I would read those letters not once, not twice, but over and over again, because they didn't just contain a dry "how are you, hope you are well"; within them lived poetry, literature, nature, art, and a bit of politics. It made you want to read endlessly. Moreover, I was gaining knowledge; what more could I ask for? I had been yearning for such conversations, for this way of speaking, even if silently, for a very long time.

Hasan, Haydar, and Hikmet. As if by design, all their names began with the letter 'H'. One day, they had a photograph taken to keep as a memory of their imprisonment; thinking of me, they sent me a copy. My joy blew through my mind, tangled once again with sorrow. On one hand, I was experiencing indescribable beauty; on the other, injustices stared straight into my eyes, piercing my heart. Can a country be so hostile to the light and to those who chase that light? For after all, were they not the ones who remained forever free even while captive?

One day, the letter and books I sent came back. I couldn't make sense of it; I assumed there must have been some administrative mishap. I sent the letter again. But when it returned a second time, I was at a complete loss. After all, I only knew his name and the names of his cellmates; there was absolutely no one else I could ask. I felt helpless. Pressing the matter was impossible because the consequences were severe; he had to endure, perhaps he had retreated into himself, or perhaps other misfortunes had occurred. Questions upon questions... For years, I asked myself these questions in absolute silence, telling no one. I kept thinking that perhaps I would never see my pen pal in this lifetime, a friendship that will always remain one of the most beautiful stories of my life.

After that final letter returned, I gave up and stopped sending mail. I wanted to so badly, I was intensely curious, but I found myself caught in such a whirlwind of confusion that I simply didn't know what to do. I knew the agony of waiting, so I told myself to wait; I comforted myself this way, knowing that such a deep connection could not have been in vain—even if I couldn't prove it, I could feel it.

Years had passed since our last communication. Then, the other day, a message appeared on my phone: "I am in the Great Blue now." My pen pal was sending me the news of his freedom. After spending thirty years in a cell, never stopping for a moment and continuing to create even there, he had been released. In his own words, he said, "My free captivity is over." At such a moment, you want to leap into the air and throw your arms around their neck, yet once again, roads and distances stand in the way of living our joy that way. He had put in some effort to find me too; he knew I was a musician who performed at events, he had my name, and eventually, through a mutual friend who could reach me, he found my phone number.

"How can someone who closes their window to the sky ever know the agony of a falling star?" / Cemile Çakır

Now, he is in a village enveloped by the lush green mountains and valleys of the Eastern Black Sea, alongside his mother and father. He is living the justified joy of reuniting with his loved ones in the great blue and overcoming immense longings. He is catching up with those who deserve it most. He is adapting his wings to the great blue, gently easing himself into life's new flow and rhythm. He is surrounded by birds, squirrels, cats, and dogs, right in the very heart of tranquility. What is more, he recorded and sent me the sound of flowing water—though as far as I recall, I had never told him how much I love the sound of water, or how profoundly happy it makes me feel.

That is precisely what friendship is. Sometimes there is no need to see, to touch, or even to stand side by side; a magnificent force brings you together from afar, and you begin to understand why those who remained in the muddy waters of the past stayed there. For everyone navigates their own waters—some in the "Great Blue", others in the murky and shallow shallows.