What Would Matter 20 Years From Now?

Tiny arms flung around my neck, I enjoy a moment of peace. I often find myself thinking about the word "peace" - not the inner one anymore it seems, because I've felt at peace with myself for a long time now. I’d often use self-scrutiny in my 20s. I'm now quite easy on myself. When one does not have problems with oneself, one often looks at the world outside of them – it is never entirely outside of us. Also, when one has issues with oneself, one can be rude to others. I learnt of some nasty comments that a person made about me and my partner some years ago. I do not know the owner of the comments. My partner does. He was the one to tell me what a student of his wrote about our marriage: That he married a student of his, and that she guesses we will get divorced soon. Perhaps, several years ago, I would have spent an hour analyzing the situation. But let's admit it. She could've been nastier. Not knowing we fight the same fight as women. We were harrassed by the same cultural norms and people in Turkey. How could she write such things? My partner was never my lecturer, I met him before attending the same university he was working at, and we fell in love at first sight, and what started the relationship was a lovely coincidence outside of the school. In a few months we made it official that we are there for each other forever. I do not have to explain. If no interests are involved, I could have still been his student, and he my professor though. How could people make nasty comments about people whom they do not know? I often feel the same way about celebrities. They are way too exposed and vulnerable. I could have thought in detail, blaming her, and going on forever. I did not. I even smiled to find out about something stupid like this several years after. My partner had thought I had known all this time because other people also made ridiculous comments, they should bury their heads in sand to hide now. I did not analyze the situation, partially because we are very happy together but also because I stopped taking things personally, and too seriously. There are more important matters in the world, and if I ever reach the age of 80, I want to see a full life when I look back. I do not get bogged down by small stuff. Back to the moment. The little one is merrily curled into me. We are living in a bubble, or are we? I have my confidantes, I have my soulmate, and I am doing what I care about. That is when some feelings start to kick in. I like to think of my work as a platform, a dimension, a space where I can share the sentiments, incidents, and thoughts of humans. I've heard and seen many stories. Perhaps too many. The little one is sleeping soundly. Crimes against humanity. My stomach twisted, I scrape my hair back, and take a deep breathe. I often write comedy. I like to see the funny side of everyday dilemmas. I often forget about any possible traumas of the past. I never let anything to get to me in the long-term. That is why I forget to mention certain incidents when asked about my memories. Not important. But when there is a trend, it is important. When particularly children, women, and animals are abused or harrassed, there is a problem. When you point at your harasser in the public transportation, and other people including your friends do not take you seriously, and talk about it as a light subject, it matters. I adorn an updo, and wait at the bottom of the slides, my arms outstretched to lift my little one up. Not all children are as lucky. The images I saw are stuck in my head forever. It is guilt building in. We have to do something. NOW. I can be blunt when asked for advice. I then write. I sit down and write about those who are not so lucky. My partner and I considered many possibilities for the little one before he was born. We are not worrywarts, but in an ugly world, you think. Hopefully, with the help of a friend, I will soon finish a screenplay about Syria. Not to feel holier than thou, not to see my job as a holy mission, but because I absolutely feel for others. Days slide into weeks, and weeks into months. I have a pleasantly ordinary, and surprisingly extraordinary life, and I want everyone to have their basic needs met, and have a full life. At some moments of bliss, those images of victims of war occur in my head. As if I have swallowed something bitter after a dessert. Today, many of you will see the videos of people from Aleppo who might be dead by now. There is a Turkish proverb which does not translate well into Turkish; it goes “Mankind has fed on raw milk.” and means human beings can do awful things. And yet there area many who are to lend a hand. We may seem to be busy with and in our bubbles. Posting, laughing, travelling, eating… I often like to joke when it comes naturally (that is how my mind works without much effort), and hope some others find what I share amusing or curious, and they smile. The other part of me writes the brutally sad stories in the hope that they will remain so on paper or in digital formats. When I laugh it does not mean that I have forgotten about the humanity forever. Some incidents instill in you a sense of determination. Because you are a woman, you do not want to be defined by how you look. You want to build a CV, a life full of love, deep thoughts, and wonderful experiences. Everybody deserves the same. I can only be a pen guerilla for now. The little girl and boy suffering from the actions of greedy and lost souls, I am here to share your story with the whole world. I wish I could ease your pain, and would give up my little material tastes, or share my love and happiness with you if I knew it could solve all the problems for you. Perhaps something that I can thank my parents for: I have been brought up to be conscious of not being a nuisance, and not to rely on anyone. I shall not keep this one long. I wish you all a good day, a good year, a good life as I conclude my daily blessings :) Do not let little things get you down. Instead, let's make others' voices get heard. I thank everyone who are involved in doing so. P.S. A few Syrian refugee children we met in Istanbul some years ago, tried to tell us how men shot people by making gestures. The oldest was 5 years old. It never made into our stories.