Spring of Mercy | Harun Tokak Column |

Fountain of Mercy

We are back on the road with spring. Bahar also prepares to declare victory in the valleys on the hills.

Spring returns with the city of flowers, insects, birds and butterflies.

This year we enter the spiritual climate of Ramadan with spring. Great days and nights begin. Spring-scented roads lead us to the camp of a noble and distinguished emigrant.

His eyes are like the nights of Ramadan. It’s like a bottomless pit. A well that crystallizes as it deepens. It was as if all the beauties of the world were united in those eyes. It’s as if all the sadness in the world was in those eyes.

The charcoal eyes say it all.

The words do not fit into the sentences, the pain tears his rib cage.

“I was tortured for eleven consecutive days,” he said. It was as if my body had been cut into a thousand pieces.

There were women in the detention center next to us. Both are children. I heard of someone, Musab. I did not know the other.

There were seventeen women in total. We could hear their voices. Babies were brought in to be breastfed around five in the morning.

At this moment, a collective groan broke out from the women’s hearts. It was obvious that when they saw the babies, others also remembered their own babies, their children, their loving homes. This sad scene was repeated every morning. They were on one side and we were sobbing on the other.

We were all tortured for eleven days. Neither the hard beatings, nor the severe tortures, nor any wounds on my body hurt me as much as the cry of mothers mourning their children.

After eleven days, they threw us out on the street like a garbage bag at midnight. It was then. Men and women, old and young, were brought in groups, subjected to heavy torture, and then left to be rearrested. Because prisons and halls were a treasure trove of fish. Prosecutors began taking statements at the police station. It didn’t matter what you said. A form was placed in front of you and you were required to sign it.

I can never forget the cries of those mothers, and I will never forget them for the rest of my life.

Meriç was another drama. It is impossible for those who have not been there to know it.

Just as you cross the river, the flashing lights of soldiers patrolling the river, and you’re stuck like a helpless rabbit with headlights in your eyes…

At that moment, I thought my heart was going to explode with excitement. I just ran for fear of being shot at any moment. I ran to unknown, unknown, foreign lands. There was nothing else to do.

I was in a foreign country now.

The first police car I encountered picked me up and took me to a police station. It was a police station with five detention centers. “Where have I fallen, my God! as soon as I said, a warm voice said, ‘Brother, welcome!’ noted. “We prayed. If you want to do it too, you can do your ablution here.

It is impossible for me to forget this benevolent voice of Mustafa Brother throughout my life.

This service has taught us how people can add value to each other.

This service taught that true brotherhood is not to be born of the same mother, but to be together in feeling, thought and thought.

While we were in the dorm, we had a teacher named Sadreddin Bey. I was in the room next to him. At night, I heard her prayers and her sobs for us. I learned from him to pray for another person’s welfare and guidance and shed tears.

If they split our body not into one but into a thousand pieces, this case will not be over. Here we are. We will dedicate our next life to this place. These people who opened their doors to one of the greatest charitable movements in history richly deserve it.

While the young immigrant speaks, he distances us from ourselves. “Enough brother, enough!” we say.

What kind of trouble is this, there’s no remedy

The pain is not in my body but in my soul

The pain of an invisible wound is too much

The pain is not in my body, but in my soul, oy oy”

In the middle of the night, we leave the young immigrant. A gentle spring wind, carrying breezes from beyond, roams with the scent of happy days.

The joy of Ramadan fills our hearts. “I’m glad you came, O city of Ramadan!” we say.

You came at a time when we were most overwhelmed and constricted. You came at a time when our wounds were wearing us down.

You came at a time when we were overwhelmed by the uninterrupted movements of winter.

You brought the mercy of heaven, the taste and flavor of the past.

Another person senses your coming abroad.

Stateless, stateless…

Everything is fine…

Neither collective tarawih prayers, nor hatims, nor takbirs overflowing from the cupolas…

There are no bright streets like a faster’s face around here.

Those sounds of calls to prayer that come to the fore cannot be heard.

Towards evening, at sunset, when the sun paints its beautiful red eyes, one cannot fully experience the happiness of iftar and the future joy of the apocalypse at such times, at the beginning of the table.

Above all, we cannot forget the tastes and flavors of childhood.

The tastes of childhood always remain in the heart of that child in us who never grows up.

It turns out that the best tastes and flavors come at the best ages.

The iftar tables we sat with our brothers and parents, the tarawih prayers our father took us by the hand, and the pranks we pulled off at the mosque are never forgotten.

The fasts that we open at the head of the fountain with hot katmers from one of the adobe houses in the village every evening, the tarawih prayers led by Mehmet Hodja in hedjaz mode, the salawat and takbirs recited in segâh mode, the sahurs that we make as a family on cold winter nights, stays in our palace like the beautiful days of our childhood.

Everything is like a sweet dream I had last night.

Although almost half a century has passed, everything is still very much alive in my memory.

The sahours where I try to get out of bed rubbing my eyes.

My mother said, “The stove is on in the other room, son. The warmth of his words swells in my nostrils like hot split bread.

Every Ramadan, I return to my village between these mountains, to my childhood.

It seems to me that my late father is sitting cross-legged at the table like a dervish whose light has descended on his tomb.

In the half-light of the kerosene lamp, he makes sahour with kavut bread; I lose my heart to the crackling combustion of the bushes burning on the stove.

I wet my dreams with the phyllo bread that my kind-hearted mother piled up to the ceiling.

By setting it on fire, I warm my back and my cold hopes in the heat of sahour.

My eyes are buried in the dark shadows of the ceiling, the yellow winter melons hanging above us…

The Lahuti morning prayer recited by the late Uncle Aziz brings my trembling body and trembling soul to life.

With the adhan rising from this small temple between the devastated houses, spiritual rains are falling on our poor village from the clouds of spirituality formed in the sky.

Gurbet Ramadans turn bitter.

But whatever, thanks for that.

There is a peace within us, even if it is sad.

is agitated.

The cries of spring are heard everywhere.

If they ask me, “What is Ramadan for you?” I say, “It is a compassionate hand that covers our wounds. It is a fountain of mercy. Ramadan is our childhood. Ramadan is our childhood taste that we can never forget. It is a month where hopes grow with tears.

Ramadan has nights like the black layer of our eye that allows us to see. Nights that deepen in themselves and crystallize as they deepen. Nights that open up to heavenly mornings.

Until dawn, “Is there anyone praying, let me accept your prayer!” called nights.

Bright nights that illuminate our blinded eyes. Nights when the gates of mercy are wide open and the fountains of mercy grow more energized.

Even if it’s for a short time, the nights when we become children and innocent like children again.

Maybe we’ve always been kids, we’ll always be kids. Expatriates, absenteeism, dormitories, the sufferings have grown us. The fears and hurts inside us grew with us.

As we say goodbye to the best days, we also say goodbye to pain and grief.

It is the pain that makes us what we are, the joys that make us what we are. It is the Ramadans, the hatims, the sahurs, the tarawih prayers and the takbirs that make us who we are.

Life is made of traces. What matters is the mark we leave behind. Each place, each memory leaves a trace.

Is it a condition to eat from the same bowl and sit at the same table? Isn’t it enough to be under the same celestial dome?

No matter what season or where Ramadan happens, the climate is completely different.

It is our childhood, our fountain of abundance, a good dose of peace, a lot of mercy.

The holy days when the most sincere prayers are made, the most incurable wounds are healed, compassion and love, forgiveness embraces.

Ramadan is a secret treasure with a thousand and one locks for those who know how to open it.

The rain that falls in the Hejaz is called Ramadan. To sweep away the dust of summer.

You have come, O Ramadan!

Lover with the face of Mehib and crescent eyebrows…

Just as Jacob waited for Joseph…

We were waiting for you as the patient waited in the morning…

You came when our hearts were weary and our hopes were fading.

If you ask us, this is what you see…

Some of us are in prison, some of us are in exile, some of us are in black soil…

We wish you to sweep the dusty earth of sadness in our hearts with your compassionate hands, that all our sorrows disappear before you leave, that the doors of mercy open to forgiveness and the iron doors to freedom!

Hello, O fountain of mercy!

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