When I Hear Turkish

By: Adam Amjadi

 

For Selma

 

When I hear Turkish, I first am reminded

of the salt of the Mediterranean, and summer heat

that makes your face wet and the ground dry.

 

Then, I can smell cigarette smoke from my grandma’s balcony.

Anneanne, I call her— mother of my mother.

And I am her torun, grandchild, a promise in the flesh.

 

I see my other relatives, too, dancing at weddings,

jovial, smiling as they greet each other.

Maşallah, they say when they hear about Betül’s children in America,

doing well in school, making the bloodline proud…

 

The streets of Antalya materialize before me,

and I taste the same kokoreç I grew up with,

from the restaurant right across the street

by the apartment complex where I spent all my summers as a child.

 

I picture a proud, headstrong people,

in love with their vatan and their istiklal,

with a long history yet so much to learn—

much unspoken guilt between them all,

but also resilience, and a linkage of arms in the face of hardship.

 

When I hear Turkish,

and the words roll off the tongue and into the ear,

I access a deep, hidden knowledge

of what a home can be.