My roots were calling: Welcome us!

My mythical ancestors, who should have disappeared centuries ago, were coming. There was no devil for them. My Yazidi ancestors, unaware of the modern world and organized evil, were coming. They were walking from centuries ago and thousands of miles away. The deep call echoed within me: Welcome them!

My mother must have heard this call too, for she sent me off thoughtfully but proudly. She told me about the hot winds carrying sand. She gave me her white headscarves to protect my face. She showed me how to wrap my face to protect my eyes, mouth, and nose. I was stunned. But I felt it; this was a wisdom about womanhood… That’s why my mother didn’t ask me anything, and I didn’t explain anything to her. We both heard the same thing: “Go meet them!”

I was in the thesis phase of the Master’s Program in Clinical Psychology at Bilgi University. I wrote to my professors that I needed their advice. The department

director prepared and signed a letter for me. It stated that, as a student of the university, I was assigned to research the psychological needs of refugees. “You don’t know what you’ll encounter. Show this when you introduce yourself. This paper can protect you by introducing you. Above all, your well-being is important.”

I was pleasantly surprised. Two white embroidered headscarves and a signed white paper… These were my armor. I was ready to go.

Welcome

I was anxious as I left. Would I have anything to say in response to what I would hear and see? I didn’t know if being a therapist would be of any use.

I was used to meeting in a comfortable room in Istanbul. But in the heat of Silopi, even finding shelter in the shade of tent-like hangars in the open field was a matter of luck. Most were elderly people, children, and women. On the other side, teachers who lived or worked in the area were voluntarily carrying water and food.

When we met, a young male teacher who learned I was a psychologist said to me: “The trauma continues; it’s not time for therapy!” He advised me to carry water if I wanted to help. We carried all the water to the shade together. When we were equally exhausted, he said “Welcome” in an embarrassed way. When I asked if there was anyone who wasn’t drinking water or refusing food,

he pointed to a woman sitting on the ground facing the sun. There was a child next to the woman, and he was crying. The child wanted to sit on her lap, but each time the woman pushed him away and stared into space.

I sat down on the ground in front of him and sat silently for a few seconds. I didn’t know what to say. But slowly, I voiced what was inside me. “I don’t know what you’ve been through. I don’t know what happened to you. I only know that very bad things happened. Maybe if you don’t move enough, time can stand still. Maybe if you stayed silent, it would be as if nothing had happened. Or maybe you could stand still like a stone and wait to turn to stone. Only a stone could bear to see what you’ve seen. What you saw turned you to stone. Because none of it was the kind of thing a human being could do to another human being. A human being wouldn’t do this to another human being. Your brain froze. Your heart froze. Not even this warmth

can melt you. But these things happened. This evil happened. You and your son are here now. He needs you. He needs your warmth and softness. You are the only one who can do him good. Don’t close your arms to him. Otherwise, it will be evil…”

As I spoke, two tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks. She had stopped pushing her child away. The little one had managed to settle into his mother’s lap and was beginning to calm down with his last whimpers. I offered to bring water and food for the child. I asked her to eat a few bites herself. She closed her eyes and nodded in agreement. After bringing the food, I sat with them a little longer and quietly kept them company. I left, saying that I didn’t know if we would meet again, but that I hoped to see her again.

Another child approached me and said his grandmother was calling me. I followed the child. An elderly woman with a white turban and dressed in white, along with several other women, was waiting for me. They welcomed me and made me feel at home. The grandmother asked where I was from and if my family was well. They asked about the distance from Istanbul, how and why I had come. When I said I had come because I thought there might be something I could do for them, their faces lit up. I think it reassured them to know that what they had experienced had been heard of in other parts of the world. On the other hand, she wanted to clarify my reason for coming: Did you really come for us? “Yes. I really came for you.” “You left your family and home to come to such a distant place. Did they give you permission?” “Yes. They gave me permission and sent their regards to you,” I said. “Welcome, you are most welcome here,” I said.

The wise grandmother continued to take an interest in me and asked where I would be staying. She asked with such ease, as if they weren’t staying in an open field or a shed, but had their own home and could invite me to stay. I thanked her for asking and said I would be staying with a friend. Actually, I was going to stay at the teachers’ residence, but both the teachers’ residence and

I didn’t know how to describe it to them, nor did I know if I would be able to find a ride after that hour. The sun was about to set. I was only sure that one of the volunteers would invite me to their home. And that’s exactly what happened.

The following days, I felt a little more at home, more confident in my profession; I could boldly say I was a psychologist. More and more people wanted to talk each day. They would start every conversation by saying, “Tell everyone about this.” But I was a therapist. And I had learned to keep everything I heard to myself. But there was something even stranger. No matter how cruel it was, I had learned to listen to every story, to face all the evil. But I didn’t know what words to use to describe it, how to describe it. If I told them, it would hurt those who heard it. I couldn’t tell them and hurt them. My mouth and tongue couldn’t bring those words together. They would cut my throat, my tongue, my lips; they would make me vomit blood.

I swallowed hard. I held it inside.

I tried to write many times. My computer is full of half-finished texts that I don’t even remember when I wrote. Once, when I tried to gather my notes and read them, my consciousness was cut off; what I had written knocked me to the ground. When I woke up, I was in an ambulance. I had hit the ground so hard that my arm was broken.

I kept it inside. For exactly 10 years.

Now let the earth I worked with my hands, baked in the oven, and hardened speak.