Yet at one time, we had roses in our minds.
We looked at fruit trees and lilies,
we were seduced by beautiful scents
we had passion that grew roots, deep encounters.
We found what we were meant to find
The cries of the Night Bird
make us feel mad with courage.
And our fears dissolve into calm
as we wait for morning.—Gülten Akın’s Night Bird, translated by Alice Melike Ülgezer and Özlem Özmetin
It was mid-December when Serra and I found ourselves standing outside the historic building where we worked. Everything felt festive, and the lights sparkled brightly at the traditional market under the Portico dei Servi, one of the oldest porticos in the city of Bologna. We were taking a break from the ritual Christmas party, when she told me she’d be flying back to Istanbul, where she grew up, to spend the holidays with her parents. We weren’t particularly close, but not strangers either, having shared a few meals in the communal spaces. Dreaming of Istanbul and its well-known ancient markets, I asked if she would mind bringing me home some spices. Neither of us could have imagined what these words would come to mean.
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