Letters from Ankara

[ManBear]

Jagiellonian University, Krakow, Poland - August, 2006

Cicadas sang their dry tune in the cobblestoned courtyard of Jagiellonian University, their cadence filling the silence during lectures while the humans that inhabited the historic buildings were stuck inside. Above that the faint hum of bees drifted through the ivy-covered cloisters. drawn to the flowers that stubbornly bloomed in the summer heat. At a nearby café across the street the the sound of steam from an espresso machine filtered in with the soft jazz playing from a iPod HiFI placed on the counter as a group of teenage girls playing hooky from their studies giggled amongst each other as they ogled the newest teen heartthrob on their phones.

The sound of gentle conversation filtered through the air as a group of university students lounged on benches underneath the ancient chestnut trees the dotted the courtyard. Their conversations shifted between politics, philosophy, and the cheapest place to get beer. Crickets even chirped beyond stone gates, just on the edge of Planty Park. It all felt timeless. An eternal Krakow where crown and cathedral watched generations come and go. But behind this gentle hum of summer life, something moved between the surface.

Among a group of linguistic students was a young woman with a borrowed name and a forged past. He laughed at the right moments, asked harmless questions, and carried a small book of Turkish poetry. Officially she was a graduate assistant. Unofficially, she answered to the Office of State Protection. The Kingdom of Poland, a modern monarchist state, had long played a game of diplomacy and quiet resistance. Far across the Black Sea, the People's Republic of Turkiye cracked down on students who spoke out against the regime and had even gone as far as to demand that the Kingdom break its own constitutional laws and persecute those students. Dared to asked the nation known to harbor Dissidents of the old soviet union to crack down on those who dared to speak of reform, freedom, and truth. Crack down on those who despite the iron fist that ruled them that still carried a dream within their chests and had the courage to vocalize that for the world to hear despite the consequences. Most had not been fortunate enough to make it out of Turkiye. A very precious few had made it to safety however under the guise of a cultural exchange. And they were being watched.

A young man she recognized as a Political Science student from one of the lectures she had attended. She also recognized him from the dossier she had been given before assuming her position here within the University. Upon spotting him roughly fifty meters away, she said her goodbyes to her group of friends as she began walking in the young man's direction. She began digging into her large bag on her shoulder absent-mindedly as if looking for something within the black hole.

Her path was carefully chosen to intercept him from the side and cause a collision. The collision of the two bodies through the smaller woman to the ground, scattering her belongings on the ground, including the small red book of Turkish poetry.

"Kurwa mać!"

Jay

 

[Jay]

Mert adjusted the strap of his worn canvas bag as he stepped out of the old lecture hall, blinking against the bright sun. The courtyard outside buzzed with fall wind. He took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs like a reset. It smelled faintly of linden trees and espresso.

He hadn’t planned to attend the lecture. Not really. But it was easier than sitting alone in his rented room, scrolling through headlines from home. Ankara felt far away, yet it lived in him like a bruise he kept pressing. He wished he was back home. He felt hopeless at times just watching the protests from the safety of his apartment television screen.

His father used to walk him through Ulus when he was a child, past the old Republican buildings, pointing out how every stone held a story. The man had been an officer in the army once, back in the politically volatile '80s, before he retired and left the country altogether as the situation only got worse. Germany had offered better options; his uncle ran an automotive parts business near Cologne. Mert spent three formative years there before the family returned and his father opened a small appliance store on the edge of Izmir, where they were from. They were secular, fiercely so, his mother made sure he read both Orhan Pamuk and Thomas Mann before he turned sixteen. They believed in education like some people believed in prayer.

But belief hadn't protected them when the war started.

When the regime cracked down on dissidents and conscription swept the universities, they fled again this time with fewer illusions. Germany had been crowded, slow with paperwork, and wary. A Polish cultural scholarship had saved him in the end, offering a spot in Kraków for promising foreign students. He hadn’t even known where Jagiellonian was before then. Now, he could almost recite its Latin motto.

He left the shade of the corridor and stepped into the courtyard, hands shoved in his pockets, distracted by the warmth on his face and the jazz drifting across from the café. It reminded him of lazy afternoons at his uncle's shop, the radio low, the world briefly at peace.

And that’s when it happened. A figure veered suddenly into his path. His shoulder clipped something, and then she was on the ground in a flurry of motion.

Kurwa mać!" the Polish woman exclaimed, her voice sharp as she landed hard on the cobblestones.

The young man startled, kneeling quickly to help her. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you...are you okay?”

She looked up, blinking rapidly like someone flustered, but her eyes locked onto his for just a moment too long. “No, it’s...it’s fine,” she said in accented Polish, letting her bag spill further open as she grabbed for the book first. But not too quickly.

He noticed the book, his hand hovering above it. “Nazim Hikmet?” he asked, surprised.

She hesitated before nodding. “You know him?”

A smile touched his lips. “My mother used to read him to me. In Turkish.”

She smiled back, a little shy. “It’s beautiful. Sad, but brave.”

As they gathered the rest of her belongings, Mert looked back at the woman. “Again, I’m really sorry,” he said, brushing his hair from his forehead. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

ManBear