Benim çiçeğim - Ulker Babaanne

My Ulker Babaanne passed away on Thursday morning, just four days after Mother’s Day and eight days after her 85th birthday. To write in the past tense feels like I am sealing a fate that does not yet exist, like maybe if I don’t write this I can suspend time to before she was gone. As reality cruelly floats in and out of my mind, I am pained with the realization that she won’t be there in the living room whenever I next go to Turkey, won’t be there in the mornings at the kitchen counter snacking on cheese and bread because she can’t wait for us, and won’t be there napping when I’m reading on the sofa. Her absence is the presence of my pain.

For her 85 years, she was a shining light and an outspoken force to be reckoned with. When my grandparents met while working as census workers, my grandfather’s conservative family did not approve of my liberal, head-scarf free babaanne. Unphased by the opinions of others, my grandparents married and have been together for over 60 years. Babaanne was a Turkish and Literature teacher and over the years, I have had the pleasure of meeting her old teacher friends and even old students, who loved her so much that they would visit our home just to have tea and cookies with her despite decades having gone by. As I listened and watched, it was clear that my babaanne was one of those special teachers who alters your life, even if you don’t know it at the time. Her words and her way of being were mesmerizing. The last time I saw her, she was still transcribing poetry, quotes, and recipes into her dilapidated and well-loved journal that never leaves her side. 

For the past 15 years, she has been battling Parkinson’s disease, slowly deteriorating with each visit, but despite the severity of the shaking, of the pain, she refused to give in. She lived her days fully — making multiple dishes in the kitchen, swaying to classical music on the radio, and changing up to three times a day for the sake of feeling beautiful, in spite of her disabilities, and for the sake of appreciating beauty. There was never a flower nor a calming breeze that went unappreciated by her. She loved to adorn herself in intricate jewelry, colorful clothes, and youthful perfume every morning, even if her only plans for the day were sitting in the living room and transcribing in her journal. On lucky days when she was in good spirits, which usually meant we were going out on the town for a cup of tea by the ocean, she would recite poems for us from memory with the clear and strong voice of an old Hollywood actress. 

My babaanne’s love for this world and desire for kindness and peace to those suffering is at the backbone of her being. I would often catch her silently crying at whatever tragedy had struck Turkey or the world that day, wishing that she could do more than watching it unfold. She was a staunch lover of Ataturk, wearing a gold charm of him on her necklace everyday, and a believer in speaking up and fighting for what’s right. When new speakers were brought to their largely non-practising Muslim town, she fought for them to be removed. Quiet was more revered for the residents than the call of the muezzin she argued and sure enough, the speakers came down. In the past few years, her recent joke has been that she would only be okay with dying if Erdogan were voted out of office. In March of this year, the opposition swept local elections in a landslide, leaving Erdogan in the dust and hopefully out of office soon. She cried for joy at the possibility of a more beautiful future for her beloved Turkey.

The last time I was able to speak to her through video call she said she was excited to leave the hospital and have an ice cold beer by the ocean to celebrate the end of Ramadan. She never got the chance to see that through. My next by the ocean will be dedicated to her, as will every tea glass of ice cold Bailey’s, her sweet little favorite that brought a laugh out of her with every sip.

I’ll be writing about my babaanne for the rest of my life, just as she’ll be dancing to classical music in my heart for all of eternity as well. When I wear her jewelry, her clothes that she’s shared with me, and experiment in the kitchen, I know she’ll be there. When I fail, I know she’ll tell me to dust it off and stand tall once more. When I look at the ocean, I’ll forever see her masmavi eyes, radiant and captivating and sparkling with a hint of mischief. 

I wrote this short excerpt two years ago for the Tiny Love Stories featured on The New York Times but it never got featured. It will finally get its light here: 

A light flickered across my Babaanne’s ocean-blue eyes. “I have a surprise for you…in the freezer”. As I rummaged around in the drawer full of unmarked Turkish vegetables and stews, I saw what had lit her with joy - mulberries from the tree across the street. She had instructed my Dede to pick them earlier in the summer, unable to do so herself with her Parkinson riddled body, and froze them just for me. Although a language barrier may make our relationship get lost in translation sometimes, there’s no clearer way to say “I love you” than this.