“Brother Ercan, now I understand socialism. Now I know who these people are, the people they call socialists. A socialist is someone who offers his eggs to his friends even when he’s hungry.”

*

I am in Istanbul. Now I am running the hospital. I no longer have hunger issues but I have brothers in the hospital who do. The long hunger strikes that began in 2000 have come to an end and the strikers who are still alive have started their recovery. Several have come to my hospital. But no one quite knows just what kind of treatment is needed. This is the longest hunger strike in recorded history. These young men are nothing but skin and bones, stuck in their beds, and the silken hair of the women has become so fine it’s hardly even there. Looking out at the world through faded eyes from an eerie darkness, they are lost in a blurred consciousness, unaware that the strike is over.

I was under the impression the days when people lay down to die from hunger to teach others were over. I was wrong. It seems that’s not the case. That’s just the way it is. Oppression and hostility never went away. How quickly I forgot the story of Cain and Abel. The marble altars await new victims. Come on, let’s all gather round and idly watch. But notice how small it is. We can’t all fit around the table of this earth. We are drowning in a sea of pride and we have no idea that our mills have fallen silent and our flour is gone. Our ovens have turned black like our hearts.

Now it is not the smell of bread in the air but the smell of blood …

Alright then. What should we say? Bon apetit …

10

What’s Left for Us

“Yaşar Bey and his friend from the Bülbül Neighborhood are waiting outside. They would like to see you,” said my secretary and I hesitated for a moment. Bülbül is a neighborhood below Dolapdere, on the way up to Taksim. I couldn’t recall a Yaşar Bey. But so be it. “Have them come in.”

A little later a short, middle-aged man who was lame in one foot and dressed in a shabby black suit came into my office with a chubby-faced, young man. Yaşar Bey and his friend. With a grateful expression on his face, Yaşar began:

“How do you do, Doctor? Yaşar, from Bülbül. Do you remember me? This here is my friend Kamil.” I didn’t and so naturally I said:

“Of course, Yaşar Bey, please.”.

“The girl’s fine now … Last Sunday our friends looked after her, many thanks to them. You called and warned them. About the money. Her fever broke. We had the tests again and she was fine. So you see, for the last couple days me and Kamil have been knocking our heads together, wondering what we could do for the doctor. We heard you liked the clarinet. So in the end we decided on that.”