“What if we dropped them altogether, son? And I don’t take them at all?” he said, frustrated. I paused for a moment and said:

“Ok dad, let’s drop them, stop taking them.”

He gave me such a look. I knew that he knew I was angry.

“Dad, you know you can’t not take your medicine,” I said, softening my voice.

Gazing hopelessly out the window, he began speaking of Semih Bey, his commander in the army:

“One day they said, ‘there is going to be shooting practice; and the people who hit the target will be rewarded leave time.’ So of course everyone got really into the idea. On our way to the shooting range Semih Bey kicked my foot and said, ‘Shoot wide, shoot wide.’ I didn’t understand what he was saying but I kept shooting for the trailer. But of course the Kurds always turned out to be the best shooters. It’s still the same. They sent all the top shooters out to hunt the mountain men in the east. Waiting to set out on their ‘reward leave’ those soldiers cried to think they were being sent out to kill their own brothers. ‘For the love of God, commander, kill us before you send us there.’ Then they all got their dog tags.” There was sadness in dad’s voice.

A strange silence fell over the room. Truth is I was in a bad mood.

“Dad, where is Semih Bey now?” I asked.

“I think he was in Mersin,” he said, wrestling his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket. I know that in these moments I have to help him. I took his wallet and we started to spread out the business cards he kept beside the bank card he used to withdraw his pension. Yes, here it is, Semih Bey’s business card. Years ago on a trip to Mersin he managed to track down his commander and after a chat he took his business card.

“I can get in touch with him if you want?” I said.

“Really? Is that possible?” he said and then waited in silence. With the number on the card and using a missing number service, I reached the commander’s daughter.

“My dad died two years ago,” she said. At first I didn’t say anything and then I asked her for her mother’s number. A little later I had the commander’s wife on the line. I carried the phone to dad who was sitting in an armchair. Trembling, he rose to his feet, my 85-year-old dad with Parkinsons.

“Yes it’s me, Mevlüt.”

I turned up the volume. This woman was clearly younger than dad but she addressed him as “my son Mevlüt.” Dad was shaken to get the news of Semih Bey’s passing.

“Is that so? We have lost the commander? Is that so?” he said a couple times.

“How are you, my son? How is your health?” Semih Bey’s wife asked.

Then dad repeated those words with a resolve that startled me every time I heard them: