I look out the window, the streets are white, Ankara is under the snow. Even though it's my first year here, I can't deny this weather. I studied at the university in Kütahya, very close to here. I am not far from this geography, you will understand, maybe that's why I'm not cold. I remember my days in Kütahya. A hidden tune rises within me.
“Look at Ankara's stone / Look at the tears in my eyes”
Here I am now. Despite all the roads closed… I'm done, we can go out now. I'm wrapping myself up, I'm going to open the door and step into the street soon. As soon as I open the door, a wind hits my face, it cuts through my skin, it's like my eyes are freezing. It is difficult to walk in the snow; You have to put your feet on the ground, I want to walk to the street and turn a car among the sounds of squeaking. The street is empty, if a taxi came… A taxi appeared at the beginning of the street, I raise my hand and let him see me. The car forcibly stops and I get in the car with difficulty. I say, 'Have a good day, to Kızılay, please'. Without a response to my words, the car moves. An uncle in his sixties is listening to a folk song on the radio, even after three or five minutes of waiting time, drops are falling from my lashes on my cheeks, I lean my head against the glass and listen to the voice coming from the radio;
“Your destiny…” says Ruhi Su.
…Seventies… It is the middle of January and Ankara is under the snow again. A man leans his head against the window and looks out. His excited wait was interrupted by a cry of a baby, he turned and took the baby brought towards him in his arms, hearing the sound of his heartbeat. She placed the baby back in the nurse's lap as if something was going to happen. It was the first time that the man had such fear in his arms. Later they gave that fear a name; Fazil. He carried a huge fear in his arms for days, then one day the doctor announced that Fazil had to have a minor surgery. This time, her mother raised what was small for the doctor. He said that with an operation his lip would be corrected, it was as if a volcano had erupted in the depths of the woman's heart. Fazıl had an uneventful operation and they continued their lives from where they left off, with lip exercises. But the harbinger that Fazil will be a different child; It's not a lip print, it's a genius. They understood this with the organ they put in front of them at a young age. Those who listened to what he played with that organ were surprised, who are they? The guests who came to their homes at that time… They were not ordinary people. It was an environment where contemporary conversations from music to literature took place, records were played, and all kinds of intellectual actions took place. Thus, Fazil grew up by being fed from this environment. 'Wow, what a Luck… Ah! Fate…'
“… mind your business / Wake up wake up ”
“My daughter, my daughter!” I wake up with the voice of the driver calling out. 'You did not say where we are going in Kızılay.' says.
…Eighties… You know, on snowy winter days, children go out to play snowballs. While they were playing, there was a boy who was walking with books in his hand on the snow; That boy is Fazil. How so? He was going to the conservatory; He was educated as gifted children and graduated in the second half of the eighties. The joy of his fingers playing on the keys of the piano is seventy to him as a child. He has worked hard alongside his intelligence. Gazi Kemal's aphorism comes to mind; 'Turkish, Meal, Work…'
“… Güven – to Güvenpark” I say to the driver. She says "Okay girl" and changes the channel because the song is over. A few channels are passing, he doesn't like any of them. Then I hear Güvenç Dağüstün's voice on the radio;
“Most of the fault is yours, my dear brother / Dear Brother” I turn my head into the car, the poem 'You're like a Scorpion' by Fazıl from the album 'Autumn Songs' and my favorite poet Nazım, but it changes that too.
…The nineties… A fat young man was walking with firm steps on the European Roads. First, he received higher education with a scholarship in Germany, then he taught piano and music in Berlin. He still has to work, this time to live. Being the son of a pharmacist mother and a music writer father, Fazıl had to earn money to both live and continue his education in Europe at that time. Mid nineties and New York… Participated in competitions. First in Europe, then in America... Now that he can give a concert, I don't know what could be better for a piano artist. He starts composing with the poems of Metin Altıok and Nazım.
Brake noise… The car slides to the right and I feel like I'm about to hit the front seat. The driver, who did not see the car in front, almost collided with the one in front. What are you doing, I ask. I'm sorry, my daughter got her license from the butcher, she starts counting by saying … …. Please, you were dealing with the radio, didn't you notice that the car stopped, I couldn't understand why you changed the radio. Most of the fault is yours, my dear brother, I say. He looks at me strangely. I didn't tell you, it was the song playing on the radio, can you go back to that channel while you're at it? Saying repentance, he turned to the front and began to pass the radio channels. I say Serenad Bağcan, yes, let him stay here.
I catch the "let me look at the sky" part while holding out "Let me look at the sky". Ah! Turgut Uyar, I say. Sir, my daughter, says the driver. I didn't tell you, I say. He mumbles something vaguely, I ask, are you going to say something? Says Fazil Say. I say yes. Well, well, she did that, she did that… Anyway, my daughter asks, "We don't understand these songs, do you understand them?" How so, I ask. I like and listen to folk songs, sometimes I listen to arabesque if I can't find it in the car. If he understands us, they will understand, how can this Fazil understand? I can understand that you don't understand his compositions and music, and you don't prefer it, but you say that Fazıl Say doesn't understand you, I don't think so. Because he is telling about Aşık Veysel, who was raised by this land as a son of this land, by playing his compositions in his concerts all over the world. It tells about our literature, our culture. He is waving our flag, people all over the world love and listen to this man. If only we could care that much and do something, for example, if the name of the street you are passing through was Neşet Ertaş, if Ulvi Cemal Erkin had written, in the garden of a park, we would have told and listened to our children. For example, if we had not fallen so far from ourselves, if our children had not become alienated from their own culture. That's why there is Fazil Say, to explain it with notes. 'We're here girl, where should I download it?' In a suitable place, I say. After a while I stop and ask how much. I pay the fee and open the door and get out of the car.
The wind blowing on my face… I feel cold until I open my eyes, I come to my senses with a start. What are you doing, close the window, I say to my colleague. He asks, "Let the office get some air, which is so stuffy, and who are you talking to, you didn't even notice I came in?" Who, with anyone… I was finalizing my article this month, maybe you heard me reading it aloud, I say. Come on, he says as he closes the window.
I look at my computer screen and what is written on a blank page again is as follows;
A person who can fly at any height