red rocky land

At sunset we drove out to the tip of the Karpasian Peninsula. As I stood under the blushing sky, the sound of waves and flags snapping, I oriented my body towards the border between Hatay and Syria, my feet pointing with the spear of red rocky land. Thoughts swelled, running like a tide, with the consistency of sea foam.

I might never get to see the place where my father was born. The little Syrian border town with the hospital named after his father—he was a doctor there— the dusty streets where my grandmother bought chocolate from a Turkish bakkal on the other side— I had planned to see it all with my Tante Leyla before the war. It was supposed to be during an April.

I inhaled deeply, wondering if the scent on the wind was edged in Syria or Turkey.



On our drive back to the hotel, the radio began spattering in Arabic.
The only words I understood were 'Daesh' and 'bomb'.