Good Morning, Ester (Morning, Day 1)

The sun finally rose. The dim grey that had been trying to steal through my window gave way to the clearest, deepest blue. I opened the balcony door, stepped outside and felt a damp breeze caress my face. I breathed in the clammy morning air, hoping that it would dispel some of the heaviness in my head. There was something about the chill that I liked, however, something invigorating. The city had awoken. Shouts and cries rose up from the street below; jokes and wisecracks, the rattling of yoghurt vendors’ carts, the rumble of carriages trundling past… the familiar rush of the streets of Pera. Down below, the glowing white waters of the Golden Horn stretched away like a lake of milk, flecked by the ashen stains of a few boats bobbing on the waters. I cast my mind back to the tranquil waters of Salonika. That endless blue stretching from the bay out towards the open sea…

If I remember correctly, the balcony of my house in Salonika was wider than this one… How my heart aches when I say the word remember. Is it possible for someone to forget the city of his birth? The house in which he was raised? Of course not. One cannot forget but time, slowly, inexorably, begins to erase the memories, one by one. Death begins with the loss of one's city. I can't remember who said those words, but how unfortunate that he was right. There is one crucial omission, however: death begins with the loss of one's city and is completed with the loss of the homeland. That is the feeling that now haunts me. My city I have long since lost. Now it is time to lose my homeland. Perhaps I have already lost it and I am just oblivious of the fact.

Indeed, what is a country? A handful of earth, wide seas and deep lakes? Is it rugged mountains, fertile plains, lush forests, crowded cities and scattered villages? No, a homeland is more than just that.