There is something to food beyond the sustenance it provides. There has to be because what compels me to spend a copious amount of money at an Asian restaurant for some rice and a viand just to taste something reminiscent of home?
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27 days and I still refuse to eat. They give me a liquid solution to resist and live. And all I ask for is freedom for me and my family. Here is a summary of my story. These are my crimes.
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I lost my mother when she was finally turning a new page for both of us. I can't describe the feeling of disappointment, of chagrin that she left me with. Cancer stole that opportunity from me.
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Istanbul discourse is a dangerous quagmire of clichés, of which "bRidGe BeTweEn eASt aNd wEsT" is but one. But those of us who have lived here long enough are hyper-sensitive to the political intentions behind every statement concerning Istanbul.
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There is a cloud of doubt over us that can scare us from suggesting things we love to others, even sometimes to people we love. I hate that cloud. I should be able to drag someone to something I like and explain why I do so if necessary.
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Music has the ability to stay with us and it associates itself with a particular time period in our memories. Listening to that piece of music means reliving that moment again. Your body is etched in the present but your mental state is constantly travelling.
It is the story of when you are doing something wrong while failing to comprehend it, so you do it repetitively, you mess up horribly, and experience consequences. Besides that, this is a quirky and at times corny high-school fiasco revolving around 15-year-old Devi Vishwakumar.
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Solarpunk, then, is a challenge to the modern adage that it is easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism, to which I can add ‘and growth-oriented economies’. It seeks to make imagining the end of capitalism easier, to make alternatives more reachable to the popular imagination, and to build community resilience in the process.
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Maybe my immense dislike of cooking and food has everything to do with the gendered aspect of it, the way I have seen my mother spend days and nights in the kitchen. Maybe I did not want to confine myself to it like her, which affected my ways with the food everyone else loves.
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Perhaps it was through my mother’s meals that we were able to enter their community with our Kurdish language and identity. Perhaps this was how we managed to feel as safe as any other family in the neighbourhood.
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I and most of the women close to me lived there and I didn’t recall us ceding the city to the men. Here in Ethos, as if to vindicate me, is the unmitigated identification of Istanbul with its women.
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The personal integration my parents wished for me was a process that ignored my Georgian heritage. I never claimed it and I never learned to claim it either, because I feared the social downfall my parents warned me about.
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