Land of Adonia

A muffled voice, like one coming from a gramophone record. A curly-haired woman sings in Greek. Her voice floats from a few streets away. She lost her mother during the population exchange. She couldn’t even bear to imagine the longing. Adonia still can’t forget the rejection — or her mother. When she remembers the evenings of her childhood, she strums her oud in rebellion, tears streaming down her face.

The streets of the town once echoed with the sounds of the bouzouki and oud blending together. Back then, no one had yet witnessed the population exchange. Despite the poverty and hardship, people were unaware of what awaited them. They were hopeless — and yet somehow carefree. Sometimes, songs were sung in Turkish. The neighborhoods would challenge each other with songs in each other's languages, and then all break into dances. Strike and clash, play and whirl. Glasses of rakı, filled with plums and ice, would be raised on tables draped with white cloths sticky as gum. Plane trees towered above, sailors' lanterns hanging from their branches. Poverty, yes — but no one cared, not on those pleasant Aegean evenings.

Children would stretch up on tiptoes, barely tall enough to reach, and steal mulberries from the table. Then they would dart off and hide, laughing, so they wouldn’t get caught. They huddled in corners, slurping the stolen fruit, juices dripping down their chins. They were scared of their parents, but the fun was worth the few slaps they got when the mischief was discovered.

A church at one end, a mosque at the other. On every religious holiday, one neighborhood visited the other. There was Hasan, always hanging around — the neighborhood’s madman, its beloved fool. They dressed him up splendidly every holiday, no matter whose celebration it was. The aim was simple: to cheer Hasan up. And when Hasan smiled, everyone smiled. When he laughed, the whole street laughed with him.

They knew evening had arrived when Khiristos shouted, “You’ve ruined the door, you scoundrels!” Like clockwork, he appeared on the bay window divan at the same time every day. Every evening, without fail, he would sweep away the sunflower seed shells left behind by the children who gathered in front of his door just to tease him.

As Adonia reached girlhood, the neighborhood changed for her. The men began to follow her with their eyes. Parents grew worried that their sons and daughters might be consumed by the fire of youth. Eye contact at dinners, shy smiles… But in time, they mingled freely. No one cared anymore about language or religion. From childhood to youth, from youth to adulthood — friendships endured for life.

Captain İbrahim would row into the breakwater, letting go of the oars to escape the wrath of the waves. He dangled the fish he caught from his fingers to excite the children waiting on the shore. From afar, the fish sparkled in the setting sun — too bright to identify. The children would cry out “Horse mackerel!” as they squirmed in the bucket.

“No money, no money. No trouble, no worry. We lived with whatever came our way,” says Adonia.

But he was gone. And he never returned.

The last time she saw Captain İbrahim was in the courtyard of the mosque — at the last funeral they attended. After that, the tables lost their flavor, their harmony fell apart. The songs fell silent. No heart, no hand reached for the lute or bouzouki. A quiet anxiety settled over the neighborhood. Then they said: “You are going to your country.”

Adonia wanted to ask, which country? But she stayed silent.

That day, she realized for the first time that her name was Adonia.

Not Ayşe. Not Fatma. Adonia.

Khiristos cried. The angry, stubborn old man of the neighborhood handed sunflower seeds to the children — not to eat, but to plant. The children stared at the cones of seeds in their palms with confused surprise. They didn’t understand what was happening. Neither Mehmet nor Dimitri.

Khiristos turned to Adonia with teary eyes: “Adonia, I don’t understand why we are leaving our lands. Why are we being torn from our roots? What did I ever do to anyone? I just sat here and looked around. Sometimes my voice was too loud, I admit. Maybe I got too angry at the scoundrels. But in the end, it was always me who cleaned up the mess. Oh Lena, oh! Would this have happened if you were still alive?”

That day, Adonia was unconsciously angry at Khiristos. Her own pain was enough for herself. Later, she regretted the anger. But she was still thinking of Captain İbrahim.

Everyone was worried about something. Adonia, like a chick caught in the middle, was stretching out toward adventure without knowing what awaited her. Cowardly, childlike — as if wanting to take refuge in her mother’s arms.

Rumor had it her mother died a few days after hearing the words “your country.”

Her heart could not bear the grief.

Adonia tried to console herself: “At least she’ll rest in her own land.”

At one point, she lifted her head from her oud. She looked out into the distance. She took a drag from her cigarette.

“We used to sing this one a lot,” she said.

She began to strum the oud again, as if sending the tune across the sea.

She smiled faintly and muttered, “I wonder what they’re singing on the other side?”

Note: This story is inspired by memories of the population exchange period, as told to me and shaped by my imagination.