At age seven, my favorite pastime was sitting on the lowest branch of the pomegranate tree in my front yard. Every April, the tree dressed itself with hundreds of the most beautiful crimson and orange blossoms. A wonderful, sweet and unique aroma surrounded the entire tree, which I still remember to this day. It also gave me a great vista beyond my small world: the street behind the garden wall.
My parents’ house in Istanbul.
One day, I was happily perched on this heaven watching the street, singing to myself. A black car stopped right in front of my house. A serious-looking man in a dark suit stepped out. He walked to the garden gate, opened it with ease. I had seen plenty of men in suits before, but never like this one. Scared, I hid among the branches, not even breathing. Luckily, he did not see me. He walked right to the house along the pathway, stood in front of the big iron front door. He pressed the doorbell for so long that I thought he must be political police of some sort. A few seconds later, I heard the door creaking and my father’s strong voice welcoming this stranger inside.
I had to find out what was going on. I jumped down the tree. The front door was too risky to go in, my father would yell at me for interrupting his meeting. So I went outside, into the street, dashed past the black car, along the garden wall, all the way around the house. I was relieved that no one tried to stop me. Nor did I trip and fall in my panicky sprint. Now I was in the backyard. A few more steps and I entered the kitchen through the back door.
My mom was cooking dinner. Around the kitchen table, my older brother (11 and a half), and my sister (13), were busy with their homework. They occasionally giggled and elbowed each other. Everything looked normal. I was able to catch my breath.
My siblings and I, the “spy-defying” squad, stand between the pomegranate and oleaster trees in the front yard.
My mom noticed my worrisome look. She explained “We have a guest from the Canadian embassy in Ankara. He wants to learn about Tatar people, that is why he is visiting dad”. I already knew that my father was one of the leaders of the Crimean-Tatar diaspora in Turkey. My mom’s beautiful smile reassured me but I noticed more than the usual number of butcher knives on the counter.
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