In Turkish the word ‘yurt’ has two definitions. It means ‘place’, ‘land’, ‘territory’, ‘homeland’. It could also indicate a round, portable tent, the likes of which have been used by nomadic tribes for centuries. In my imagination I have always liked to combine the two definitions, wondering if motherlands could be just as peripatetic as their people. I know, for one, that no matter how itinerant I might have been all my life, it follows me like a shadow, this sad motherland of mine. Turkey’s many problems occupy my mind, crush my chest, weigh down my soul, invade my dreams. Not only me, of course. There are so many who just cannot help worrying about this beautiful country. Especially since Friday, the night when a horrible coup attempt erupted, killing 290 people, wounding more than 1,400.
Turks are no strangers to coups d’état. It was a running joke as I was growing up in Ankara that democracy was an unreliable clock that every ten years or so stopped working and needed to be wound up again by the army.
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