Letter to Myself
I didn’t want to go to Cappadocia.
You insisted — you forced it.
You said it was for the best, or maybe you didn’t say anything at all.
But I felt it: the pressure to be someone I’m not.
To pass for something easier, more acceptable. An Adana Turk.
When I am not.
I am a Syrian Kurd.
And in the land you pushed me toward, I found something you didn’t expect —
A trace of myself.
The Hacı Bektaş Dergah stood quiet, heavy with spirit.
More than a mosque.
It was resistance. Memory. Fire.
I stood where other Kurds, other Alevis, other seekers stood.
Not erased. Not redefined.
Just present.
You tried to make me forget.
But I remembered —
Even in a place I never chose.