The Kurtuluş of my childhood... aka Tatavla...
Jews, Greeks, Armenians, Armenians and Turks together; people who grew up on the same sidewalk, bought bread from the same bakery, fought in the same neighborhood game and made up in the evening...
We were not a minority there, we were the neighborhood.
I saw it again when Mamma died.
The church was packed.
Not only Christians; the neighboring aunts with their headscarves, the uncle at the grocery store, Hasan Abi from the apartment across the street...
The churchyard was not enough, we overflowed into the streets.
Because there religion did not come before identity.
There the pain was common.
That was the best thing about Tatavla:
Everyone would cry at the funeral, everyone would go to each other on Eid.
The child at the door at Christmas was the same as the child in line for pita bread during Ramadan.
We used to embrace each other's feasts, mourning and weddings.
This was the neighborhood:
You have the key to the next door neighbor, children are considered the children of all the houses.
Looking back today, I realize this:
It was not our population that made us strong, but our culture of living together.
Tatavla was not just a neighborhood.
It was a state of mind.
It was the name of people who gave each other a shoulder.
And no matter what...
No one can erase that spirit.