Kulak Değil, Kalp Gerek

She swept a tin hand through her tangled hair. Her heart was laden as she trekked up through the labyrinth towards her grandmother’s house. She had arrived on the knife’s edge of a summer storm. Stepping off the dolmuş just as the sky was dispersing into darkness and the sea was still crashing haphazardly against the jagged rocks. The old cottage was nestled into the mountain at the edge of the village like a caesura — misplaced somehow but still there for effect. A pause in the hubbub of daily life. She hadn’t been there since young adulthood. She sighed heavily when she reached the whitewashed stone. Her hands reached out instinctively to touch a crumbling corner. The shutters were down and the scent of the familiar herb garden – basil, dill and mint had been muted by the rain. The old cypress trees bowed low, heads limp in sorrow. Her eyes felt the all-too-familiar prick of tears as she pushed open the heavy wooden door, knowing the familiar scent of freshly brewed apple tea would not greet her this time. 

The silence was stifling like the thick smoke left over from a forest fire. Her grandmother’s shawl still lay across her favourite chair, next to her black-rimmed glasses. Ilayda smiled at the memory of the two of them dancing to traditional records, the brightly coloured shawl an amusing prop to add drama to the duo’s act. Now only dust motes shimmied in the thin slant of light that had creeped through the shutter cracks.

She stepped out of her shoes, her feet remembering the cool stone floor with ease. The house felt smaller somehow—or maybe she had grown too far from it. The city distancing her from her roots. She moved slowly, trying to force her memories to linger in the corners of joy. A little longer. A little longer before the heavy weight of acceptance would give way to the tumult of grief.

She saw it out of the corner of her eye first. 

Sitting on the kitchen table, exactly where her grandmother had always sat for dolmades and late lunch. The conch. Waiting. As somehow she knew it would be. She had always known this day would come, but still the sight of it was a jolt she was not ready for. lt was larger than she remembered. As pale as ivory with sharp, ribbed edges the colour of burnt saffron and cherry glace.

She approached it tentatively. Her grandmother had spoken of the shell just once, in the same way old women speak of lost lovers and dying traditions.

“It doesn’t speak to just anyone, my flower. You have to earn your ears.”

Her fingertips skimmed the edges carefully. 

The room seemed to haze, like she had fallen into a dream of a dream she had forgotten long ago.

An ancient whisper.

“Aşkın aldı benden beni, bana seni gerek seni.”

 Half in Turkish, half in something older. 

“—gece yelinin taşıdığı sözler… the words the night wind carries…”

Then—

“Bir ben vardır bende, benden içeri.”

  “Ben buradayım… I am here.”

It was her grandmother, but stifled — concertinaed and layered into the folds of others. So many voices. All at once and not at all. The deep baritone of hardy men, soft children’s laughter, a whispered prayer, a hollow scream.

She stumbled backwards, her hand trembling gently.

Outside, the wind garnered speed and the sea swelled higher, breaking like glass against the rock.

The shell had waited.

And now, it remembered her.

Inside the old cottage, Ilayda was rooted to the spot, the conch’s words swilling around her dark hair like the glowing mist of the early morning sea. She could feel the power in the enameled shell garnering within her. She pressed her palms against the oak table. Steadying herself. The silence broke through her thoughts. The silence that had a moment ago felt heavy with abandonment and loss was now poised with expectancy – awaiting her decision.

She listened to the stillness.

Memories returned with a sharper edge. Her grandmother leaning over the tapered candle, lighting passage for the seafarers, The bazaar at the central square, her grandmother animatedly haggling with the merchant over the price of watermelon. The sweet lingering taste of it on her lips. The way she had salted the bread before placing it lovingly in the oven – never without the mandatory blessing of fulfilling offerings and peace. And the quieter moments. The ones she had not noticed when her grandmother had been alive. The way she would stand at the window looking out to the sea, as if she knew its depths. As if she held the truth in her heart. The way she would stop mid-sentence as an unheard voice reminded her of something far away. The subdued smile. The crinkle in the wrinkles around her dark eyes.

Ilayda rose carefully, crossing purposefully to the kitchen window, before pushing open the shutters to allow life in once again.

The garden had been bruised by the rain, but it was still clinging to life. Grateful for a little water. It smelled of damp earth and churned salt tinted with basil.

Ilayda stared out at the vast expanse of ocean. She didn’t fully understand what had happened. Not yet. But she understood what she had to do next.

She would listen. And she would wait for silences in the in-between. The gaps in noise where truth speaks loudest.

Just as her grandmother always had. 

—–

Donning her shabby sandals and with the shell in her bag, Ilayda stepped out of the garden and made her way down into the town. She had not seen or felt the humanity of her childhood summers in such a long time. The city was cruel. The skyscrapers and office blocks taking over the mosaiced structures and gentle truth of heritage. Sometimes, when she found herself alone with her thoughts she thought of the cobbled streets beneath her feet- the stories they would tell. 

She teetered down the steps carved into the rock, reaching the bottom, the village opened up before her, full of promise and the past she revered.She walked past the old fishermen – they donned their caps, a sign of respect for her grandmother. She in turn nodded. Grateful for the small comfort. They had loved her. Respected her. She recognised faces – the lines more etched- stronger, but the eyes still the same- sparkling with the light of the sea. She continued through the dock and into the central walkway, the bazaar of her childhood fantasies twinkling in the distance. 

“Fuck you” a harsh, unfamiliar voice shatters her trance. 

Ilayda stopped mid-step, her fingers tightening instinctively around the strap of her bag. In that singular moment, the spell of salt and cypress cracked the veneer she had clung to for so long 

She rounded the corner, almost crashing into a gang of young British tourists—shirtless, staggering, burned red like grilled tomatoes. They clutched bottles of cheap beer and cartons of takeaway kebabs. One of them was kicking at one of the many memorial benches that lined the seafront. He laughed as it splintered.

“It’s just some old shit, mate.” another one jeered, tipping his beer over a faded statue of the Sea Bride. Ilayda remembered meeting the artist at the annual creative’s festival. She had painted it by hand, colours staggered and dried before each thin layer rose into the skirt. She had carved the wood with her own hand. Ilayda remembered wishing that she too would have such talent, or patience at the very least.  

A third boy dropped his shorts and urinated behind the lemon tree that stood beside the shrine of Ay Işığı—the Moon Light, where women had once whispered their deepest wishes into ceramic jars, setting them beneath the roots to find a voice.

Ilayda couldn’t move. She wrapped her shawl further into her body. She suddenly felt exposed. Cold with shock.

No one stopped them. The old fishermen looked down as if they couldn’t face the shame. Young men shouted from the sidewalk – offerings of free lap dances and cheap cocktails. They stumbled blindly towards the heightening noise and the flashing neon lights. A barely dressed girl snapped a selfie beside the ruined mosaic fountain. Her lips pouted into the shape of a duck. Her peace sign seemed cruel then, suspended by the broken silence of a life of heritage and tradition like a weapon. 

She too stumbled forward. Each step more reflex than direction. The shell was silent in her bag, but she could feel it, heat rising like a heartbeat from the bottom of her satchel. She felt it speak in a gentle lullaby,

“Bir ben vardır bende, benden içeri.”

She felt her grandmother, “Never forget.”

Ilayda’s hand trembled. She wanted to hide. To return to her grandmother’s house and forget what she had just witnessed. She wanted to pretend that the Sea Bride still wore her painted skirts. That Ay Işığı hadn’t been pissed on by a boy whose only idea of culture was racing pixelated cars with a worn down console. She wished above all that they would leave and take their brutality with them. Hadn’t they done enough damage in the past- they had to take the future too?

She wanted to disappear into salt and sleep forever.

Ilayda reached into her bag, her fingers wrapping around the shell. The enamel was warm to touch. It pulsed faintly. A heartbeat.  A memory. Or both.

“You have to earn your ears,” 

Head bowed, Ilayda continued walking. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… through.

Through the tourist shouts. Through the broken glass. Through the stench of sour beer and over indulgent vomit. Through the blaring music. Through the wolf whistles and gathered crowds.

Past the shrine. Past the bar with the discount shots. Past the statue now smeared with footprints and blood.

She didn’t stop until she reached the cliff’s edge. The wind there was cleaner. Less tainted.

She sat on the rocks, her legs dangling over the top, the shell resting in her lap. 

Ilayda listened until the stars faded. 

At dawn, armed with truth, she returned to the square.

The tourists were still asleep, some slumped across plastic chairs or across street benches. The streets were quieter but the viciousness of the night before hung heavy in the wind.

This time, with the shawl wrapped around her chest and the conch nestled in between, she moved through the silence soft-footed and certain.

By the old well at the centre of the square—a place once used for gathering stories and water alike—she knelt. The stone was cracked, but still held its form.

She placed the shell on a flat, worn slab.

Around her, the village began to wake. A child approached, barefoot. An old woman paused at the edge of the square, hands folded at her breast. A fisherman set down his basket of morning catch, eyes shining with hope.

Ilayda lit a small candle. The smoke rose slowly into the waiting hands of the morning breeze. She didn’t speak. Not until the first rays of sun broke over the slanted rooftops.

Then she whispered, “I hear you”

“Kulak değil, kalp gerek.”

(Not the ear, but the heart is needed.)

She stood.

The shell did not speak again that day.

But it didn’t need to.

The wind was already listening.

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