Child of the Steppe

I was born on the edge of a dusty road, among the yellow grasses swaying in wave after wave of wind.

The steppe of Central Anatolia was not merely a geography; it was a state of mind. My childhood passed across those plains where the horizon stretched like a line, in that feeling of infinity where the sky met the earth. Then I grew up, merged into the crowds of cities, and lost myself among piles of concrete. But the steppe always remained within me as a silent call flowing through my blood until one day, that call turned into a cry.

I remember: summer evenings, those hours when the sun sank like a crimson fireball beyond the horizon. The fields would turn golden yellow, and the scent of thyme carried by the wind would fill my nostrils. My grandfather's hands were calloused, his face carved with the lines of the steppe. With those hands, he would sow seeds as if caressing the parched soil. "This land" he would say, "teaches a person patience. It asks nothing of you; it only knows how to wait for its time." I didn't understand it then, but now I know that the steppe is the purest embodiment of waiting, patience, and labor.

Years passed. I lived in the gray streets of Kocaeli, unaware of how time flowed by. Every day the same rush, every night the same exhaustion. But occasionally, in a breath of wind, in a bird's song, in the steam rising from a glass of tea, I would find something reminiscent of the steppe. Those moments made me feel something stirring in the depths of my heart. As if the steppe were an ancient wisdom calling out to me, and I had long turned a deaf ear to that call. Those deep folk songs about the steppe reminded me of my true self and told me to return to the place I belonged.

Last spring, I set out under the pretext of a business trip. It was just a pretext, really; inside me lay an indescribable longing. As the car moved toward the plains of Central Anatolia, the landscape began to change. I had seen every shade of green, but the steppe's own peculiar yellowish-brown filled me with a warmth that soothed my soul. I turned off the radio and rolled down the window. The wind struck my face the scent of my childhood, the smell of fields, of mud, of dry grass... My eyes welled up.That day, I walked through the fields where I used to run as a child. The bushes by the roadside were still in the same places. Beyond a distant hill stood the ruined house where we had played hide-and-seek as children, where we ran and had fun; it was still there. I touched the soil. What was that feeling like? Warm, dry, rough yet at the same time alive, something that breathed. My grandfather's words came back to me: "This land teaches a person patience." So the steppe had not abandoned me. It was I who had forgotten it.

That night, I sat in a village coffeehouse. The elderly men were playing backgammon, and tea was being brewed. Outside, the stars were brighter and closer than I could ever see in the cities. There was a deep silence but this was not the artificial silence of cities; it was the deep breath of the earth. In that moment, I realized that the steppe was not actually silence, but rather a whisper thousands of years old. That whisper was kneaded with the footprints of Hittites, Phrygians, and Seljuks; every stone, every blade of grass told a story. And I was part of that story.

Now I know: a person is the child of the soil they were born on. No matter how far they wander, the wind will one day bring them back. The steppe gave me not just a place, but a sense of belonging. My desire to return there was not an escape, but an effort to take root. My memories blossomed anew on those parched lands. Just as the steppe suddenly comes to life after spring rains flowers bloom, grasses sprout, butterflies flutter so too were the arid lands within me watered.

The steppe is silent and dignified. It does not speak; but you feel it. Its call is not an invitation, but a reminder: "Do not forget where you came from." And now, I return there at every opportunity. Because that is where my story began. No matter how much concrete is laid, no matter how much time passes, that steppe will always flourish in the depths of my soul. I am a child of the steppe, and my roots continue to sway in the wind, among those yellow grasses.