bir siir gecesi

Bu aralar aksamlari ne yapsam, ne yapsam diye kivraniyorum. Cogu grubun aktiviteleri yavan, beynimi veya ruhumu harekete gecirecek bir olayi bulmak zor Silikon Vadisinde.
Ben de is yerimin yakinligindan Stanford'daki aktiviteleri takip etmeye basladim.
Ilk ativite, Stanford'un story telling kapsamindaki Naomi Shihan Nye'in siir gecesi. Dogrusu daha once onun adini duymamistim. Ingilizce okunan siirleri daha once anlamamisligim da vardi. Ozellikle bir iki British Ingiliz'in soyledigi siirlerden zerre anlamamistim. Dil oyunlarini bazen kacirabiliyorum. Siir ana dilde daha cok dokunuyor insana.

Siir gecesinin duzenlendigi salona girince bekledigimden daha kalabalik bir giruh gordum. Sonra Naomi geldi. Bu kadar sicak, samimi birinin siirlerini kendi agzindan dinlemek cok hostu. Gecmisinden, cocuklugundan bahsetti. Hikaye'leri siir tarzinda uyakli bir sekilde oynadi diyeyim. Tum duygulari yuzunde okumak mumkundu. Bu story-telling olayi bir tur eski zamanin ozanligi gibi. Icten gelen birseyler var. Beni en cok en son okudugu Gate 4-A siiri duygulandirdi. Annemi gordum sanki hikayede. Amerika'da, terminalde veya herhangi bir ortamda yiyecegini baskalarina ikram etmek o kadar alisilmadik ki. Hem de bir Arab'in paylastigi kurabiyeleri herkesin yemesi tamamen siradisi. Naomi'yi, bu anekdotu siire donusturen durtu de bu mutluluk ani. Ben de ani defterime not edeyim bu guzel aksami.

Iste siir:
Gate 4 A
Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been detained four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate 4-A understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.”  Well – one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. “Help,” said the Flight Service Person. “Talk to her. What is her problem?  We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this.”  I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke to her haltingly. “Shu dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-se-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the next day. I said, “You’re fine, you’ll get there, who is picking you up? Let’s call him.” We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and would ride next to her – Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for fun. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends.  Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her? This all took up about two hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life, patting my knee, answering questions.  She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies – little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts – out of her bag – and was offering them to all the women at the gate.  To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo – we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers and two little girls from our flight ran around serving us all apple juice and they were covered with powdered sugar too. And I noticed my new best friend – by now we were holding hands – had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in.  The shared world. Not a single person in this gate – once the crying of confusion stopped – seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.
Sonsoz: Onun okudugu siirlerden ve anekdotlardan sonra kendimi bir kus kadar hafif hissettim. Cikip Stanford'un muhtesem kampusunde yurumek, mutluluguma mutluluk katti. Kimbilir belki daha fazla siir gecesine katilirim.
Long live universities!!