DEYRULZAFARAN MONASTERY, SOUTHEASTERN TURKEY

His father brought him to this monastery
and left him with the monks when he was eight.
Said he had to go, but would soon be back.
There is no one now left who recalls why,
or when. All anyone remembers is
that times were hard, war was all around,
and death never far.

“Stay here,” said his father to him,
“Stay, wait for me. I will come for you.
Do as these nice bearded men say.”
He was a quiet child, sweet-tempered,
“I will,” he said, “I will wait for you.”

And he waited.
Months went by, and years, and decades.
And he waited, with never a doubt.
“My father’s coming for me soon,”
he said when asked, “I’m waiting for him”.

Every morning he would climb
up to the highest battlements
and gaze across the endless plain.
Never once did he step outside the walls.
Never learnt a single thing, other than prayer.
Never did a thing, other than read the Book.

He stopped the passage of time,
and put his life into suspension,
so that he could start
living again
upon his father’s return.

Time, alas, has taken no notice
of his decision to arrest it,
or of his obstinate faith in love.
Now past the age of ninety,
the reunion he awaits will never be.

IN HET DEYRULZAFARANKLOOSTER, ZUID-TURKIJE

Toen hij acht jaar was bracht zijn vader hem naar
het klooster en leverde hem af bij de monniken.
Hij zei, dat hij naar Damascus ging en terugkwam.
Er is niemand meer die zich herinnert waarom
dat was, en wanneer. Het enige wat men nog weet is,
dat het oorlogsjaren waren, moeilijke jaren en
dat de dood hier overal op de loer lag.

“Blijf jij maar hier,” zei zijn vader tegen hem,
“ga nergens heen, wacht op mij, ik kom terug.
Die baardmannen zijn lieve ooms en zullen voor je zorgen.”
Hij was een stil en rustig kind, gehoorzaam,
“Ik zal het doen,” zei hij, “ik ga nergens heen en zal wachten.”

En hij wachtte.
Maanden en jaren en decennia lang
wachtte hij zonder ooit te twijfelen.
“Papa zal me komen halen. Ik wacht
op hem,” zei hij wanneer men er naar vroeg.

Iedere ochtend klom hij naar de hoogste verdieping
en keek uit over de vlakte naar de verre horizon.
Nooit kwam hij buiten de muren.
Hij las niets anders
dan de Bijbel.
Hij leerde niets,
behalve bidden.

Hij zette de tijd stil.
Schortte het leven op.
Om wanneer zijn vader terugkwam
zijn leven weer op te pakken
op het punt waar hij het had achtergelaten.

Maar de tijd trok zich niets aan
van zijn besluit om alles stil te zetten,
of van zijn hardnekkig vertrouwen in de liefde.
Inmiddels is hij al diep in de negentig.
Zijn vader zal hij nooit meer zien.

DEYRULZAFARAN MANASTIRI’NDA

Sekiz yaşındayken getirip manastıra
papazlara teslim etmiş babası onu.
Şam’a gidip geleceğini söylemiş.
Hatırlayan kalmamış artık nedenini,
ne zaman olduğunu. Tek bildikleri,
savaş yıllarıymış, zorlu yıllarmış,
kol geziyormuş ölüm buralarda.

“Sen biraz dur,” demiş babası ona,
“bir yere gitme, bekle beni, geleceğim.
Bu sakallı iyi amcalar bakacak sana.”
Sessiz sakin bir çocukmuş, usluymuş,
“Tamam,” demiş, “gitmem, beklerim.”

Ve beklemiş.
Aylar ve yıllar ve onyıllar boyunca
hiç kuşku duymadan beklemiş.
“Babam beni almaya gelecek.
Onu bekliyorum” demiş soranlara.

Her sabah bir mazgala tırmanıp
ovanın ötesinden ufku gözlemiş.
Çıkmamış hiç duvarların dışına.
Hiçbir şey yapmamış,
İncil okumaktan başka.
Hiçbir şey öğrenmemiş,
dua etmek dışında.

Durdurmuş zamanı.
Ara vermiş yaşamaya.
Geldiğinde babası,
bıraktığı yerden
devam etmek için hayatına.

Zaman dikkate almamış ama,
her şeyi durdurma kararını,
sevgiye güvenme inadını.
Yaşı doksanı çoktan geçmiş.
Bir daha göremeyecek babasını.