Bugün mübadelenin 103. yılı. Denizin Öte Yanında Kalan Anahtar

Bugün Mübadele'nin 103. Yılı. Denizin Öte Yanında Kalan Anahtar

Yusuf Mehmet Sarışın Yazdı - Lozan Antlaşmasına (24 Temmuz 1923) ek olarak, 30 Ocak 1923 tarihinde imzalanan ve 19 maddeden oluşan sözleşmeyle, 1 Mayıs 1923 tarihinden itibaren Türkiye topraklarındaki Rum/Ortodoks nüfus ile Yunanistan topraklarındaki Türk/Müslüman nüfus arasında mübadele (nüfus değişimi) yapılması kararlaştırıldı.

Bugün Mübadele'nin 103. Yılı.

Denizin Öte Yanında Kalan Anahtar.

(Bu yazının devamında İngilizce ve Yunanca çevirisi var.)

(An English and Greek translation is included in the continuation of this article.)

(Στη συνέχεια αυτού του άρθρου περιλαμβάνεται αγγλική και ελληνική μετάφραση.)

Didim’de rüzgâr bazı akşamlar başka eser. 

Apollon Tapınağı’nın taşlarına çarpıp gelen o rüzgâr, sadece iyot kokusu taşımaz; bazen yarım kalmış cümleleri, söylenememiş vedaları, denizin öte yakasında bırakılmış hayatları da getirir.

O akşam da öyleydi.

Altınkum sahilinde gün batarken gökyüzü bakır rengine dönmüş, balıkçı tekneleri yavaş yavaş kıyıya süzülüyordu. 

Kahvede oturan yaşlı Mehmet Dede, bastonunu dizine dayamış denize bakıyordu. 

Onu tanıyan herkes bilirdi; o denize bakarken sadece suya bakmazdı. O, geçmişe bakardı.

“Dede yine mi Girit’i düşünüyorsun?” diye sordu yan masadaki genç.

Mehmet Dede başını hafifçe salladı.

“İnsan doğduğu yeri unutmaz evlat… Ama bazen öldüğü yer doğduğu yerden daha çok içine işler.”

Mehmet Dede’nin annesi Girit’ten gelmişti. 

Yanında getirdiği tek şey, sandığının dibine sakladığı küçük, paslı bir anahtardı. 

Ne kapısını açtığını kimse bilmiyordu. Ama o anahtar, bir evin değil; bir hayatın hatırasıydı.

1923’te, deniz aynı denizdi ama kıyılar yabancıydı.

Girit’teki köylerinde sabah ezanıyla çan sesi birbirine karışırken büyümüşlerdi. 

Komşularının adı Yorgo’ydu, Eleni’ydi, Stavro’ydu… 

Bayramda onlar çörek getirir, Ramazan’da bunlar pide götürürdü. 

Kimse kimseye “sen” demezdi, herkes “biz”di.

Sonra bir gün “gideceksiniz” dediler.

“Burası artık sizin değil.”

Annesi o günü Mehmet’e anlatırken hep aynı cümleyi kurardı:

“Evimizin kapısını kilitlemedim oğlum… Sanki birazdan dönecekmişim gibi bıraktım.”

Liman kalabalıktı. İnsanlar ağlıyordu ama en çok yaşlılar sessizdi. Çünkü onlar biliyordu; bu gidiş dönüşsüzdü.

Karşı kıyıdan gelen gemiler de doluydu. Onlar da evlerini bırakmıştı. Onlar da anahtar getirmişti. Onlar da “bir gün döneriz” diye düşünmüştü.

Didim o zamanlar Yoran’dı. Küçük bir balıkçı köyü. Gelenler toprağı tanımıyordu, ama toprağın insanı tanıması uzun sürmedi. Zeytin diktiler. Taş evler yaptılar. Denize yine baktılar. Ama hiçbir deniz, Girit’in mavisi gibi olmadı Mehmet Dede’nin annesi için.

Bir gün küçük Mehmet, annesini sandığın başında ağlarken yakaladı.

Elinde o anahtar vardı.

“Anne, hangi kapıyı açıyor bu?” diye sordu.

Kadın gülümsedi, gözleri dolu dolu.

“Hiçbirini… Ama hepsini.”

O anahtar, çocukluğunu açıyordu. Annesini, komşularını, kokuları, sesleri… Bir sabah kapısı çalınmadan girilen evleri.

Yıllar geçti.

Mehmet büyüdü, evlendi, çocukları oldu. Didim değişti. Yazlık siteler yükseldi, yollar asfaltlandı, turistler geldi. Ama deniz aynı deniz kaldı.

Ve o anahtar, şimdi Mehmet Dede’nin cebindeydi.

“Dede, neden saklıyorsun hâlâ?” diye sordu torunu bir gün.

Mehmet Dede denize baktı.

“Çünkü evlat, insan bazen kapıyı değil, hatırayı kilitler. Unutmamak için…”

Güneş tamamen battı. Ufuk çizgisi mora döndü. Dalgaların sesi, uzaktan gelen ezanla karıştı.

Belki de aynı anda, Ege’nin öte yakasında bir ihtiyar da denize bakıyordu. Onun cebinde de başka bir anahtar vardı.

Açamadığı bir kapının anahtarı.

Ama kapılar kapansa da, hatıralar denizi geçmeyi hep bilir.

“The Key Left Across the Sea”

As an additional protocol to the Treaty of Lausanne (24 July 1923), a convention consisting of 19 articles was signed on 30 January 1923. According to this agreement, beginning on 1 May 1923, a compulsory population exchange was decided between the Greek/Orthodox population living in the territory of Turkey and the Turkish/Muslim population living in the territory of Greece.

In Didim, the wind blows differently on certain evenings.

As it brushes the stones of the Temple of Apollo, it carries more than the scent of salt. Sometimes it brings unfinished sentences, unspoken farewells, and lives left behind on the other side of the sea.

That evening was one of those.

As the sun set over Altınkum Beach, the sky turned copper, and fishing boats slowly drifted back to shore. Old Mehmet sat at the seaside café, his cane resting against his knee, staring at the water. Everyone who knew him understood: when he looked at the sea, he wasn’t just looking at water. He was looking at the past.

“Thinking about Crete again, Grandpa?” a young man asked.

Mehmet nodded slightly.

“No one forgets where they were born, son… But sometimes the place where you live the rest of your life settles deeper into your soul.”

Mehmet’s mother had come from Crete. The only thing she brought with her was a small, rusty key hidden at the bottom of her chest. No one knew what door it opened. But it was not the memory of a house — it was the memory of a life.

In 1923, the sea was the same, but the shores were foreign.

They had grown up in a village where the call to prayer mixed with church bells. Their neighbors were named Yorgo, Eleni, Stavros… On religious holidays they shared bread and sweets. No one said “you” and “us.” Everyone was simply “we.”

Then one day they were told, “You must leave.”

“This is no longer your home.”

When Mehmet’s mother told him about that day, she always repeated the same sentence:

“I didn’t lock our door, my son… I left it as if we would return any moment.”

The harbor was crowded. People cried, but the elderly were the quietest — because they knew this departure had no return.

The ships arriving from the opposite shore were full as well. They too had left homes behind. They too carried keys. They too believed, “One day we will return.”

Didim was called Yoran back then, a small fishing village. The newcomers didn’t know the land, but the land quickly came to know them. They planted olive trees. Built stone houses. Looked at the sea again. Yet for Mehmet’s mother, no sea was ever as blue as Crete’s.

One day young Mehmet found his mother crying beside her chest.

She held the key.

“Which door does it open, mother?” he asked.

She smiled through tears.

“None… and all of them.”

It opened her childhood. Her mother. Her neighbors. The smells, the sounds… Doors you entered without knocking.

Years passed.

Mehmet grew up, married, had children. Didim changed. Summer houses rose, roads were paved, tourists arrived. But the sea remained the same.

And now the key was in Mehmet’s pocket.

“Grandpa, why do you still keep it?” his grandson asked.

Mehmet looked at the sea.

“Because sometimes, my child, we lock not doors, but memories — so we don’t forget.”

The sun disappeared. The horizon turned purple. The sound of waves blended with the distant call to prayer.

Perhaps at that very moment, an old man on the other side of the Aegean was also gazing at the sea. In his pocket was another key.

The key to a door he could never open again.

But even when doors close, memories always find a way to cross the sea.

«Το Κλειδί που Έμεινε Πέρα από τη Θάλασσα»

Τι είναι η Ανταλλαγή Πληθυσμών (Μουμπαντέλε);
Ως συμπληρωματικό πρωτόκολλο στη Συνθήκη της Λωζάννης (24 Ιουλίου 1923), υπογράφηκε στις 30 Ιανουαρίου 1923 μια σύμβαση αποτελούμενη από 19 άρθρα. Σύμφωνα με αυτή τη συμφωνία, από την 1η Μαΐου 1923 αποφασίστηκε η υποχρεωτική ανταλλαγή πληθυσμών μεταξύ του ελληνορθόδοξου πληθυσμού που ζούσε στα εδάφη της Τουρκίας και του τουρκομουσουλμανικού πληθυσμού που ζούσε στα εδάφη της Ελλάδας.

Στο Ντιντίμ, ο άνεμος φυσά διαφορετικά μερικά βράδια.

Καθώς αγγίζει τις πέτρες του Ναού του Απόλλωνα, δεν φέρνει μόνο τη μυρωδιά του αλατιού· μερικές φορές κουβαλά μισοτελειωμένες προτάσεις, ανείπωτους αποχαιρετισμούς και ζωές που έμειναν στην άλλη πλευρά της θάλασσας.

Εκείνο το βράδυ ήταν ένα από αυτά.

Καθώς ο ήλιος έδυε στην παραλία Αλτίνκουμ, ο ουρανός έγινε χάλκινος και τα ψαροκάικα γλιστρούσαν αργά προς την ακτή. Ο γέρο-Μεχμέτ καθόταν στο καφενείο δίπλα στη θάλασσα, με το μπαστούνι ακουμπισμένο στο γόνατό του, κοιτώντας το νερό. Όσοι τον γνώριζαν ήξεραν: όταν κοιτούσε τη θάλασσα, δεν έβλεπε μόνο νερό· έβλεπε το παρελθόν.

«Πάλι την Κρήτη σκέφτεσαι, παππού;» ρώτησε ένας νεαρός.

Ο Μεχμέτ έγνεψε ελαφρά.

«Κανείς δεν ξεχνά τον τόπο που γεννήθηκε, παιδί μου… Μα καμιά φορά ο τόπος όπου ζεις την υπόλοιπη ζωή σου ριζώνει πιο βαθιά στην ψυχή σου.»

Η μητέρα του Μεχμέτ είχε έρθει από την Κρήτη. Το μόνο που έφερε μαζί της ήταν ένα μικρό, σκουριασμένο κλειδί κρυμμένο στον πάτο του μπαούλου της. Κανείς δεν ήξερε ποια πόρτα άνοιγε. Μα δεν ήταν η ανάμνηση ενός σπιτιού — ήταν η ανάμνηση μιας ζωής.

Το 1923, η θάλασσα ήταν η ίδια, μα οι ακτές ήταν ξένες.

Είχαν μεγαλώσει σε ένα χωριό όπου το κάλεσμα για προσευχή μπλεκόταν με τις καμπάνες της εκκλησίας. Οι γείτονές τους λέγονταν Γιώργος, Ελένη, Σταύρος… Στις γιορτές αντάλλασσαν ψωμί και γλυκά. Κανείς δεν έλεγε «εσείς» και «εμείς». Όλοι ήταν απλώς «εμείς».

Ύστερα μια μέρα τους είπαν: «Πρέπει να φύγετε.»

«Αυτό δεν είναι πια το σπίτι σας.»

Όταν η μητέρα του Μεχμέτ του μιλούσε γι’ αυτή τη μέρα, επαναλάμβανε πάντα την ίδια φράση:

«Δεν κλείδωσα την πόρτα μας, γιε μου… Την άφησα σαν να θα γυρίζαμε από στιγμή σε στιγμή.»

Το λιμάνι ήταν γεμάτο. Οι άνθρωποι έκλαιγαν, μα οι ηλικιωμένοι ήταν οι πιο σιωπηλοί — γιατί ήξεραν πως αυτό το ταξίδι δεν είχε επιστροφή.

Και τα πλοία που έρχονταν από την απέναντι ακτή ήταν γεμάτα. Κι εκείνοι είχαν αφήσει σπίτια πίσω. Κι εκείνοι κρατούσαν κλειδιά. Κι εκείνοι πίστευαν «μια μέρα θα γυρίσουμε».

Το Ντιντίμ λεγόταν τότε Γιοράν, ένα μικρό ψαροχώρι. Οι νεοφερμένοι δεν γνώριζαν τη γη, μα η γη σύντομα τους γνώρισε. Φύτεψαν ελιές. Έχτισαν πέτρινα σπίτια. Ξανακοίταξαν τη θάλασσα. Μα για τη μητέρα του Μεχμέτ, καμιά θάλασσα δεν ήταν τόσο γαλάζια όσο της Κρήτης.

Χρόνια πέρασαν.

Τώρα το κλειδί βρισκόταν στην τσέπη του γέρο-Μεχμέτ.

«Παππού, γιατί το κρατάς ακόμη;» ρώτησε ο εγγονός του.

Ο Μεχμέτ κοίταξε τη θάλασσα.

«Γιατί, παιδί μου, καμιά φορά δεν κλειδώνουμε πόρτες, αλλά αναμνήσεις — για να μην ξεχάσουμε.»

Ο ήλιος χάθηκε. Ο ορίζοντας έγινε μωβ. Ο ήχος των κυμάτων μπλέχτηκε με τη μακρινή προσευχή.

Ίσως εκείνη τη στιγμή, στην άλλη πλευρά του Αιγαίου, ένας άλλος γέρος κοίταζε κι αυτός τη θάλασσα. Στην τσέπη του υπήρχε ένα άλλο κλειδί.

Το κλειδί μιας πόρτας που δεν θα άνοιγε ποτέ ξανά.

Μα ακόμη κι όταν οι πόρτες κλείνουν, οι αναμνήσεις πάντα βρίσκουν τρόπο να διασχίζουν τη θάλασσα.