An elementary school student, only nine years old, with honey-colored eyes full of hope; each strand of her auburn hair, blown in the wind, has turned into long spirals, and with her slightly squinted eyes, she blushes and looks around, trying to see if anyone notices them; she is aware of the difficulties of life. Already, as if she has a heavy burden, her shoulders slightly slumped, her head low...

Of course, like everyone else, he has a role in this universe.

The mother is a paper collector, a true environmentalist in my opinion; like many other demanding professions, her work is very valuable, recycling; and she is one of the most virtuous workers of production.

From archaic civilizations to the present day, "being born a woman" must be equivalent to being born into pain in human groups with different social - cultural and beliefs, actors and moral values. This woman, who, like Refika's eyes, transforms pain into honey with the honor of home, happiness, staying together and as a family, even being human and still being a woman; if we were to remove the role of being a woman, as Hz. Mevlana put it, from the world; neither Nazım's poem in the Liberation Epic would taste the same, nor Cemal Süreyya's poem that continues with "We are poor, our nights are very short", nor Necip Fazıl's poem "Mother! Let your prayer rug come; pray for us, emi!" The poetic taste of his mother's blessed hands praying...

Or as Nail Cakirhan put it: "She is my arms, legs, lips and head... My child, my mother, my own sister, my wife; She is my life partner."

As today's women of the candle-scented, mothballscented, loving mothers of the past, as we walk through the streets without our eyes touching each other, realizing the existence of Refikas who are struggling to stay in the game in this life by holding on with their fingernails, raising our awareness of the obligation of solidarity, with the responsibility of W. Shakespare's "Necessity is a great virtue"; Don't we have to touch a life, a touch of love, a touch of eyes, a warm hand? Has this industrial society we live in, this capitalist order alienated us so much?

I also wanted to know, believe and explain that beyond the role of mothers in production - a wrongly defined perception of fate - there is the most honorable struggle to be a woman, to remain human...

What little Refika's on the streets, with her trembling heart, softly gliding past us, timid and timid. There are Merve's in Soma, hiding her father's soil in the palm of her tiny hand. Ayşegül hugging a bag of coal tightly because it smells like my father... Grabbing someone and pulling them like a starfish on the beach... And then, that's when, as the poet says, the flowers of the sun will fill our hearts, not the spindly and tiny plants growing at the poles...

Don't spill your face, little girl

Stop worrying

Just think if you're the only one

Who forgets to be loved

Every black has a white

The nights also have their days...

(Bülent Ortaçgil)

Mukaddes Pekin Başdil

Researcher-Author

Source: Denizli Haber