Let There Be Hope

Right now I’m at Bonn Airport.

Today is probably my 15th time in Germany. I haven’t counted exactly, but it must be close to that. In total I must have spent 40-50 days here. I’ve also had the chance to see many countries in the rest of Europe.

There are some stock ideas that come to mind when we say Europe.

Development, civilisation, respect, order…

And then there’s the other side, the one we know very well:

“Mate, those people are lonely.”

“They can’t make friends.”

“They’re not warm.”

All of these can be looked at from many angles, but what I’m going to say is, in the end, personal observation too. Someone else’s experience may be completely different. I respect all of it, and I won’t get into an argument about it.

Today I’m not thinking about Europe, but about being a Turk in Europe and, a little, about being a Turkish father.

At the entrance to the airport the escalator wasn’t working. And there was a serious queue in front of the lift.

A family of two with a pushchair and suitcases, me, an elderly couple and a big burly bloke got into the lift.

Nobody gave the family with the child priority.

But more interesting still, they weren’t expecting that kind of priority either. At least they didn’t look as if they were.

Everyone waited their turn, got into the lift, life went on.

We moved on to security.

In front of us, a group of immigrant ground staff nattering away, a jammed X-ray machine, dozens of passengers waiting, and security officers taking their sweet time over the job…

Nobody objected.

Nobody said a word.

Nobody hurried, staff included.

After waiting an extra five minutes to put my things down and another five to pick them up, I moved on to the passport queue.

There was a young woman in front of me.

In her baby carrier, a baby of about 7-8 months, at a guess. The baby has slumped right forward, and the woman’s hands are full of bags. She’s in no position to put it right.

The queue moves forward one step.

The woman bends down, baby and all, and picks the bags up off the floor.

She walks one step.

Puts them down again.

A little later the queue moves forward again.

She bends down again.

Picks the bags up again.

There are dozens of people around. There are passengers. There are staff directing people.

The woman isn’t expecting priority.

And nobody takes any notice.

At some point I couldn’t stay European any longer.

“If you like, I can carry your suitcases for you,” I said.

She thanked me politely.

She wasn’t embarrassed. She didn’t say “No no, there’s no need” five times.

I took the suitcases and we carried on walking.

After a while a new passport queue opened to the side. We slid over to it.

The woman in front of us went across ahead of us. Perfectly normal.

But then four more people joined her.

Now that looked extremely ugly.

If it had been Turkey, I’d most likely have said “Hang on a minute, the queue is here.”

But I kept quiet.

Then, when our turn came, an older man, roughly 130+ kilos and 190+ cm, came up to the front on crutches.

Either he was disabled or his body had become heavier than it could carry. He was really struggling to walk.

He saw the mother with the baby.

And he stopped.

He went no further.

He waited for her to go through.

At last someone has shown some courtesy, I thought.

But then I realised that what made him special wasn’t that he was Turkish, or German, or from any other nation.

It was that he was someone who could genuinely empathise.

When the woman turned round and looked back, this time he wanted to let me through.

I explained the situation.

“I’m only carrying her suitcases.”

The woman went through.

The older man went through.

I went through.

I handed the woman’s suitcases back. Turns out we were on the same plane.

“If you need anything, I’m around,” I said.

Now I’m waiting to board.

By the way…

Through all of this the baby still hasn’t whinged even once. 😂

I’m genuinely shocked by this.

The theory I’ve developed on the subject is this:

Babies can get away with playing up with Turks.

They’ve worked this out, which is why ours are so whingy.

The scientific basis is weak for now, but my observations are strong.

Joking aside…

Today my heart truly ached.

As I get closer to becoming a father, the meaning of some words has started to change for me.

Empathy.

Conscience.

Courtesy.

Compassion.

These used to be something like “nice qualities a good person should have”.

Now, for me, they are things I have to teach my son.

And what I’m afraid of is this:

These don’t disappear all at once.

Nobody wakes up one morning and says “From today on I’m going to have no conscience.”

They disappear slowly.

By not seeing that someone’s hands are full.

By not noticing that an elderly person is struggling.

By not thinking to make room for someone with a child.

By finding it a little more normal to say “Not my problem”.

By starting not to share a plug socket.

By not being able to split a loaf of bread.

My personal view is that our people still know these things.

Don’t we have our faults?

Tons.

Sometimes we interfere more than we should.

Sometimes we don’t know any boundaries.

Sometimes we interpret the rules to suit ourselves.

Sometimes we confuse helping with meddling in someone else’s life.

But if someone is struggling, taking hold of one end of the carrier bag in their hand is still not foreign to us.

Making a bit of room when we see a child is not foreign.

Saying “You go ahead, sir” when you see an elderly person is not foreign.

I hope it never will be.

Because if this is what becoming European is, then damn atomic physics and damn professorships too.

…

But let’s stay human enough to notice that a person has both hands full.

I think there are going to be an awful lot of things I have to teach my son.

But I already know some of them.

If someone needs it more than you do, sometimes take a step back.

If someone’s hands are full, take hold of one end.

If an elderly person is struggling, wait.

If there’s a child, be a little more understanding.

Know that not everything gets smaller when you share it.

And most important of all, see the people around you.

Because what frightened me today wasn’t Germany.

It wasn’t Europe either.

It wasn’t a nation either.

What frightened me was the possibility that one day these will become things we tell our children about in the past tense.

“In the old days, people used to help each other.”

“In the old days, neighbours used to know each other.”

“In the old days, they’d give up their seat when they saw someone with a child.”

“In the old days, when someone was struggling they’d give them a hand.”

I don’t want Deniz to learn these as “in the old days”.

I don’t know whether we have the strength to protect all of it.

Sometimes it truly feels as if we won’t be enough, we won’t get there in time.

But maybe my job isn’t to save everything.

I can start by teaching one child that these things are still normal.

And one day he’ll carry someone else’s suitcase.

He’ll give up his seat for someone else.

He’ll notice someone’s trouble even though it isn’t his own.

Maybe that person will do it for someone else too.

Not from big words.

From tiny things, like the ones I saw today in the passport queue.

From a bag.

From a step.

From waiting a little.

From really seeing a person.

My heart ached so much today. Never mind that I’m making jokes right now.

I feel as if some words are going to be left far in the past, as if we won’t be able to share even a plug socket, as if we’ll struggle to split a loaf of bread.

My heart ached so much today; we won’t be enough, we won’t get there in time.

But I’ll do everything I can to teach my son these things.

Let there be hope…