Aydın Tiryaki (November 25, 2007)

“Aril Lâril” are two words carried from my childhood when I couldn’t speak properly, seemingly meaningless but holding great significance for me. There is an important detail: when saying “laril,” the “a” has a circumflex accent, meaning it is pronounced exactly like the note “la” in music.

I used to say “Aril lâril” and hold my grandfather’s hand, asking him to go somewhere. “Aril laril” meant lantern—sometimes a kerosene lamp, sometimes a battery-operated flashlight. Since it was difficult to walk on the narrow and dark village roads at night without a lantern, especially while carrying a child, that lantern would be taken along before heading out.

At that time, we were in the village of Yeşilöz in İnebolu. My grandfather worked at Etibank in İnebolu—not the bank, but the mining operation of Etibank… He would come to the village immediately after work in the evening because he had much work to do in the village as well. My father had a tailor shop in İnebolu; since tailors work long hours, he usually arrived late at night. I spent my days with my grandmother, my mother, and Aunt Pakize (my grandfather’s sister), and my evenings with my grandfather. Evening visits were always with him.

My grandfather had a flashlight he made himself, which he carried in his pocket. Back then, there were 4.5-volt flat batteries. He would place a small bulb on the two flat metal terminals of those batteries, secure them with rubber bands, and make a flashlight. He would light it by pressing one of the metal terminals with his finger and turn it off frequently. My grandfather used to say this flashlight was both small and lasted longer. He came from the years of famine and knew the value of what he had; he was always against waste.

Once the “Aril lâril” was taken, the places to go were limited. We would either go to Uncle Şükrü’s (my grandfather’s brother) or Aunt Fatma’s (my grandfather’s sister). I remember it vaguely. I suppose I used to fall asleep there and would have to be carried home. Uncle Şükrü’s house was very close, the doors were facing each other, but Aunt Fatma’s house was far away. Now, when I go to the village, I always visit Aunt Fatma’s son, Brother Cemal. Walking from there toward our house at that time, I think about those vaguely remembered days. While walking on the stone-covered road where water flows like a stream during rains, I know those same stones were there 45 years ago.

I have never forgotten the places I lived or the people. Every time I go to my village, I visit my grandfather, grandmother, Uncle Şükrü, Aunt Pakize, and Aunt Fatma. I go back to those days by reading the dates on their headstones and clearing the grass over them. I know they understand what is going through my mind.

“Aril Lâril” has never gone out in my life.

Ankara, November 25, 2007

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A Note on Methods and Tools: The original Turkish version of this work was authored entirely by the author, without any assistance from artificial intelligence. (Note: AI was utilized solely as a translation and writing assistant to prepare this English version of the original text.) This text has been prepared within the scope of the “Verbatim” project for the purpose of transferring previously published articles to the present day.