The Hike, The Zip, The Atlas

I’ve never been happier to be born in April. The twenty-degree sun prickled at my bare arms and neck as a gentle cool breeze kissed the stings away. Electric vans and horses passed me up the hill. That was the thing about Istanbul; the future happened magnificently and all at once. Time didn’t exist between past and present; they collided in kaleidoscopes that winked at every melancholic thinker strolling the city. Showing them just how many possibilities there are in life. And the joyous ones? Well, the joyous ones get to soar over the city of seven hills, bask in the golden light, dipping this way and that, drinking the scents of tulips and roses.

On the 25th of April, I soared. Drenched in sweat, I climbed up to the highest viewing point, Çamlıca Hill. I made it. My lungs pounced on each other, grappling to heave in the next breath. The soles of my feet tingled and prickled inside my running shoes. My hair swirled in wet curls at the nape of my neck. I dropped my backpack and stretched my arms high above, wiggling my fingers at the late afternoon sun. A seagull swooped in low, squalling at me for not having a snack at hand. Mean, vicious things, I thought, all I have is my journal and glitter pens.

I craned my neck, squinting my eyes to take in the enormity of the grand mosque adorning the hilltop. The white marble minarets and arches extended to meet the azure-blue domes, disappearing skywards in a halo of light. To do as the locals do, I grabbed an ice-cold water bottle and a steaming hot tea from the shack and headed to one of the picnic tables scattered at the edge. The green hill yawned below, scattered with slanted red roofs all the way to the twinkling Bosphorus shores. The European side of the city stretched across the strait, a myriad of cultures and colours. The rush of blood drumming in my ears subsided, making way for the rustle of leaves and purr of lolling cats.

My backpack's zip snagged as I pulled it open. I wiped the condensed water off my palms and tried again. A year ago, I wouldn’t have been able to make it a mile up the hill without collapsing like a sick cat in the middle of the road. Perhaps the tourists would have appreciated the extra show as the horse-drawn carriage passed by a thirty-year-old wannabe author on a self-discovery journey, wheezing help all the way to the top. 

This year, though, I pushed out of the thick, darkened wetsuit I’ve been wearing for two decades or so. You know the one. It's the slime of unworthiness, guilt, broken dreams, and apathy that stick to skin like hot tar. Slowly but surely seeping into your bloodstream, poisoning every thought and feeling. When is it that a woman first experiences despondence?

That sinking feeling, weighing down every limb till they’re flush with the ground and then some.

The first smear on my skin was at age ten; it was but a simple question, but it lingered in the crevices of my mind, pushing me down, narrowing, constricting alleys.

Why don’t you have friends? 

I often wondered if it would have impacted my existence all that much if it hadn't come from a close family member. Was it a gentle nudge towards happier school days or a provocation to start the endless quest to fit in and seek societal approval? Suddenly, the tick to please had been switched on. A minuscule current passing through decision-making trees, compelling me to choose the branch that makes anyone but me happy. Because, in truth, I was happier when I was spending hours reading my favorite book. I was happier with my multicoloured gel pens, wired headphones, and CD player. I was happier before I walked home after school, counting how many kids had talked to me that day. Before that, I skipped all the way home.

The next smear was delivered with a brush of a hand upon my ear.

Why don’t you sit on my lap?

And thus the friendly neighborhood teenager became the shiny, black, bubbling blob with many eyes that burrowed in the depths of my being.

Then came the expectations to be the best there ever was at everything and anything.

Why aren’t you the best in your cohort? Why don’t you have the highest-paying job? Why is your hair falling out? Why is your skin so dry? Why are your eyes so dark? Why don’t you have a husband? Why is your uterus not fulfilling its purpose?

Why aren’t you living your life for us?

Why are you sad?

Smear upon smear. Layer upon layer. The worst part is that everything is obscured until it isn’t, one day and all at once. The wetsuit and your body are one and the same. A creature of no belonging, no shape. Unbecoming of a human with stratospheric potential. Zip, zip all that light inside. Suffocate it. Stuff all that supple, malleable flesh in a mould befitting rotten conjectures. Cast me in the grayest of roles and ask why I’m hell-bent on destruction.

Why are you mad?

Pop! A foot up the hill. Pop! A stitch is undone. Pop! Pop! The suit is weakening at the seams. Pop! I awake. Pop! I breathe. Pop! I climb.

I wore the wetsuit of indifference towards my life for years. Now I peel. I’m peeling it away, as sticky and slimy as it is, and I’ve started the unzipping. Right at the first bone in my spine, they call it the Atlas. Unzipping down, all the way to the bottom of my spine. As smooth as butter, as violent as birth.

It is so much easier to get up a hill with a back that is weightless and straightened. So much easier to breathe. So much easier to lean back and angle my face this way and that, soaking every ray that hits my glimmering skin. Because it glimmers. Shimmers. A kaleidoscope of tales bursting and singing.

So there I was up upon that hill. In control of my life, my body, and my psyche. A lifetime ahead of me, and who was more worthy to hear about it but the city that healed me. The setting sun brought about a colder breeze as it bathed the city of two continents, seven hills, and the golden horn in burning red. Ancient cities mirror your soul and reflect all the good parts back to you. They absorb all your dull history and hide it among the ruins. Hush, they whisper, we know what to do.

Istanbul whispered, move.

I will give you a salve for your soul.

Move, come find me. I’ll be strolling the winding cobbled streets. I’ll be resting in the dust between pages in hidden bookshops. In the brush of a kitten’s tail against your leg. In the eyes of the flower merchants. In the crash of waves against ferry hulls. In the dance of gulls with flags waving at full mast. In the light streaming down from high windows in ancient mosques. In the scent of rose water and sweet pomegranate juice. In the bitterness of coffee and the tickle of history.

Move, come find me. In the ache of your bones upon climbing the highest of hills.

Real Bakhit is a Sudanese writer and reader based in Istanbul. While her work is mostly fiction, it draws heavily on the cultures she carries with her. She has been published in literary magazines like The Markaz Review. She is seeking traditional publication for her first novel (speculative women's fiction set in 2040s Istanbul) while writing the second (dark academia fantasy set in 1960s Istanbul) 

Currently, she spends her days reading and writing with Istanbul's whimsy as white noise, most of which is captured on IG @realsfiction. You can keep up with her work at https://realbakhitwriter.wordpress.com/