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Biography:

 

Born: 12 October 1981, Ankara, Turkey (age 30)

Height: 6' 1½" (1.87 m)

 

After finishing his high school education in Ankara University Faculty of Language, History and Geography, he studied history as a major.

 

He was winner of Turkey's Talent Contest in 2004.

 

As a series of steps taken so into the world of art Engin Akyurek started with a role in the film Kadir. Later on he took role in NBC series "Karayilan Nizipli" series and then "Yabanci Damat".

In summer of 2009, he became more famous with Kanal D show "Bir Bulut Oslam". Engin Akyurek, played the role of Mustafa Bulut one of the leading characters of the show. Currently he is playing the role of Karim in "Fatmagulun sucu ne? "with Beren Saat.

 

Dramas:

 

What is fatmagul's fault? - (Kerim - 2010/2011)

Beyond the clouds -(Mustafa-2009)

Karayilan - (Halim 2007-2008)

Cevat -(Kadir 2004 - 2007)

 

 

CINEMA

Destiny - (Cevat-2006)

 

AWARDS

 

39. SIYAD Turkish Cinema Award Most Promising Artist Award - Destiny (Zeki Demirkubuz)

ÇASOD Most Promising Artist Award 2006

Hollywood player who can best represent Turkey in 2011 Ucankus''''

2011 Televizyondizisi''Best Actor''

2011 Ayaklıgazete''under 30''the most handsome player

2011 Habershow arrays Most Yakısıklısı''''

 

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Applause for Engin Akyürek / Engin Akyürek'e alkış
By Hıncal Uluç
Türkçesi: http://www.sabah.com.tr/…/u…/2015/11/28/engin-akyureke-alkis

Engin didn’t win the “International Emmy Award” but don’t be upset about it. Oscar, Emmy, and Grammy are very prestigious awards. Therefore, even being among nominees is a big milestone in one’s career. Engin had already deserved our applause by being a nominee. Emmy is a TV award. I don’t watch TV and therefore I don’t know his series. I ha...ven’t even watched it for a minute. But, I know Engin from the movies. I watched him and loved him a lot. And on February 22, 2014, I wrote the following on my column.

***

I admit that I went to “bi küçük Eylül meselesi" just for Farah Zeynep Abdullah. Although there were so many movies I wanted to watch and I had a very limited time for movies since Istanbul has turned into a wonderful Culture and Art Center, I chose “Farah” without even seeing movie list. I am a big fan of her since I watched her in “Kelebegin Ruyasi – Butterfly’s Dream” and I wished that she had a bigger part in the movie. This meant that I would be looking forward to her new movie. And it was exactly like that.

Eylul came out and I went to “Kanyon” to watch it at the first chance I had. And it was worth it. First of all, Farah’s acting was superb as I expected. But, Engin Akyurek whom I’ve never expected, I’ve never heard his name, and I watched for the first time, was unbelievable for playing his very difficult character requiring a lot of talent. Turkish cinema has been bestowed with an amazing star by this movie. And from now on, I will look forward to Mr. Akyurek's second movie.

Believe me; I never wanted the scenes with Farah Zeynep and Engin Akyürek to end. I was greatly enchanted by their acting

***

Actors earn a lot of money from making TV series. Engin neglects movies. If he didn’t, I am sure he would be an Oscar nominee.

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:loveshower:

The Snowman
By Engin Akyurek
[Translated by Engin Akyurek Universal Fans Club]
(Please note that there maybe some improvements on the translation later on).

“If he laughs well, he's a good man” – F. Dostoyevski

I don’t ask myself the question of “Who is a good man?” Which one is more effective; little bit of smiling of good people or spluttered guffaw effects of bad people? Even though a response to each question remains as an answer, one doesn’t usually question a beautiful laughter. 

He put his most shivering part of his heart on the middle of the table. His eyes, looking at me head to toe, were like the astute gaze of an old woman. Although he was eight years old, he looked like a youngster.

“What?” I asked with a disdainful attitude coming from me just turning 9. He had told me his New Year plan bit by bit as if he had breadcrumbs in his mouth and was carefully getting them out by trying to be cautious not to drop them all over the place.

We would write “Welcome 1990” on the window. We would cosmetically bury the 80s into the darkness of the history with the help of a glue and some cotton that he would steal from his mother’s drawer. Hakan had planned everything. The window of our living room would be used on New Year’s eve. Our families would gather in our house. We would have tangerines, kisir (bulgur salad - tabouli), play bingo and then go to bed. We wouldn’t forget about the snowing effect and use the carefully formed small cotton balls for that. Even though the reality of the snow outside slapped us in the face, we would prefer to be decorative. Japanese glue (1) would enter our lives later on but Japan would always remind us Baris Manco (2).

Hakan was very excited. He wanted to do so many things that it was as if he forgot that he was eight years old and waiting for someone to remind him this. The snow outside not only made fun of the cottons that we glued on the window but also told something to the 80s as well. Maybe we would miss the modest and humble 80s but we had such a strong expectations on 90s that we couldn’t even imagine how 2000s would belittle 90s later on.

After we got the glue off our hands, Hakan had told me his second plan: “Let’s make a snowman.” When the clock struck the midnight, we would take our families to the backyard and show them our snowman. It was a nice plan and would add high resolution to 80s’ single channel life (3). 

The importance and meaning of those days both colored our loneliness and caused us collect as many memories as possible. I had kyped a carrot from the refrigerator as Hakan stole cotton from his mother’s drawer. Because of aesthetical concerns, I had stopped by coal cellar and grabbed a handful carefully selected coal pieces.

At the backyard, we had first built a big body with the snow that we shoveled. Hakan had kneeled and, acting as if he was tired, showed once again what a reckless child he was. I had done the second piece and the most elaborated places between its neck and belly with my cold hands. It was getting dark. My cold hands, getting faster, had humanized the face of the snowman with surgical accuracy; a snow-white and smooth skin, two eyes from small coal pieces, and a smiling face with smaller coal pieces…The snowman’s smile was so beautiful that the darkness of coal pieces had warmed my heart. Making the carrot his nose and attaching a broom to its body, I had finished my snowman and it had a sparkling smile.

My snowman was the only thing that I liked in my 8 years long life. My pastel paintings and potato prints were like monstrosities from the Paleolithic period compare to it. One’s instinct of creating something and admiration to that thing one created could be accomplished with just a carrot and Zonguldak coal (4).

The sound of our single channel life which calmed us and, time to time, made us fall asleep would create great excitement as the countdown started. Streets were sparkling as if they were 8 years old and waiting for this day. Obviously, we hadn’t liked 80s.

When the anchor, using all the delicacies of Turkish language, announced the winning lottery ticket number on TV, the silence of the smallest prize had won in our home again. Meals that our mothers prepared, orange smells, and us who advanced to “Bingo” from “Sorry” trying not to sleep were taking revenge from the 80s. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6. … The start of a new year, our hugs with new hopes, and our fantastic belief for the future showed that we could stay human regardless.
Before reaching the most inviting hours of our sleep, we had taken our folks to the backyard. Siblings, grandmothers, aunt-in-laws had come to the backyard with us. We had some drunken or smoking audience who were watching us from their balconies. The backyard had turned into a fairground. Hakan’s father had said “So?” with a fatherly voice. And I said “here”, pointing out the snowman with my hands. The whole neighborhood turned their head as I turned my head and looked at my snowman. After a little silence, when I approached my snowman, I saw that his carrot nose had tuned into a sexual organ and his smiling face had become wicked adjectives of unfilial children. My snowman was ridiculed by everybody including drunken Uncle Selim in his balcony because of the lower neighborhood’s hateful eyed children had made fun of it. The crowd’s muttering laughter and the sounds made by old ladies had showed that we could still be embarrassed by a carrot. Tears had been welled up in my eyes and I had hardly contained myself from crying. I hadn’t liked the 90s at all. I had immediately wanted to go to bed, pull the cover over me and forget this night. What happened to my snowman had upset me more than people who laughed at me.

He had smiled so beautifully; I wished everybody could smile like that. It was as if something was blown into my ear, into my 8 years old soul. I had collected all of the smiles years ago by myself. I would collect tens of similes from the faces and gazes I loved, like a breath that I would take as long as I lived. I would find those smiles sometimes buried in a lover’s dimple, or on a friend’s hand extended to me, or most importantly, while laughing on the inside like looking at yourself in the mirror.

As soon as I wake up, I would make better faces to my snowman. I had woken up to my mother’s voice in the morning. It was almost afternoon. I was going to run to the backyard, but I had been petrified when I saw the rain drops on the window. It had rained and melted the snow away. The beads (tears) that I had been trying to hold in my eyes since the last night had started falling like evil-eye beads. I ran to the backyard and saw the smiling coal pieces, the carrot and the broom standing in silent homage on the wet ground. While I was collecting the small coal pieces, I heard my mother’s voice: “Come inside, you will get cold.”

Looking at the coal pieces in my hand and as if I was talking to my snowman, I asked: “Mom, do good people always laugh nice?”

“How did you come up with this? Who told you this?”

“Who can it be? My snowman.”

(1) super glue
(2) Baris Manco was a very famous Turkish rock musician who passed away in 1999. He toured in Japan in 1995 and this was a huge thing in Turkey back then.
(3) During the 80s, there was only one TV channel which was state-run TRT.
(4) Zonguldak is a port city in the Black Sea region that has coal-mines nearby.
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

Edited by Catherine

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Engin' stories are like brain twisters for me. He writes in riddles. I can not find an eloquent word for it so I will simply say that he is very intelligent :flirtysmile3:. His second (Talking heads), fourth (There is a smell of memories in the air), fifth (The child inside me) and eighth (The scent)stories are like puzzles for me which I haven't been able to crack.
When I read "The Snowman", for the first time  I thought it was about new year. In the second reading, I thought it was about laughter. I am still in the process of understanding it fully.


He wrote  "After we got the glue off our hands.....". I really liked it (his well known "attention to detail" in play).


I have 3 questions if somebody would like to answer.

He wrote that "his smiling face had become wicked adjectives of unfilial children". Why did the face change in the first place? Is it not important in the story what made the face  change?


What is the hidden meaning of "What happened to my snowman had upset me more than people who laughed at me"?


What is the meaning of these concluding lines?
"Looking at the coal pieces in my hand and as if I was talking to my snowman, I asked: “Mom, do good people always laugh nice?”
 “How did you come up with this? Who told you this?”
 “Who can it be? My snowman.”  "

 

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Meaning of Engin's Snowman
As far as I have understood the story Engin borrowed the line from Dostoyevsky because it is the gist of his story.(“If he laughs well, he's a good man” – F. Dostoyevski).
In the story the child made a snowman. He made a smile on it and he was so impressed with his smile. He liked the smiling snowman. Then the smile turned into something ugly. The snowman no longer smiled but rather became like unfilial children ("his smiling face had become wicked adjectives of unfilial children"). The change in the personality of the snowman with the loss of the smile effected the child. He was not disturbed by the ridicule but by the change in the snowman ("What happened to my snowman had upset me more than people who laughed at me."). In the end the child asked his mother " do all good men have nice smile? ". He wanted to confirm what he had learnt from his snowman that a smiling man is a good man ("Looking at the coal pieces in my hand and as if I was talking to my snowman, I asked: “Mom, do good people always laugh nice?”
 “How did you come up with this? Who told you this?”
 “Who can it be? My snowman.” "). Engin chose a child as the protagonist because a change in snowman with the loss of a smile would effect a child more.

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On 13/07/2016 at 11:09 PM, Catherine said:

translation of his last article

Old Woman
By Engin Akyurek
[Translated by Engin Akyurek Universal Fans Club]

Valor has been lost whence guns were invented (1). Encyclopedias have gone away like flying coupons when Google was founded. Our search engines (i.e encyclopedias) that we got for 180 coupons (2) began to turn yellow inside cardboard boxes. Our decorative information sources (i.e. encyclopedias) left our living rooms and abandoned us. The information we had on our phones started stinking like the Maltepe Dump in our hands. That is, the curved blade (or a scimitar) in its holster shall rust.

Rising clouds of dust, a car had passed by us. Hakan, telling the expensive price tag of the car with his always smiling face, had said “Look at the car; it is a diesel car.” It was nice to have nothing to talk while going to school. The road was dusty, our shoes were the ones bought for Bayram celebrations. Talking about cars while walking had tarmacked our dusty roads. If you want me to describe the roads that we walked, there were empty lots between some buildings. An empty lot meant a ball, a game. Hakan and I had looked at each other. Our stares were like the stares of the two people who wanted to kick a ball. He had already crossed the ball with his stares and at the same time, throwing his bag aside, he had run towards the lot as if he was expecting me to score a goal. Metin, Ali, Feyyaz (3) meant scoring a goal. I had run to the lot right after him to play soccer. Turning my tie, which looked like a sewing pinhead, into a captain band by tying it around my biceps, I had passed the ball to Hakan. Our sweaty armpits and neck had created an adolescent tension. In our second period, our geography teacher could tell countries’ geography by looking at our faces. Hakan could turn into African deserts with his sweaty face, and I could be the most reddish parts of the world atlas. We hadn’t known with whom we were playing soccer; everybody was excited to kick the plastic ball passed to them. It was as if we weren’t playing soccer but throwing a javelin. We were happy and we had the physical comfort of not attending the first period. And this easy manner was not related to our first period being a Physics class. It was the dirt field equivalent of the pleasure of ditching the school. And another truth was that passing ball to each other could become as official as a certificate of residence since we were from the same neighborhood. Kicks to my trousers were the seal of the kids from other neighborhoods. I had rolled myself over to bottom of the wall when I sweat bullets after all those running and kicking. I was like I was making a rosary with the drops falling from my nose to my mouth using my tongue. I was so thirsty that I hadn’t even realized the old woman who approached me. When a person gets thirsty, the life gets silent as well.

“Son…” she said. When I raised my head, I saw a person with two compassionate eyes and an old body looking at me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Son, please don’t think that I am a beggar.”

Her telling me that she wasn’t a beggar was actually kind of a homing pigeon (an indication) of how she would want something. The old woman’s husband had passed away last year and her useless son had spent all her retirement income. She had ended up in the poorhouse and had even needed help of a little kid like me sweating bullets. The things which the old woman told me had created tsunamis on my thirsty tongue. I had gotten sad, which proved that one could get sad when one was thirsty. The old woman had wanted money for her medicine. I was a student and my lunch money couldn’t even create a placebo effect let alone afford her medicine. I had yelled “Hakan!” When Hakan raised his head and saw us, he had understood the situation and come next to me right away. The old woman had also told Hakan her story, finding the strength from me, without getting tired or being embarrassed. As if our sweaty faces weren’t enough, our eyes had gotten sweaty, too, because of what she told us. Were we too sentimental or had the old woman created a “Kemalettin Tuğcu (4) scene” in our minds? Hakan and I had caught each other’s eyes again. This time, I had thrown a glance at him. We had to help the old woman; at least, we should buy her medicine. I had already forgotten my thirst. My sweat cooled my body down and created a colder weather. Hakan and l were throwing stares each other’s way to find out what we could do but we couldn’t score in this single-goal post soccer game that we played with our eyes. Hakan, taking my arm, had said “You, go get your penny bank, and I will bring the money that my brother hid.” I guess, what he said had created a “Robin Hood” effect, I said “Ok.” There was a problem, though. The first period was a physics class and my mother had kept my penny bank in the living room which was the most central part of the house. Hakan’s smiling face, with a seriousness that wasn’t expected from him, as if he already solved the problem, had said “We tell our parents that we forgot our homework. That way, you can get your penny bank, and I can get my brother’s hidden money.” Why couldn’t I think such a simple plan? A jealous conceit as a result of not being able to solve simple things had visited my body for a couple of seconds.

“Ma’am, you wait here, we will be back,” I had said. The old woman, letting her old body sit on a rock, had stared at us with a look that she could wait forever.

The old woman’s last look had greased our heels and we had run to our homes. I had brought my penny bank and Hakan had stolen his brother’s money. Would we be up to no-good in the future, too, by stealing our children’s money? While we were going back, Hakan had have a new idea. Our neighbor Sister Nesrin was a nurse who worked at the community clinic at the next street. We would take the old lady to the clinic and have her treated. This was Hakan’s day but I had have the idea of exchanging coins for bills and putting them into an envelope. We had gone to the clinic, taking the old woman who was waiting us. The old woman who obeyed whatever we told was the youngest voice of our conscience.

While Hakan was talking to Sister Nesrin, I had put the money into the envelope that we purchased from an office supply store and given the envelope to the old woman. The old lady had been moved to tears and broken my penny bank once again. Hakan, sticking his head out of the clinic’s window, had said “Come, come!” The clinic looked like a World War II postcard with babies crying and children infected with mumps waiting in line. Sister Nesrin had told us there was a long queue and therefore we had to wait a little. She hadn’t forgotten to ask why we weren’t in the school, either. When we got out of the clinic, we couldn’t see the old lady in the garden. We had checked the restroom, the corridor, even the field in which I sweated bullets. We had thought that the old lady was embarrassed and therefore didn’t want to be hurt. We were bad kids. We had embarrassed her. We were inconsiderate kids who stole money from our siblings; who were penny bank robbers of today and real bank robbers of the future.

I want to stop my writing here and tell you something. I can hear that you call us idiots. I know that this is not a story worth telling today. Are we wiser today? The curved blade in its holster shall rust.

The next day, we had told our story to our class mates. I don’t know if it was because we didn’t have much to do, everybody had been interested in the old woman’s story. Hakan and I had stopped by the dirt field every day in the hope of seeing her there. We both had missed the old lady. If we could find the old lady, we had many friends who wanted to help and who could steal from their parents. Even our teachers in the school had wanted to help. After all these years, the simplicity of this story and our life experience were the proof of how that old lady fooled two adolescents. Our experience, our sufferings, our happiness had stolen the innocence of this story and labeled us as idiots. The wiser we had gotten, the more foolish we had become and our experience had retired our conscience.

While we were going to school, we had always stopped by the dirt field. The rock that the old woman sat had been like a shrine of the Geyikli Baba (5). It is true that, calling our classmates, we organized a mystic travel to that rock. We were the helpful thieves pointed at during breaks.

Every story needs some time to end. We had stumbled the old woman whom we looked for in another neighborhood after months. We had whooped when we saw her. We had finally found her. We had questions for the old woman. Had she bought her medicine? What had happened to her retirement salary and her useless son? The old woman who saw our happiness could run away if her feet allowed her. We had said “Where were you ma’am?” The old lady gaped at us and couldn’t say anything. Hakan, relaxing his smiling face, had told everything. And I had asked her if she took her medicine. The meaning of the old lady’s stare and surprise was an information that was valid today. I don’t even want to talk about how her face looked like when I told her that the principal would help her. From the principal to the neighborhood artisans, everybody knew her story. Even our neighborhood’s young men had a plan to beat her useless son. The story had been exaggerated and changed his useless son to a drunk who beat his mother. Creativity and gossip knew no limits in such kind of situations. The old lady was keeping quiet and was not answering our questions. Thinking that she was embarrassed, we were answering our own questions. We were like the candidates of candidate in municipal elections. We were going to buy chairs for the old lady even though we didn’t have a credit card.

The old lady tidying up her headscarf that didn’t show her hair had said only a single sentence:

“Son, where do you live?”

Ah, the old lady!

Footnotes:
1-“Valor has been lost whence guns were invented / The curved blade in its holster shall rust.” were the verses taken from the Epic of Koroglu (literal meaning is son of the blind man) which is one of the famous Turkish folk tales that tell the story of a hero struggling against the unjust ruler. These verses tell that the old chivalric ways lost forever with the invention of guns. You can find the story of this verses at http://quatr.us/centralasia/literature/koroglu.htm and more information about this epic at http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/kroglu-i-literary-tradition

2-In the old days, Turkish newspapers used to give out encyclopedias for collecting certain number of cut-out coupons printed on the newspaper each day to increase their sales.

3-Legendary players of the Beşiktaş Football Club in the late 80s, early 90s.

4-Kemalettin Tuğcu was a Turkish writer who was famous with his very melodramatic stories that reached many young readers in 70s and 80s. We can say that children of those years learned how to cry from his books. :)

5-Geyikli Baba (Father who had deer) is the nickname of a dervish named Babasultan who lived in Babasultan village of the city of Bursa during the era of Orhan Gazhi who was the second Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Rumors say that he fought with a huge sword on a deer during the establishment of Bursa. Because he was very sociable and well-spoken, the soldiers of the military post there called him as “Father”.

[Translated by Engin Akyurek Universal Fans Club]

Decoding - The Old Woman

(@Meltem - this one's for you, as promised :)

An Old Woman who is a subject of this essay is badly in need of care and money. She approaches the young, not so worldly wise boys who are indulgent in their favorite pastime - football.

The young boys Engin and Hakan play football on an empty lot, engrossed if they were the Besiktas heroes, hitting across the lot with all the competitiveness. 
This is so akin to the cricket mania in my country where every empty space is taken over by the neighborhood boys...all year around. The frenzy and energies are ever high for a pitch fever. Cant agree for more. :)

The miseries of the old lady, pulls a chivalry string in the boys who find means to mobilize their saving. Piggy backing*literally*  While they are contended of helping her, she mysteriously disappears from their sight.

There is mixed reaction of feeling cheated by a sob story told vis-a-vis a happiness which made them proud at their school/neighborhood etc.And did Engin and Hakan feel euphoric after sharing their incidents? Yes. They were instant heroes.

With a gourmet recipe in the making, Engin quickly intersperses with his growing unhappiness on the digital world taking over the old world of books, encyclopedia - who were the sources of knowledge/learning. Knowledge which would be authentic, edited and reviewed before it reaches its readers are reduced to yellow pages waiting to be recycled.

The crazy footballers who are tired after long hours of playing, being compared to the different geographies is not racial. Its the addictive browsing on the internet which are all guilty about. While we browse for increasing our knowledge, the authenticity is diluted and we are fed with all kinds of information - good, bad and ugly. Engin doesnt mince his words for "ugly", he compares it to the stench from the Maltepe dump.
Didn't he mention that playing soccer suddenly change into like throwing javelin *Brilliant change of direction*. This is nothing but subjective & myscopic discussions on social media generating digital pollution which will surpass thethe carbon footprints.

And the neighborhood gossip, extending the old lady's story with cruelty from being penniless, to be beaten by her drunk son is very common. Then bull-crapping becomes art.

Then the remaining story is presented as a cooling sorbet(sherbet).

Old lady is the elusive "right", "correct" "appropriate" knowledge, wisdom which are normally found in books (old school of learning). The money collected to help the old lady is about digitizing the information to reach larger readers. When its reaches larger audiences, the content gets diluted due to ambiguous contributions like the neighborhood tattle.

Yes, Valor as Engin says has been reduced to e-Valor.
Sitting in the comforts of their homes, families the twitterati, the FBookers and bloggers come in support of a cause with chivalry and empathy only in a virtual, digital, mobile, personal world.

The millennials argue that they cannot see their life without the internet. Yes, its definitely doing the much needful, like how we are connected to Engin and his fans. But we need to be prudent to sieve the information, discard the unwanted and be enriched with experiences to move in the right direction. This makes us wiser, responsible and positive. This makes us a real hero - with valor and voice.

The sorbet becomes a gourmet when the old lady asks Engin..."where do you live?" implying the writer got misled/distracted/beguile on his way to seeking right knowledge.

Kudos to this brilliant piece of writing.:4xvim2p:
Its deep, deliberate and dimensional.

Edited by defleppard

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On 3/2/2017 at 1:30 AM, Jellybon said:

The last Engin's story from Kafasina Gore. Thanks to EAUFC for translation.

Hasan, the Son of Ahmet. 
by Engin Akyürek
Hasan, the son of Ahmet…Don’t mind his dark and thin face, the energy emanating from his eyes can brighten an entire city. Hasan is a 9 year old son of a family who immigrated from the most eastern part of Turkey to its most western part.
My meeting with Hasan was not like meeting kids blocking your way to sell a selpak(1) on the streets. He had stood tall before me like a career boy who came for a job interview. Even though our first meeting was standoffish, he was among the regulars of my table whenever I wanted to have some tea. He wouldn’t answer a question with a question but he would use his answers built with his own sentences like a question. You would never see in his eyes or hear in his voice about the sufferings of his family. He wouldn’t talk much but he would create a velvety softness between one’s face and conscience when he talked. Hasan’s 9 years life, of which 6 years are in Kars and last 3 years are in Istanbul, had already passed the decimal numbers. 
Whenever he saw me, he would quietly approach my table and he would walk on his tiptoes as if there was something fragile if I were with other people. Elegance has no age and is not always in one’s eyes or voice. On the contrary, it may appear on Hasan, the son of Ahmet, when least expected.
“Hasan, what do you want to be in the future?”
He had left the selpak on the table and said, as if he had never heard this question before, “I don’t know. But, I am going to be something good.”
“Good?”
“I don’t know. Something good.”
He had wanted to be neither a doctor nor a pilot but I had understood him. The thing he couldn’t expressed very well was just to be a good person. Maybe, this was what I wanted him to be. As a good person, he could also be a doctor or a pilot; as long as he was a good person.
“You are here until late hours. How do you go back home?” When I asked this question after we got to know each other, he had showed me a huge crowd of children around us. 
“We live in Umraniye. There is neither a bus nor a dolmus(*) at night. So, we (kids) who sell selpak or flowers get together and share a cab. We pay 10 liras per person. Since the cab driver is our neighbor, he gives us a little bit discount.”
“That’s cool.”
“Well, it is not that cool if I can’t sell a lot of selpaks.”
You may find listening to or talking about one’s sufferings precious at that moment but Hasan’s story, his father’s unemployment, their move from their village in Kars to Istanbul, and his mother’s illness should have remained or was able to remain as the most secret story of the world. 
“Do you like Istanbul?”
Even though he liked Istanbul, there was always a dusty village road on the most distant corners of his heart while he was talking about Kars and the village he was born. When someone got angry with him or yelled at him, I would see him quickly going and coming back on that village road stuck in between his mind and his heart.
Hasan, the son of Ahmet, had become one of my best friends. Sometimes, I would go for some tea just to be able to talk with him, do our daily chat, and commit the sin of a childish gossip. When he got angry with someone, he wouldn’t curse like other kids did and would ashamedly save those vulgar curses stuck between his mouth and his tongue to himself. When sense of shame enters one’s soul, it wiggles around like a worm in an apple and, touching the seed, to our core, it would become one of our organs. Sense of shame was a beautiful feeling no matter what and I guess it mostly belonged to Hasan, the son of Ahmet. Even though he would blush or he wouldn’t be able to dare by gazing steadily, good things would always become him. 
We had a friendship that lasted 1.5 years. I had seen him last on September. We had met on a rainy day, had a very brief chat and manly said goodbye like two best friends shaking hands. I had never seen him again after that rainy day.  I had asked Hasan to everybody from simit sellers to flower sellers. Did something happen to him? I hadn’t heard about his brothers either. Since he didn’t like to be asked questions, the only thing I knew about him was that he lived in Umraniye. In humongous Istanbul, that placed called Umraniye could sometimes become bigger than Istanbul itself suddenly. I had visited all the taxi stops in Umraniye and asked them whether they had a cab who carried kids selling flowers or selpaks every night. In one of these taxi stops whose count I forgot, someone had told me that there was one cab who took these children home every night. I had gone to that taxi stop, found the driver and listen to the end of Hasan’s story from him. Feeling uneasy at first, but after seeing my determination on my face, without understanding what’s going on, the driver had said:
“Brother, I take them to their home as my last ride every night. I live in the upper neighborhood.”
“Where is Hasan? Have you seen him?”
“Is he the one with dark and thin face? He has a brother, too.”
“Yes, he has a brother.”
“They moved back to their village.”
“Kars?”
“I don’t know that much, brother.”
Our Hasan, the son of Ahmet, had returned to his village. Had his story ended here or had he gone back to write a new story? I would miss his stories and our chats.
Even though I felt sad, maybe he would find his asphalt road on those dusty village roads. When I got back home and ended Hasan’s story that night, poisonous moths had swarmed my heart after hearing the following news on TV.  Children whose name we didn’t know had burned to death in a dormitory somewhere in mid-Turkey. Sentences had lost their meaning, my words, with the effect of what I saw, had created crying waterfalls inside me. When I turned the TV off, I conceived a new story; Hasan’s story. Maybe, Hasan had felt some things.
… because the best stories were the ones rewritten again.  
(1) Selpak: A generic brand name used for facial tissues (like Kleenex)
(2) Dolmus:  A shared cab that carries more than one people (it literally means “filled”).

Decoding – Hasan, son of Ahmet

As the title suggests, the essay establishes itself in describing the character of a young boy called Hasan who is one amongst the large number of kids selling Selpak (tissue brand in Turkey) at the street corners or signal stops. Engin accidently meets Hasan while having his tea, hears to his stories, his routine, his struggle and soon develops an unexplained bonding with Engin during the course of 1.5 years or so.  Like always men don’t speak in exact words to explain their emotions, a 9 year old and 35 year old man seem to have found their equilibrium in their friendship. :)

Engin’s liking to Hasan, turns into affection and respect soon.

Once Engin realizes that Hasan is no longer seen at his usual place, he begins to frantically search for the kid. With limited options he does make a brave trip to Umraniye to enquire on him. Result is negative. Hasan has vanished into thin air?

A disappointed Engin walks back home to find on TV that some children were burnt somewhere in Turkey. So does he resign to the fate that Hasan is one of them?

The foundation of the lofty super structure is laid out. Did we also use a few Selpak tissues on hearing the ghastly end of Hasan. Yes I did.

Haven’t we seen many such street urchins pressing you hard for a quick buy of either flowers, pens, tissues (here it’s not so popular) etc.?  Haven’t we always wished that these kids got better life; basics such as food, clothing and shelter. Education comes a lot later!! Coming from a country which boasts of the largest slum of the world, I can vividly visualize every narration of Hasan’s life.

So what is the super structure which Engin trying to build? Is my master architect wanting to build a competitor to Burj Khalifa? Does  Zaha Hadid  legacy continue? (Yeah I am biased, because I love woman power :winking: )

The title is the giver of the story. Why did Engin choose a Hasan over a Hakan (is usual mystery friend)? Let’s get back to the drawing board now.

Hasan in Arabic, Urdu, Turkish means handsome.

Hasan is an epitome of self-respect, good etiquette, humility, elegance, well -composed of his emotions et al. Engin takes great pain to describe all the nuances of Hasan, so beautifully.

Now that is the word for Hasan – BEAUTIFUL.

The opening sentences say “Hasan, the son of Ahmet…Don’t mind his dark and thin face, the energy emanating from his eyes can brighten an entire city” Can we count the times we have judged people around us based on appearances? Yeah the 10 fingers aren’t enough I guess :biggrin:

In his brave attempt to his readers, Engin delivers the “beauty is ONLY skin deep” -External attractiveness has no relation to goodness or essential quality. This maxim was first stated by Sir ThomasOverbury in his poem "A Wife" (1613): "All the carnall beauty of my wife is but skin-deep."

Why did Engin lose Hasan? That’s another twist in the staircase to the last floor of the super structure called BEAUTY.

The sudden disappearance of Hasan (beauty) is the mad pursuit of the majority mortal humans to look pretty.  Haven’t we seen pharma/ FMCG companies,  doctors and beauticians promising for a perfect  complexion, smile, hair, eyes, nose, breasts etc.

Historically  my country prefers to constantly chase the complexion index….whiter the better (not ever fair) Sic. Is it a cost saver to white wash our homes? LOL

I guess the latest worldwide fad is to have A4 size(page) measure waist line. I did mock at my printer’s tray….I was way out of range. Give me A2 or A1 sheet please. Uh! Obnoxiously crazy isn’t it?

A determined Engin looks for Hasan at most possible places to return home empty handed. Did he hear the news of the group of children being burnt in  a dormitory? Yes.

That burn is a metaphor of people spending huge sums of money on the cosmetic procedures, using costly beauty products etc. Oh the laser does burn our skin. Hmmm

Now do we understand the difference between pretty and beauty?

While it took a good amount of reading (did it three times) this essay, I began to look for the usual clues/hints which Engin throws liberally. (At least a seasoned pair of eyes can detect it).

But this one, is surely a winner for many reasons. It reaches out to readers at many levels. Does Engin talk about

It’s truly a humanitarian effort by Engin to evangelize the essence of living with as a pure soul, excelling to be good irrespective of the returns and finally a mock at all those people who think that pretty is beauty. *wicked*

The message is as subtle as ever, let continue to live with the way God has created us. Make our energies focused on developing a good/healthy mind. Simply because Beauty is only skin deep.

Oh…my calendar pop’s up to show that my next appointment for the gold facial is this Sunday afternoon!! Do I cancel it now???:blush:

Love you Engin for a beautiful mind you are born with. Thank you sharing a teeny bit our mind space.:smilie_girl_258:

PS: @Jellybon thanks for sharing it promptly here!!

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