Tonight I was searching for an old necklace of mine and came across my pile of love letters tied neatly in a bow. I pulled them out, putting the stack to my face to smell. I don't know why I felt the need to do this, as they smell of age and forgotten yesterdays. I pull them to my heart and carry them to my bed. I haven't looked at them in ages. I am missing many, from the years of moving. I am surprised this many remain.
My favorites, and the largest group come from Mustafa Atakay. When I was 8 years old, I joined a UN pen pal writing group that wrote letters abroad to teach foreign students English. I chose Greece, Spain and Turkey. I received pen pal letters from each country, two boys and one girl. The boy who wrote most often was Mustafa Atakay. He was from Izmit, Turkey.
His handwriting was like art across paper, his words tentative and polite. We'd send photos, drawings, gum - anything that would fit in an eight and one half by three inch envelope. When his letters arrived I would snatch it from the mailbox and run to my secret hiding spot at the North side of our house, behind some bushes, against the fence. Once there I would tear open his letter and read about his life in Turkey. I would read the words over and over, hearing his deep voice (as I imagined it) in my head. I would then lay on my back, staring at the clouds above, wondering if the clouds would eventually pass over him. I would close my eyes and send him a mental thank you for his beautiful letter that filled my soul.
We wrote to each other for 18 years, with each year the letters growing deeper and more personal. Now, when I pull them from their worn envelopes I blush at how much love is written within the torn, weathered pages. I have forgotten what it is like to read a man's heart when he is in love. It is a beautiful, breath-taking experience. This was the day before computers. Someone loved me deeply without ever touching my skin, feeling my lips or holding me in his arms.
Oneof the last letters I received from him, he was dating someone and felt he should settle down. We were both "old" in the terms of marriage and his culture. I was living with Rich in the house he had built. Mustafa and I were feeling trapped by the pressure to settle down. conform, and grow-up. He wrote to me of his torn feelings. He was Turkish. I was American. That was that. Rich (who I was living with) was jealous of Mustafa's letters and I took to hiding them in a secret place. I couldn't bring myself to tell Mustafa that I was living with a man. He had worried that I went out alone at night without an escort - he never would have understood a woman living with a man, even though he had his Masters in Engineering. There is no amount of education that can change a culture completely.
Our cultures viewed women differently.
Mustafa often wrote how much he had changed through knowing an "American" girl. He liked brains and independence. He felt a man would go far with such a combination in a wife. We were bridging a gap between two cultures through the use of a pen, even our political leaders were unable to accomplish what we had achieved.
He would often end his letters, "Now I am finishing here dear Cathi it is late and I must go to dinner. I am finishing with the wish of receiving a letter of yours as soon as possible. I do not think I will sleep well tonight because your letters make me happy. There is always much love between us. It is good. I love you. Mustafa" The innocence stares up at me from the yellowed pages.
We lost contact when I left Rich. I assume Mustafa married and had children. Recently I came across a Mustafa Atakay, who is a CEO for a software company in Turkey. I wrote to their help desk and told a very brief version of my story. I did not hear anything for months. Yesterday I received an email from an excited help desk person who realized my email had never been answered and was excitedly forwarding it on to one
Mustafa Atakay.
Until next time-
C
