Memoirs of 2110

The day starts earlier than ordered. You are pulled back from the comforting world of dreams with the roar of a steady snore. Eyes open unwillingly only to observe the reality of a tiny room packed with 39 men painfully tucked inside their light blue bed sheets. You are horrified but also relieved to find your body centered on top of a bunk bed made for dwarfs a meter above the cold marble floor. Extremely disappointed to be reminded of your surroundings, you close your eyes to go back to the places you really want to be in. It won’t be long before the lights will be turned on and the hectic preparation for the 6 a.m. morning count will start. You resist to move too much to prevent your retired bunk bed from waggling like a cradle, annoying the neighbor sleeping right below you. You are a living mummy trying to fall asleep.

You find it extraordinary to be able to brush your teeth above a sink that proudly displays little islands of bugger, clipped nails and hair. You try to stay focused on your face reflected on the dirty mirror to sustain disgust. The cold water mixed with your razor cuts through your beard like ice. You have never been a part of the Russian Ballet, but you find that you can dance to the White Swan trying to put your socks on, fighting off all other mates for space. You avoid stepping on the floor to keep the dirt off. You desperately try to be in balance with one feet up, secretly wishing you were a pelican just for that moment. You are once again amazed to be able to work through your tiny cupboard and put on that uniform decorated with accessories you will never once again see in your life.

Outside the barracks, the 10th person in a line of 28 in a group of 170, you find inner peace waiting for the sunrise. You try your best to block the shameless cigarette smoke rising up in between the soldiers like the chimney of a coal factory. You avoid the questions with a grumpy face, hoping everyone to realize that you are not a morning person (even though you are outside the army). Overheard conversations make you question how some of your countrymen could be so primitive and narrow-minded. As cursing becomes a part of your daily greeting, you lose all the motivation to be civilized. An innocent “good morning” is violated with unique terms such as “dalagini sikeyim” (fuck your spleen), “amina koyayim” (fuck you) and many others. As they say, you are not supposed to look for reason in the army. Thus, you wait in line 6 times a day for a minimum of 45 minutes to be counted. You shake the legs and cower, hoping to shake off the boredom and the back-pain.

Expected to lose weight and gain form, you try to avoid the meals packed with carbohydrates. Towers of bread wink at you with blocks of cheese and jam ready to be spread on. You jump on any single fruit, bowl of soup and milk served to fight the urge. You unwillingly caress dormant desires such as your appetite for any junk found in the cafeteria to ease the loss of other pleasures in dining.

Marching hard on a floor of sand, rock, grass and cigarette buds, you sing anthems that awake your love for the country and nation. You yell your lungs out: “Her Turk Asker Dogar”, “Sehitler olmez! Vatan bolunmez!” You feel your feet chocking and deforming from 5 a.m. to 8 p.m. inside the black soldier boots that weigh a ton.  You repeat everything until everyone gets it right. You are part of a puzzle where the pieces are forced to fit together. The orders cut, mend and fold the soldier in you and place you wherever the army wants.

You can’t help not sleeping through the conferences. That is the only remedy to the lack of oxygen inside a room over-packed with men and equipped with a single air conditioner desperately trying to cool off the air.

You become so tiny, so powerless taking your position on top of a squat toilet. Rolled into a ball shape with your knees bended up to your face, wet wipes ready in one hand, you push to dispose all the hard carbohydrates you had to eat. You get smaller with shame, your face red and your eyes ready to pop out. You share your story only to find comrades who went through the same process. You stay constipated with the thought of going through it again. Yet, you know that the day will come when those fat flies and dirty white marble floors will greet you right at the entrance for your next visit. Back in the barracks you wash off the dirt and the sweat with wet wipes that were used when you were a baby.

The photos tell a different story. You use every inch of charisma thinking that you can fool the outside world with a look that models you as an essential special agent of the army. You lie on the grass, hide behind the trees, desperately trying to freeze a staged moment of tough training. Gun in one hand, you aim at the tree under which you have been taking a nap on every break, coloring your amateur combat skills.

All the ordinary aspects of your regular life become ultimate luxuries in the army. All the independence and freedom you rightfully have as a person seem like the merits of a Utopia you were once accidentally a part of. You become a soldier the day you forget to remember the world beyond the fences. Just like a clan of sheep, you learn to be content with a patch of good quality grass. You stand ready to be lead onto anywhere chosen by your shepherd.