Şeyda Kurt On holiday by car
When she was a child, Şeyda Kurt would often go on holiday with her parents and drive trough Europe with the car. In her essay she describes a memory of a past motorway trip that still influences her ideas to this day.
Once, on the way back from the summer holidays in Turkey, I was still a small child and it must have happened near Bulgaria, we crashed into a lorry. Our car turned into a scrunched-up ball of paper. It’s her memory, not mine, and yet my bones dislocate a little every time a lorry passes us on the motorway. My mother says: “You were four or five when that happened.” I ask: “Why don’t I remember it?” My mother says: “Maybe you weren’t even born, your sister was four.” She also says: “It was snowing and our car hit black ice and went into a skid.” I ask: “But wasn’t it the summer holidays?” My mother says: “No, it was 30th September, I’ll never forget the date, my teeth were chattering with fear and cold.”
In my memory on the other hand there’s no cold, just hot tarmac. The journeys through Europe that I remember alternated between hurrying and being stationary. There was nothing in between. Dry mouths. Sore tongues. My mother says: By the time we arrived in Turkey, your father didn’t have any hair left. I ripped it off his head from the back seat as a child in my riotous boredom. Today my nervousness on the motorway almost drives me to eat my own hair. Any traffic jam is better than speeding. Jams mean that the likelihood of turning into a scrunched-up paper ball is lower. I have time to study the heavens and believe in miracles. Was it winter? Was it summer? My mother says: “You weren’t even born then.” I reply: “My bones are telling me different.”