White is always perceived as flawless and clean.
White always represents goodness, brightness, smoothness, light.
But it was different for me.
I met an old woman. Her beauty was clouled by her wrinkled skin. Her trembling hands touched my cheekbones. She said, “I wish I were as young as you are.” At first, I thought she missed her youth. Her gaze was fluctuating between us, electrically. I wanted to say, “I understand,” but she spilled a tear. “I don’t know what it’s like to fall in love,” she said.
The sentence she said caught me by the claw and nailed me to where I was. The sentence spilled from her lips stuck in my heart, I couldn’t breathe. It was such a pain to steal love from a woman’s hand.
Then I thought.
“White” meant pain, death, torture for Middle Eastern women.
This old woman, Seval, was married when she was just a kid. Her parents decided her to marry with an old man who is very rich. One day, when she was playing outside, her mother approached, and “you got married,” she said.
The little girl fainted because of the fear.
They put her in a white wedding-dress. They covered her arms with bracelets and gold. They closed her hair with a white veil. She hated white.
The first night, her husband forced her, beaten her to come bed. The Bed was white. The next day, there was a white sheet hanging in front of their house. They were bragging about the little girl’s virginity. So the morality mission was over. Both the woman and the family proved their honor with a blood stain on a white sheet. She hated White.
Then she got pregnant. They covered the kid with a white sheet. When she was a child, she suckled a child. She hated White.
She was unable to speak to her children, so her children met death early. A white shroud covered their faces. They went under the ground and met with endless sleep. She hated white.
They married her little girl as a kid. He shared the same fate with her daughter. She saw her in a white dress. She hated white again.
She got an old woman.
She lived her life in a white home which has a white tragedy.
I wrote a story. “Hate in White,” was elected the best in Turkey, awards rained, it entered books, it fell into the Internet. I was also a popular writer in Istanbul because I was able to write this hatred at the age of nineteen.
But I never made that woman happy.
I got the news last week about her death.
You know, writing has a healing power, just like time. But sometimes, the pen’s maneuvers don’t work in the real world.
This is a bit of the fate of writers.
Eventually, every writer hates white paper in front of them.
Few know why.
White is dirty, and it polluted the lives of each.
There are deaths left, only.