Longing for Old Festivals

In the later hours of the night, as I gaze at the stacks of magazine drafts and half-finished exam notes on my desk, I feel an indescribable emptiness within me. And my hand once again reaches for my digital journal. As the holiday draws near, I search for the deep longing I once felt for the early mornings of my childhood holidays. The old holidays, which our beautiful Turkish language could never fully capture in words, have now become faint memories echoing only in my mind. Once, even words had a soul, a weight, a richness—just like the warm bread we shared and the sacrificial meat we carried door to door to distribute. Now, everything is so fast, so superficial, so alien... In these artificial crowds that exhaust our spirits, during these exhausting nights spent wrestling with words, I often find myself seeking refuge in the quiet stillness of those old holidays. Perhaps the issue is simply that I miss my childhood.

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When I think of those holiday mornings from my childhood, the scent of freshly brewed tea, carefully opened börek, and the sharp, invigorating aroma of cologne come to my nose. For me, holiday was never merely a date on the calendar or a routine break awaited to relieve fatigue. Holiday was the day we opened the doors of our inner world wide, renewing our friendship and brotherhood with every person in our neighborhood.

That sweet rush that began in the early hours of the morning was the most tangible proof of how close our hearts were to one another. Back then, the things we possessed may have been far fewer in quantity than today, but their richness and joy were worth more than worlds. Even the smallest shared morsel, offered with love, transformed our tables into feasts. Today, despite the vast opportunities before us and the lavish tables laden with every kind of food, we still cannot satisfy the deep hunger and spiritual emptiness within us. Because the greed for possession and the relentless pursuit of more have stolen from us the unique, healing magic of sharing.

Especially now, I understand better than ever the spirit of Sacrifice Feast and feel its absence deep in the core of my heart. Sacrifice was never, in my world, merely a ritual performed correctly or packets of meat distributed to friends and relatives. It was the gentle act of cutting down and discarding the arrogance within us, our insatiable attachment to the world, and the walls of selfishness we built around ourselves. The whole point was to grasp the secret: “What you give is yours.”

In those days, through lived experience and observation, we learned how freeing it is to sacrifice something, to let it go, and how light it makes the soul. With every portion we gave away, we were in fact sacrificing the subtle urge to hoard within ourselves. Today, however, the sacrifices we make have, sadly, mostly become ordinary consumer goods that fill our freezers without touching our spirits in the slightest. Yet when we extend a portion while looking into the eyes of the person before us and smiling sincerely, it is that warm bond we forge that makes us human. If that packet contains no sincerity, no kindness, no sense of brotherhood, what value can the meat possibly have beyond merely filling the body?

Sometimes, when I lose myself amid days of research, the texts I have written, or the files I prepare for the magazine, I realize how much I have postponed life itself. In the hours spent at my desk, consumed by the anxiety of building a future, I miss the miraculous beauty contained in the present moment. Yet the old holidays were the most meaningful pause amid all the rush of life. Neither titles nor goals nor haste mattered in the face of the smile that appeared on the face of a guest stepping through the door. The laughter of children running through our narrow but open-hearted streets, the quiet, unshowy solidarity among neighbors—these were how our society healed itself. Whatever was lacking in anyone was made whole on those days; grievances dissolved with a single smile, a warm extended hand. Today, when I look around, I see a cold picture: everyone withdrawn into their own shells, treating holidays merely as an escape from the city. The place of being together, of sharing a common spirit, has been taken by soulless, copy-paste holiday greetings sent from afar. The profound meaning of face-to-face connection has been lost.

Perhaps this holiday, by taking refuge in the memory of those old days, we can offer those around us not merely material shares, but a genuine love and unwavering sincerity that comes from the heart. Because the true holiday is the moment when a person’s immense longing for compassion, brotherhood, and their own authenticity finds fulfillment. May we once again return to those pure, beautiful holidays—when we grow rich not by what we accumulate in our wallets, but by what we release from our hearts and share with others—when we feel, deep in our bones, the truth that “what you give is yours.”