Turkey’s Balances Are Disturbed

Having been discharged, I came back home. I felt as if I was in a big vacuum. I had problems sleeping. During military service, half an hour of sleep on the rocks was even sweeter than a 24-hour sleep in a bed. I longed for such a sleep, such a life. I felt uneasy in a normal bed, therefore I started sleeping on the floor. It went on like this for one-and-a-half years. Back in my hometown, when I stepped out of the bus, I took everyone around to be a terrorist. The civilians I met in the Southeast were either terrorists or their supporters. Of course, there are plenty of good people among them. But you never see them, you never go downtown. You are up on the mountains. Once every two to three months you come down, go out and your leave is over by the time you finish your soup in the restaurant. Once again you return to the mountains. Every day, you are engaged in a clash. A terrible, miserable life. Daily, hourly you are faced with death. And once you survive this and come here to join living, normal people, you still see them all as PKK terrorists. They are not, but they seem to be. I feel stupid. I permanently look around as if someone might shoot at me. When I see a mountain, I think to myself, “There is a terrorist there, targeting at us.” I go out into the country, there I doubt if a terrorist is hidden behind this or that rock. Sometimes I throw myself on the ground, taking position.