“For humans are nothing more than lines inscribed on water”1

My grandmother has apparently turned into a fish. Every morning, this fish wakes up, eats with the patience and tenderness of my mother, and then drifts back to sleep. Sometimes she is in good spirits. Sometimes she is furious. She swears like no one else, fitting all the colors of the rainbow in her curses. She is from Adana. Our fish sometimes speaks Arabic, sometimes Turkish, sometimes a mix of both. At times, she is full of affection. She wants to kiss and be kissed. Then she sinks again into her deep, fish-like sleep. Her memory is written on water.

Perhaps water is the place of memory.

Do fish turn into water when they die? Does death begin in memory? Have we all, in these lands, died a little, been killed a little? Did they start with our memory?

A phone call with my mother, in January

— Mom, what kind of water rituals do we have in our family? Could you list them for me? Do you remember how my granny would sometimes leave a bowl of water outside, with olive and bay leaves in it?

— Well, in January, you’d put water outside, adding olive and bay leaves. Then in the morning, you’d brush your hair with that water. (She doesn’t remember the exact day.)

— Anything else you think of that involves water?

— One day in April, rainwater is collected in a bowl outside. (She doesn’t remember the exact day again.) Ah, and in July, on the morning of the 14th, you enter the sea at dawn. When your grandmother was young, she used to take us to Samandağ, but you can go somewhere else too. Sometimes we entered from Karataş. What matters is to enter the sea at dawn. Do it this year. (I didn’t. Though I really wanted to.)

January 19, 2025; apparently, it was the Feast of Epiphany

A post on Nehna’s Instagram page catches my eye. “Happy Epiphany!” I’ve never heard the word Epiphany before. When I spoke to my mother on another occasion, she said, “Of course, I know Epiphany,” but she didn’t remember the day or its meaning. Nehna’s post reads: “Eid Kıddes Mubarek! This special day, rooted deeply in the traditions of the Arab Alawite community, has long stood as a symbol of sanctity and renewal. The festival, translated into Turkish as ‘The Day of Baptism,’ offers an occasion to honor the sanctified day and celebrate unity and fraternity.”2

Excitedly, I call my mother. The day in January when they placed a bowl of water outside must have been the Feast of Epiphany. I’ve also learned that the Feast of Epiphany is celebrated by Levantine Christians as well.

“The Epiphany, in its most general and shared sense for both Christians and Nusayris, is the festival that commemorates the consecration of Jesus Christ by Saint John in the Jordan River, with water and oil. According to my grandmother’s recollection of past rituals, on the eve of the Feast, you’d place basil and olive leaves in a bowl of water before nightfall and leave it outside,” writes Elif Işıl Türkmen in her 2022 article for Nehna.3 That’s it—that is my granny’s water ritual. Now I’m sure. Next January, on the eve of the Epiphany, I might also place olive and bay leaves in a bowl of water. I know the date now. January 19, the Epiphany; the ritual has come together in our memory.

The Feast of Epiphany also has something to do with the Temple of Cybele, I think I’ve read it somewhere, though I can’t recall where. Isn’t Cybele herself associated with the water cult and sacred springs?

Those who worship trees, shrubs, and little creatures

Elif Işıl Türkmen also writes that on January 19: “Basil and olive trees, birds, the earth itself, and all of nature joined in the prayer Jesus Christ recited after being consecrated in the Jordan River. That’s why Nusayris regard olive and basil trees as sacred.” That must be why my grandmother put olive leaves in the water. The basil mentioned here is Myrtus communis.

I don’t recall this plant. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it. I don’t know whether my grandmother could find it in Adana. I cannot ask her.

Olive groves are being buried under rubble. Excavators tear out the olive trees whose leaves were once cherished.

“So that, although our city was once subjected to humiliation by mortal and weak humans, it was also exalted by the grace of the heavens—just like Athena’s olive trees, which were observed to grow forty-five centimeters from burned logs the day after Xerxes set fire in an attempt to conquer the Athenian Acropolis,” 4 writes the Antiochian sophist Libanius. Date: C.E. 358, September.

1986, August, or a day in the fall

I was born in the last days of summer. My grandmother rubbed me with salt, olive oil, and thyme. I learn that this ritual is called basiling. Now I am ready for this world—clean, pure, and fragrant.

April

I still don’t know anything about the ritual my mother mentioned—the one with rainwater collected in April.

July

For the past two summers, I’ve known that I needed to enter the sea at sunrise on the morning of July 14. I wanted to do it those two summers, but I couldn’t. Hopefully, next summer I will.

I begin to think that this ritual may be associated with the Early July Festival, as I read Şule Can’s article this July. “The Early July Festival is a regional celebration with a history dating back around five thousand years, meaning ‘the beginning of July.’ In Sumerian times, when a polytheistic system prevailed, July was the harvest month: feasts were held, and sacrifices were offered to Tammuz, the God of Abundance, to ensure a more fruitful harvest the following year.”5

The article doesn’t mention anything about entering the water, though. I call my mother and learn that, to celebrate the Early July Festival mentioned in Şule Can’s article, people would gather in Samandağ. On the phone, my mother tells me that my grandmother would gather everyone, and they would head from Adana to Samandağ, spend the night somewhere near the sea, and then, early in the morning, enter the sea in crowds with all the kids. I say, “Mom, I heard the Early July celebrations were banned after the 1980 coup d’état.” “Might be true,” she says, unsurprised. “I stopped joining your grandmother’s Antakya visits after I came to Istanbul for college.”

The Shrine of Saint Khidr

It must have been 1967, or perhaps 1966. A six or seven-year-old girl was placed on the back of a sheep (or was it a goat? I can’t quite recall) at the Shrine of Saint Khidr, circling around it. The girl was terribly bored and embarrassed, but there was nothing she could do. She had come into this world as the fulfillment of a vow. This girl is my mother.

In 2009, this site—regarded as one of the holiest of the Arab Alawite community—was set to be demolished for the construction of a bridge. Yet they couldn’t displace Khidr. “Even Law No. 6360 couldn’t lay a hand on the Shrine of Saint Khidr,” says José Rafael Medeiros Coelho.6

Orontes, the river that flows in reverse

“How could I stay still while here flows a rebellious river / How could I find myself without rising in revolt, like it?”7

The father of my grandmother had migrated to Antakya, swimming across the Orontes River from a village on the Syrian side of the border—whose name now escapes us. (My grandmother actually knew its name, but none of us ever thought to write it down. Did we trust too much in our memory?) I don’t know whether he simply found himself in Antakya, or if he had meant to arrive there. They say he would sometimes swim across the river again to visit his family. That’s how my grandmother told the story of Ali Ücveybed.

I then learn the story of the Orontes, the outrage it suffered at the hands of humans: “While Lake Amik was being drained, the riverbed of the Orontes—a crucial component of the water system around Antakya—collapsed, and its base sank far below the normal level. The process through which ‘a natural river turned into a water channel’ began with this incident and continued as the river’s cross-section was narrowed by the filling areas along its banks, losing its organic form.”8

“The rebellious child of history and nature, the Orontes flowed along its bed in bitter curves, surprisingly silent. As if saying, ‘I do not exist, do not see me,’ hiding its face in its hands, withdrawn into itself.”9

After the earthquake, rubble was dumped into the Orontes. The river narrowed even further.

The Orontes bore water wheels, called nā‘ūra, upon its surface. Long ago, it permitted its waters to irrigate the land only through the gentle, rhythmic motion of these water wheels. These wheels were known as water fairies among the ancient peoples of the Orontes, and each had its own name. The turning of each water fairy—or wheel—was linked to “‘the turning of fate,’ ‘the movement of the universe and the earth,’ ‘the wheel of fortune,’ and ‘the revival of memories and thoughts.’”10 A monster who loved the nā‘ūra and protected them, Afrid’ün-Nâvâ‘îr, would descend to the river at night while people were asleep, with one foot on each bank, drinking from the river. The nā‘ūra were safeguarded by its magic, and anyone who dared to harm them would surely be punished.”11

Yet people had long since harmed the nā‘ūra. Could these water fairies revive our memories and recollections? If only we could sleep by the shores of the Orontes.

“I heard the cry of the nā‘ūra / the one that revived my mind / Its cry was for the water / While I weep for my beloved.”12

Harbiye, Daphne of bygone days

My grandfather Bahri (meaning “of the sea” in Arabic) was originally from Harbiye. Whenever we went to Harbiye with my grandparents, my grandmother would feel sad about the diminished flow of the waterfalls. Yet she would console herself with whatever remained of the Harbiye falls.

Hakan Mertcan reminded me of my grandmother’s sorrow: “Those waters are not what they once were; where are the falls that once embroidered and purified our dreams? Yet Harbiye remains true, its wind scented with daphne, carrying away the fear of death that lingers beneath our skin, its love rippling through our hearts.”13

The Antiochian sophist Libanius also speaks of the healing power of Harbiye, or Daphne by its ancient name: “Indeed, there is no hardship or ailment that Daphne could not dispel. Upon arriving in the region, it releases all your troubles from you.”14

He continues to praise Daphne’s waters: “Its springs are the pride of Daphne—and, indeed, of the entire world. The earth has never created a spring like these, in either appearance or use. They are the pavilions of nymphs, granting them radiance and purity. No one should be content to take pleasure in these waters—flowing through the streams and temple walls—merely by watching them. These springs carry miracles in their beauty and reverence in their divinity. One should seek a higher delight than the mere pleasure of washing in them. At the very least, one should partake of a sip from its cold, clear, sweet, alluringly scented, and soothing waters.”15

Antakya is running dry. News headlines report that taps have gone dry across the city, starting from Daphne and Samandağ.

“I can easily say that our beautiful city is rich in water sources. Even those who try to throw mud at it on all occasions remain silent when it comes to the abundance of our waters. Our beautiful rivers outnumber the citizens! One can get water here even in the middle of summer, when everywhere is sizzling. Finding someone who complains about being unable to wash due to a lack of water is impossible. On the contrary, people here tend to bathe even when unnecessary, drawn by the sight of abundant waters.”16

What have they done to you, Daphne? Where are your waters? How could they have the heart to harm you?

Hail Libanius, wherever he may be, in whichever body. Yet how is it possible for the lands of the nymphs to lack water, where not so long ago my grandmother, in her childhood and youth, bathed beneath Daphne’s waterfalls, drinking its waters for healing under the gaze of the daphne trees?